House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Let me go first.’

  No one objected, and Falconer took the lantern that the cellarer had been carrying from his trembling hand. Thrusting it forward, William could see a steep flight of steps running down between narrow walls. The keening sound had ceased, and all he could hear was the sound of water dripping somewhere in the chamber. He eased his way down the steps, which were only slightly worn in the centre, suggesting they had indeed been rarely used even though the chamber was quite old. At the bottom of the steps he felt rather than saw a floor of packed earth that muffled his footsteps as he walked on to it. Raising the lantern, he looked around him.

  The cellar was rectangular, but at some point a wall had been erected partway down, creating two rooms. The space he could observe by the light of his lantern seemed more like a crypt than a cellar. Hollows were cut into the walls, each roughly the size of a human body, though none of them was occupied by anything other than spiders and their webs. He sensed the sepulchral gloominess closing in on him and, feeling dizzy momentarily, leaned his free hand against the wall. Under his palm, the stones were cold and clammy. In fact, the very air he was breathing was chill, yet at the same time it tasted of wet, heavy mud. For a while he felt as though he was suffocating, as if being buried alive. He sucked in one more breath of the thick, fetid air and held it down, steadying his thumping heart.

  Calmed, he returned to surveying his environment. This first, oblong area had green mould growing in the dampness, though he could tell that the walls themselves were finely wrought. There were few remains of what had once been stored here. As he looked cautiously around at the shattered ribs of old barrels, Falconer became aware of a rustling sound beyond the archway leading to the second section. He cautiously paced across the earth floor, wary of rats.

  Reaching the archway, he poked the lantern into the second chamber and saw two forms huddled in the furthest corner. As the flickering light played on them, one moaned and held up a hand over his eyes. The other person lay quite still under his companion. They were both dressed in the black habit of the Cluniac monks, though both robes were spattered with the reddish mud common to the surrounding marshy land. The monk who had responded to the light of Falconer’s lantern turned a pasty face towards him and reached out a hand in supplication. It was a hand bathed in the blackish colour of congealed blood.

  ‘Help me.’

  It was just a whisper, but no less heart-wrenching to Falconer for that. The blood-covered monk was not much more than a boy, with a thin, drawn face. Falconer looked beyond him at his companion. This one was past any earthly help, his tonsured skull a mess of blood, shards of bone and grey matter. Falconer hesitated a moment, thinking of Saphira Le Veske and her search for her son. Then he framed the inevitable question.

  ‘Martin…Menahem…is that you?’

  The boy frowned and stared fearfully into Falconer’s eyes. It was then that William noticed splashes of blood on the boy’s face too.

  ‘How do you know my name? My real name?’

  William breathed a sigh of relief on behalf of Saphira. Her son was alive, and the body had to be that of the other missing monk, Eudo. The problem was that Martin had been found in a locked room, crouched over the body with no one else present. And Falconer saw, lying close by Martin’s feet, the stave from an old barrel spattered with Eudo’s blood and brains. Martin had to be the killer.

  Falconer looked down once again at the body of Brother Eudo. The splashes of blood and brain that spread in nauseous pools on the earthen floor radiated from where his head lay. There could be no question of him having been killed elsewhere and brought here to be hidden. The deed had been committed here, and Martin had been found behind a locked door. How could he be innocent? How could another man have been the murderer, only to spirit himself away through the solid and subterranean walls?

  ‘Menahem. We must be quick. Tell me, did you do this?’

  A strangled moan escaped the boy’s throat.

  ‘No. Yes. It is all my fault. They wanted to know about the golem and the mystery of God’s creation. I led them to this.’

  The golem. That was the name Saphira had used when telling Falconer of her husband’s dabbling in emulating God as creator. But he worried that Martin’s reply had been confused. He tried again to pin him down to the truth.

  ‘But did you kill Eudo?’

  A sharp intake of breath from behind him made Falconer turn. Standing in the archway was the grim figure of John de Chartres. The prior was surveying the scene illuminated by the lantern and drawing the obvious conclusions from what he was observing. There was a strange look of satisfaction in his eyes, as if what he saw solved a problem for him. Falconer would have thought it made life even more difficult for the prior, but apparently not. While Falconer’s brain still raced, de Chartres commanded Brothers Thomas and Michael, who hovered behind him, to remove Eudo’s body. They shuffled reluctantly into the confined space and lifted the body at each end, flinching at the sight of the blood and brains. They might have expected Martin to try to flee, but he merely slumped to the earthen floor, stained with his friend’s blood.

  ‘This is what comes of introducing a viper into our midst.’

  The prior’s comment was bitter and yet also truculent, full of hatred for Jews and their supposed evil ways. Falconer pursed his lips, refraining for the moment from forming a sharp reply. If there was anything to be done for Martin, he would need the acquiescence of the prior. To make of him an enemy would not be productive at this juncture. Besides, if by some miracle the murderer was someone other than the young Jew, it would have to be someone in the priory. John de Chartres himself could not be ruled out.

  The prior touched Falconer’s arm, starting him from his reverie.

  ‘I shall go ahead and arrange for the body of Eudo to be laid in the side chapel. Will you stay on guard outside after Brother Thomas has locked the door? The boy can stay in here until we decide what is to be done.’

  Falconer nodded, not intending to stay the other side of the door for long. If he could have the key, he could question Martin more successfully. And it would give him more time to examine the cellar more carefully for some clue to the conundrum facing him. He wondered where Saphira was now, and whether she knew her son was accused as a murderer. He left Martin in the inner room and walked out to the outer room with the prior. Following the body, they both climbed the steps. Once outside the cellar, Falconer offered to lock the door.

  ‘Let me take the key, Brother Michael. You appear to have your hands full.’

  The cellarer grimaced at the thought of handing over any of his keys. But as he still had hold of Eudo’s legs it was an easy matter for Falconer to hook the large ring holding the keys from his belt. The cellarer grunted, struggling to maintain his hold on the body.

  ‘It’s the—’

  ‘Large rusty one. Yes, I noticed.’

  While the two monks hefted the body on to one of a pile of hurdles stacked in the corner, Falconer locked the door and then detached the key from the ring. By the time Brother Michael had trotted back to retrieve his precious keys, one key was tucked safely in Falconer’s pouch. Having followed the monks across the floor of the storage area, Falconer stood quietly under the south-western end of the covered cloister. He watched as the sombre procession of prior and pallbearers, carrying their comrade’s body on the makeshift bier, wended its slow way around the colonnaded cloister walk and into the priory church by way of the side door. When the candlelit procession had disappeared, he glanced up at the sky. A thin sliver of the moon was beginning to reappear in the cloudy sky. The heavy rain had stopped, but an intermittent drizzle still swept across the marshes, and in the distance shards of lightning continued to illuminate the land. Far away, thunder rumbled across the broad expanse of the seething River Thames.

  ‘Saphira.’ He called out the woman’s name quietly, hoping she might simply be in the shadows. There was no response, and he tried again, a little louder this time. �
�Saphira.’

  Maybe she had thought the body on the bier was that of her son and had followed the procession towards the church. Whatever the case, Falconer had no more time to waste. He quickly made his way back to the cellar door. Using the purloined key, he let himself into the lower cellar, locking the door behind him. Descending the steps, he called out so as not to startle the boy.

  ‘Martin.’

  There was silence. He called out again as he got to the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Menahem. I am a friend. I know your mother, Saphira.’

  Even the mention of his mother’s name failed to rouse the boy, and Falconer began to get worried. Had he been gone long enough for Martin to harm himself? He prayed not, and walked over to the inner room. It was empty. Bewildered, Falconer’s initial thought was that Martin had secreted himself in the outer room, hoping to outflank the Regent Master. Maybe Martin thought he would leave the cellar door unlocked, and he could make his escape. William quickly turned back on himself and held the light up in the outer room. There were the same few rotten barrels he remembered from his first cursory examination, but nowhere for a person to hide. To make doubly sure, Falconer poked the lantern into each of the large niches recessed into the walls. Nothing. Martin had simply disappeared.

  Falconer stood in the centre of the cellar, irrationally imagining that Martin was always just behind him, moving every time Falconer turned. It was all he could do to stop himself spinning around continually. He remembered his proud boast to the prior, that once you had eliminated the impossible, then the improbable stood as the truth. But if the impossible was that Martin had somehow walked through solid walls, what was the improbable truth that remained?

  He began to scan the cellar more carefully, lifting the lantern into all the corners. It was as he had originally observed – a space with a low, vaulted roof that had at some point been divided part way by a sturdy partition wall. This first chamber was rectangular, and the finely wrought walls were studded with niches that would do equally for bodies or provisions. The damp state of the cellar had probably called for such shelves, or whatever had been stored on the floor would have been rotten in a short time. As indeed had all the barrels that still remained, rotting and caved in, their contents long dispersed. Falconer could see that the only way out was up the flight of steps.

  He paced back through the archway to the second chamber, noticing for the first time that there was a door hung in the opening. It had been pushed wide open, scribing an arc on the packed earth floor. The lantern was still in his hand, and he pulled the door closed behind him. He once again looked around, sensing that something was wrong. All he could see that was unusual was a scuffed-up mound of earth in the centre of the room. But even that was too shallow to be anything like a grave. He decided to ignore it as insignificant. He was aware of a swishing, gurgling sound, like running water, deep in the bowels of the priory. For a moment his head swam, and he felt a little sick. Maybe he had taken too many of the khat leaves that served to ease his megrim. He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. When he opened his eyes again, he was disappointed not to see anything different. Then he realized what it was that was niggling at his brain. The room was perfectly square. But the partition wall behind him had looked to have been constructed halfway down the original cellar space. He looked around again.

  The side walls were exactly the same as those in the outer chamber – smooth and well finished, if a little stained with green mould. Even the partition wall had been carefully constructed. But the fourth wall, now facing him, was different. It had been hastily constructed of a different material and even bulged slightly. The mortar was old and crumbly, and some of the stones were loose. For the room to be square, this wall must have cut off a section of the old cellar, and he wondered what might be behind it. He began to scrape at the mortar with his fingernails.

  Suddenly he heard a deep, unearthly, indrawn breath behind him. And a massive force slammed into his back, crushing him against the crumbling wall. The lantern clattered to his feet, and the room was plunged into darkness. He spun sideways but was pitched forward by the weight of his attacker, and he ended up face down on the floor. Whatever it was attacking him was cold and clammy and smelled of wet clay. It pushed him down into the earth of the cellar floor, half-suffocating him. It sat on his back, a heavy, dead weight that prevented him from turning over and defending himself. He recoiled from the fetid breath that exhaled over his shoulder, assailing his nostrils. He had a fleeting glimpse of clay-covered features, horribly distorted as if squeezed imperfectly out of mud from the surrounding marshes. His panicking mind formed the image of a monster. A golem.

  He fought back, managing to grasp one of the creature’s legs that straddled his back. But his grip was lost on the slippery mud, and he could no longer breathe as the golem’s hands closed on his throat. Abruptly he heard a thundering noise from somewhere above him. He felt his face pushed hard into the ground, and then the impossible weight was lifted from his back. For a while he lay gasping for breath, and then he managed to sit up. Once again he was alone. The thunderous noise returned, and he recognized it as someone hammering on the door of the cellar. Of course, he had the key and whoever it was could not get in. But someone – or something – had done so, almost killing him. Ignoring the hammering on the door, he picked himself up and addressed the conundrum one more time. And it came to him like one of the flashes of lightning that had riven the sky that night. Feeling strangely light-headed, he laughed at his own stupidity, and the riddle that Peter had drummed into his skull came back to him.

  ‘Now, what was it again?’ A tendril of fear drifted across his mind as he worried about his errant memory failing him. But he need not have been concerned, as the riddle stood out as clear as day. ‘“Look for geometric perfection, where the entrance numbers six, between eight and nine is the flaw. There is the three, and the name of God is creation.” Well, I know that geometric perfection can be exemplified by the cube. So…’

  He stood in the centre of the room and slowly turned. A perfect cube – if you ignored the ribbing of the ceiling.

  ‘Now, let me remember some of the number symbolism Saphira recited to me from what she remembered of the Kabbalah. Three is water, six is…six is…’ It wouldn’t come. ‘Never mind for the moment. Eight is west, and nine is north. So the flaw is in the north-west corner.’

  He held the lantern up to that corner of the room, but he could see no flaw other than the imperfect jointing of the crude wall that cut off the end of the room. Then he remembered.

  ‘Six is below, or depth.’

  He crouched down and shed some light on the dark corner at his feet.

  ‘Aaaaah.’

  There, close to the bottom of the side wall, was another niche. But this one was deeper than the others. Much deeper and stone-lined. Moreover, Falconer could hear the rush of water emanating from deep within it. Three is water. There was another way in and out of the cellar after all. He poked the lantern ahead of him and with a bit of effort squeezed his broad shoulders into the gap. He wished he was once again the slim young man who had sallied out as a mercenary soldier many years ago. But with a bit of wriggling he finally found himself head down in the entrance to a chilly tunnel that ran south. A thin strand of water lay along the bottom of the leat. It smelled stagnant and dank. Just beyond the edge of the light cast by his flickering lantern, he thought he detected movement. A sort of scuttling, and rustling accompanied it. Either rats or the golem, he was not sure which. Still, to prove what he was beginning to think about the comings and goings of the ill-fated trio of young novice monks, he knew what he had to do. He wormed his way back out of the tunnel entrance and sat on the floor of the room in which he was now sure the monks had met in secret. If he was to get down into the tunnel, it would have to be feet first, however. So he hoisted up the bottom of his dingy black robe and tucked it into the belt around his waist. Surveying his new boots, he contemplated the consequences of
removing them and exposing his bare toes to the attentions of the rats in the tunnel. There was nothing for it but to take them off. He couldn’t ruin them, as he would not be able to afford another pair for years. His pale legs and feet thus exposed, he took a deep breath and slid down into the void. The water at the bottom was cold and turbid. The mud squeezed up between his toes, giving him the sensation of being sucked down. Fearful of attack in this vulnerable position, he made a quick, anxious twist of his torso and was inside the tunnel.

  He had to crouch almost double, but he could stand, and would not have to crawl along its length. That was a relief at least. Holding the lantern before him, he made his way down a slight slope, his shoulders brushing the roof of the tunnel. Whatever hid in the dark ahead receded before his progress. Soon his back was aching, and he yearned to stand upright. But at least he had not encountered the golem again. The thought of struggling in such a confined space did not bear thinking about. He pressed on, aware of the water level rising around his ankles. Finally he could detect a greyish shape ahead of him. Nothing too distinct; simply a segment of darkness that was not as Stygian as the rest. It was the end of the tunnel, and he was glad. The water was lapping close to his thighs and running a little swifter here. Finally he was able to poke his head out and stand upright. Even the persistent drizzle washing over his face did not destroy his elation. He looked around and saw that he was in the open leat that ran under the reredorter. The dark bulk of the building rose to his left, and the water flowed swiftly down the leat towards the kitchen block and water mill to his right.

  He sat on the grassy bank to collect his thoughts, damp soaking him from beneath and above. He shivered and wished he was back in Oxford, in his own solar and surrounded by his books and experiments. Roger Bacon had sent him halfway across the country on what had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. He had not even found a cure for his own forgetfulness. True, a Jewish herbalist had provided him with an extract of a nut that was supposed to strengthen memory. He had drunk it. But the only change it had wrought on him was to turn his teeth black. He later discovered that the dark, resinous juice was from the marking nut, so called because scribes used it as an ink.