The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Why would a tramp steal a monastic habit?’ said Father Abbot.

  ‘Why not if it was better than what he had?’

  ‘Excuse me, Brother Ciaran, but there’s something I don’t think you’ve had time to consider.’ Cuthbert was so trusting he would take up the cudgels on behalf of the devil himself if Satan were to put forward a plausible case over a pot of tea in the parlour, but he could occasionally be unexpectedly cynical.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Daniel was attacked immediately after the first Vespers ring,’ said Cuthbert. ‘He must have been.’

  ‘He can’t have been,’ said Ciaran at once. ‘I saw him at Vespers myself. He came down to the chapel and then went back to the bell tower.’ He stopped. ‘But he wasn’t in the bell tower when I found him. He was in the crypt at the top of the stair.’

  ‘And,’ said Cuthbert, leaning forward, ‘why would he have gone back to the tower in the first place?’

  ‘Because he forgot to switch off the light,’ said Ciaran. ‘I saw it myself from the chapel. My stall looks onto the quadrangle and I could see it. He must have left the light on after he rang Vespers. It’s easily done.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t ring Vespers, not completely,’ said Cuthbert. ‘He rang the first call, but he was attacked before he could ring the reminder.’

  ‘Are you sure? We’re all so used to the bells that we hear them without knowing we hear them. I’m sounding like Irving,’ said Ciaran crossly.

  ‘Daniel rang the first call,’ said Cuthbert. ‘Most people heard it – I heard it myself, because I was working in the library, and I thought, Ah, that’s the first call—’

  ‘Well, you would hear it in the library, it adjoins the tower—’

  ‘—and I thought, Oh good, I’ll just have time to put St Thomas Aquinas back in his proper place, because as you know, Father, St Thomas lives on one of the very top shelves, under “A” as you’d expect, only it means getting onto the library steps and reaching up—’

  ‘It doesn’t actually matter about putting St Thomas back, Cuthbert—’

  ‘—and it takes me a bit of time, because I’m not as agile as I once was, in fact I’m a bit creaky especially on steps. But I like to leave the library in order,’ said Cuthbert firmly. ‘And I thought, well, I’m all right for a minute or two because the second call hasn’t sounded yet and until it does I can take my time.’

  ‘Which you did.’

  ‘Which I did,’ agreed Cuthbert. ‘But while I was taking my time, I was listening for the second call and it didn’t come.’

  ‘Forgive me, Brother, but are you absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘My hearing might not be as sharp as it used to be,’ said Cuthbert injured, ‘but I can still hear Aragon ringing Vespers, especially when I’m only in the library.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ciaran at once.

  ‘I didn’t hear it because it wasn’t rung,’ explained Cuthbert, and Father Abbot said slowly,

  ‘If that’s true, then Daniel must have been attacked between the two calls.’

  ‘He can’t have been,’ said Ciaran at once.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he was at Vespers. He was in his stall. I thought afterwards that he’d seen the bell tower light on as I did and gone across to—’ He stopped again and then said slowly, ‘Daniel couldn’t have seen the light. Not from the chapel. His stall’s on the dexter side, looking inwards.’

  ‘Exactly, Brother.’

  ‘But that means that he never came out of the bell tower.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cuthbert again.

  ‘Then,’ said Ciaran in a voice of horror, ‘who was it who was in Daniel’s stall at Vespers?’

  ‘It was a tramp,’ said Ciaran, clinging to his original idea. ‘Father Abbot, Cuthbert, you know it must have been a tramp.’

  ‘Would a tramp have put on Daniel’s robe and come down to stand in Daniel’s stall and take part in Vespers?’

  ‘Yes, Father, and whoever it was, he knew the plainchant, because my own stall’s only two along and I could hear that he was singing. How many outsiders would know our plainchant?’ demanded Cuthbert, and Ciaran said thoughtfully,

  ‘That’s true. It isn’t even Gregorian, it’s the old Ambrosian chant.’

  ‘And Daniel sounded a bit different,’ said Cuthbert.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well,’ said Cuthbert rather reluctantly, ‘I remember thinking, My word, Brother Daniel sounds as if he’s caught a bad cold in that draughty bell tower this week. And then I got a whiff of what I thought was camphorated oil or that evil-smelling cough stuff that Brother John keeps in the infirmary, only I can see now that I was simply associating it with the harsh voice.’

  Ciaran said slowly, ‘I noticed a smell in the bell tower, as well. Like disease. Or as if—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As if a door had been opened on a chamber sealed off for centuries,’ said Ciaran unwillingly.

  There was a sudden charged silence. Then Ciaran said, ‘That doesn’t preclude a tramp, Father. They’re all a bit—’

  ‘No, but we have to remember where Daniel was found,’ said Father Abbot. ‘We have to remember that he was found actually in the crypt, and that he had been clawed. Clawed.’ He frowned, and then said, ‘And whoever attacked him came down into the chapel and joined in Vespers. He sang the plainchant – our own Ambrosian chant that dates back to eleventh century Italy. That Simon of Cremona brought to Ireland.’

  He looked at Ciaran, and Ciaran said, ‘And he had the hood pulled up. He had to keep his face hidden.’

  ‘Well?’ said Father Abbot. ‘Doesn’t that suggest one very particular thing to you? Something that had to conceal its face, something that left the stench of death in its wake—Something that knew the eleventh century plainchant. Above all, something that clawed our poor Daniel.’

  He stopped, and Ciaran, staring at him, said in a half whisper, ‘You’re going to open up the tomb.’

  Chapter Five

  A cold dry breath of wind ruffled the papers on Father Abbot’s desk, and Ciaran knelt down to replenish the fire. The ticking of the clock on the mantel suddenly seemed much louder.

  At last, Ciaran said, ‘Father Abbot, that – that thing that’s buried in the crypt has been there for hundreds of years. It’ll be a mouldering skeleton. A heap of bones. Nobody believes in the legend any more, and even if we do—’

  He stopped and Father Abbot said, ‘Even if we do . . .?’

  ‘It needs the music to wake it,’ said Ciaran. ‘The – what did they used to call it? – the Black Chant, and—dear God, isn’t this the most ridiculous conversation ever!’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘I hear what I’m saying but I don’t believe I’m saying it,’ said Ciaran.

  ‘The tomb is there,’ said Father Abbot. ‘The tomb of Ahasuerus.’ With the pronouncing of the name, a sudden silence closed down on the room, and Ciaran had the feeling that something outside had crept up to the uncurtained windows and was standing just out of sight, listening. The feeling was so strong that he crossed the room and looked out. Something moving out there? But there was nothing, and Ciaran drew the curtains and came back into the room.

  ‘I’ll give you the tomb,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘I’ll even give you the Black Chant. Too many intelligent people have believed in it.’

  ‘Mozart believed in it, didn’t he?’ said Cuthbert unexpectedly. ‘The Chant and the legend of the devil’s piper?’

  ‘So it’s said. Wasn’t he a Freemason?’ said Father Abbot.

  ‘I’ve no idea. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Only that they’ve kept some odd secrets over the centuries.’

  ‘So,’ said Ciaran caustically, ‘has the Roman Catholic Church.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But the music vanished hundreds of years ago!’ said Ciaran. ‘We all know that. And even if you believe in it – even if you truly believe that a piece of music exists that h
as power over that thing in the tomb – do you really believe there’s a musician in today’s world with sufficient fire in his belly or passion in his soul to re-create it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you who could have done it,’ said Cuthbert. ‘He’s dead now. God keep him, but he could have done it. The grandfather of that young man who’s just come to Mallow House. Jude Weissman.’

  ‘Judas,’ said Ciaran, softly.

  ‘Well, we didn’t call him that in those days, of course. But he wrote something while he was here that people said had an oddness to it. Father Abbot – your predecessor, that was, Father – always wondered if the tomb influenced him, Mallow being so near and all. I remember him quite well,’ said Cuthbert. ‘He played the Abbey’s organ for us one Easter, which considering he was Jewish was very generous, I thought, because I don’t know that I’d go into a synagogue. He played Bach, I think it was. And some Handel. He was a very brilliant young man, although he was supposed to be a bit erratic. We used to hear him sometimes in the summer when the windows of the house were open. Only very faintly, but it was there. The scent of lilac and Jude Weissman’s music. The two always go together for me,’ said Cuthbert, with unexpected poetry. ‘We all prayed for him later, when they said he was a traitor, and we offered up Masses for the repose of his soul after they executed him. He left a wife and small child. It was all very terrible.’

  Father Abbot said thoughtfully, ‘Is it possible that the grandson has inherited his gifts?’

  ‘And found the Chant by accident and played it tonight? But that would be impossible,’ said Ciaran. ‘Wouldn’t it? If the Chant does exist, no one could find it unless they knew about it? And if they found it, they’d certainly know about it.’

  He looked at Cuthbert for confirmation, but Cuthbert said thoughtfully, ‘I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t swear that some of these modern pop music people haven’t occasionally hit a nerve.’

  Ciaran smiled for the first time. ‘Cuthbert, you never cease to amaze me. What on earth do you know about pop music?’

  ‘Only that it occasionally drives young people to drugs or suicide,’ said Cuthbert. ‘And that’s it’s always much too loud.’

  Ciaran said slowly, ‘You could be right about pop music and the Black Chant, Cuthbert. There was a case a year or so ago where a young man blasted out his brains with a shotgun and his family tried to prove that there was some kind of subliminal message in the pop group he followed. They even went to Court over it, I think.’

  ‘People forget that the devil is extremely clever,’ said Cuthbert seriously. ‘They think of him – if they think of him at all – as a persuasive gentleman with horns and a forked tail, but if he went about today’s world looking like that, people would only think it was a gimmick to sell central heating. If he’s in the world today – and of course he is – he’ll be in all the things that lower people’s resistance. Drugs and drink, and excuse me, Father Abbot, but sex.’

  Ciaran said suddenly, ‘Daniel wasn’t sexually assaulted, was he?’ and the ugly words jarred on the gentle scholarly ambience of the room. Cuthbert, shocked, drew in his breath and said: bless them and save them all, certainly not. ‘Whatever else has been said about Ahasuerus, it’s never been said he wasn’t a gentleman.’

  ‘It’s never been said the Prince of Darkness wasn’t a gentleman either,’ said Ciaran caustically. ‘But if Ahasuerus is such a gentleman, would he have injured Daniel so violently?’

  ‘He might,’ said Father Abbot at last. ‘He might if there was a struggle of some kind. If Ahasuerus had broken out and Daniel tried to stop him. We’ll know more when Daniel regains consciousness. In the meantime—’ He stopped and then said, ‘In the meantime, there’s the tomb.’ He glanced uneasily to the window, and Ciaran thought: so he heard it, as well. ‘We’ll have to open the tomb, I’m afraid,’ said Father Abbot. ‘Or at least, see if it’s been disturbed.’

  He stood up, and Ciaran said, ‘Now? You’re going to go down to the crypt now?’

  ‘Bless me, is that altogether wise, Father? I don’t want to interfere, but it’s very nearly dead of night—’

  Father Abbot said very firmly, ‘We can’t delay. We don’t dare delay. If that thing has really woken—’ He broke off, and then said, ‘Ciaran, you’ll come with me?’

  ‘Into the jaws of—’ Ciaran stopped and spread his hands. ‘It’s the maddest thing I ever heard of, but I’ll come with you.’

  ‘We needn’t wake the others. I don’t want to worry them until we know if there’s anything to worry about.’

  ‘I’ll come as well if you want me,’ said Cuthbert.

  ‘Would you, Cuthbert? Three of us would manage better than two.’

  ‘Yes, and that vault hasn’t been unsealed since – dear me, Brother John Joseph in seventeen fifty, and that was only to repair a bit of chipped stonework. We’ll need the proper tools,’ said Cuthbert, becoming practical. ‘And candles as well, because there’s no electricity down there, you do know that, do you, Father?’

  ‘I do know there’s no electricity, Cuthbert.’

  ‘And,’ said Ciaran in an expressionless voice, ‘precious little sanity either. Very well, en avant, Father.’

  It was not quite what the novelists called the witching hour, but it was close enough. Ciaran supposed that if you were going to commit a foolhardy act, you might as well do it with the full complement of midnight chimes – or at least ten o’clock chimes – from the clock tower and with only the flickering light of a candle to see by.

  As they crossed the quadrangle he again had the feeling that they were being watched, and he paused, holding his candle aloft, shielding it from the sighing night wind with one hand. I believe there is something out there, he thought. But there was nothing to see except the Abbey’s own black shadows, and there was no sound except the wind stirring the dry leaves on the ground, and he turned back to where Cuthbert was unlocking the outer door of the tower.

  The crypt stairs, up which Daniel had managed to drag himself, twisted round and down. They were dark and enclosed and narrow, and the candle flames burned up strongly in the dry air, throwing their three shadows onto the ancient stones, exaggerated and grotesque. The stone steps were worn away at the centre, and Ciaran felt a shiver of awe at this evidence of age. As they went down, he found himself turning round several times to scan the shadowy stairs above. The feeling of being silently followed was very strong indeed.

  And then Cuthbert was saying in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘It’s over there, I believe. Directly ahead.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to miss it, Cuthbert.’

  Ciaran could feel the centuries of goodness and the decades of prayer and sacred music receding. Like water streaming off the oiled feathers of a seabird. An albatross or a storm petrel . . . Why did I think of storm petrels? A bird of ill-omen on my right hand . . . Yes, but what sits, invisible, on my left? And supposing the tomb is tenantless . . .?

  He shivered again and at once Father Abbot said, ‘The atmosphere is not good here.’

  ‘There’s no air,’ said Ciaran shortly.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know.’

  Cuthbert was setting more candles at intervals on the floor, using the melting wax to stand them upright. ‘Light,’ he said. ‘Very important.’

  ‘Important for what? Grave-desecration?’

  ‘For fighting back any kind of darkness,’ said Cuthbert with complete seriousness, and Ciaran at once said, ‘Forgive me, Brother.’

  He looked about him at the shadowy crypt, the low archways of stone, the shelves of rock at the sides, and drew breath to frame a prayer. As he did so, Father Abbot’s hand came down on his arm.

  There in front of them, shrouded in twisting darkness, was a crouching black bulk: a waist-high rectangle of dark stone, roughly eight feet in length and four or five feet wide.

  The tomb of Ahasuerus.

  It was more conventional than Ciaran remembered, although he was no lon
ger sure if he had in fact seen it properly until now. There was no reclining figure on the lid, but whoever had constructed the tomb had apparently spent some time in Eastern countries, for there was a strong resemblance to the sarcophagi of the Egyptians. But Ahasuerus wasn’t Egyptian, thought Ciaran, puzzled. I don’t believe the legend, not entirely, but I know what it says, and in every version Ahasuerus was a Jew, he was the rebel High Priest of the Temple . . .

  Whatever Ahasuerus had been in life, in death he lay inside a long elaborate stone sepulchre, embellished with ancient symbols of light, including the Aryan swastika – the real thing, not the later distortion of the Nazis, thought Ciaran, with awe – and with Celtic and Pictish crosses as well as the conventional crucifix, the crux commissa representing Christ’s gibbet.

  At his side, Father Abbot said softly, ‘They bound him to the grave with every symbol of light they could find and still he escaped. The tomb is the original one, of course, but the inner coffin was made several hundred years later. Or so the legend says,’ he added.

  ‘Is he – forgive me, Father – but was his body embalmed?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  As the three men walked slowly forward, their eyes never leaving the crouching outline of the tomb, dense pools of darkness slithered across the floor at its base. And then Father Abbot murmured a prayer and held up the candle and the shadows seemed to dissolve and trickle away.

  Even before they reached it, they could see that the stone lid had been dislodged – from beneath? thought Ciaran, atavistic fear prickling his skin – and as they approached, a faint drift of corruption breathed outwards from the yawning blackness of the interior. The breath of the grave, thought Ciaran and felt a knot of sickness form at the pit of his stomach.

  He drew in a deep breath, his free hand closing about the crucifix he wore at his waist and he was grateful when Father Abbot said in a perfectly ordinary voice, ‘Do you both see the inscription on the side? In the bas-relief near the top?’

  Ciaran held his candle up so that the warm glow fell across the side of the sepulchre. In a soft voice, he read the inscription.