Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  The sun was up when I eventually opened my eyes. Helen sat at my side dabbing at my forehead with a damp cloth, a concerned look on her face. Concern changed to relief as I managed a self-conscious smile.

  "How are you?" she said softly.

  "Glad it's over. What about you? And Amy?"

  "We're fine," she wiped a spot of dried blood from my cheek. "I know it sounds feeble, but thanks."

  "What are friends for?" I said, then sank into a deep sleep.

  I awoke at mid-day. I washed and dressed and went downstairs. Helen was in the kitchen preparing lunch. Over the meal I told her of my conversation with Jarvis, the man I had spoken to in Long Melford.

  "Five times that accursed cot had come back from different owners. Each of them told a story similar to yours. If it hadn't been for that man's blessed greed, his determination to make a profit by constantly re-selling it, this whole affair could have been avoided. The couple who built the bassinet for their own child lost their baby before she was a year old. The mother never accepted the death and killed herself soon after."

  After lunch I started a bonfire in the garden. When Matt arrived home he said nothing, but looked from me to the broken nursery window, and finally to the charred wickerwork on the fire. Then he went inside, took Helen in his arms and kissed her gently.

  IN THE TRADITION OF

  If you proceed at a leisurely pace along the narrow country lanes of the county of Kent, around the area of St Marks Bay, you will eventually come upon the quiet haven of Fernbury. It is a village undisturbed by time, at peace with the world, possessed of a serene air, that is as much carried by the people in it, as it is held by the seventeenth-century buildings. The black and white panelled shops and houses line the main street, in places almost spilling onto it. Moving on, one should be impressed by the tranquil calm surrounding the communal green, beyond which the old church lends a character of gentle stillness, nestled between oak and elm. The church has a tower, and the tower has a story.

  The external appearance of much of the church is undoubtedly spoilt by eighteenth-century Roman cement, which covers the original rag-stone and flint rubble with its dressings of Reigate and other freestone. To the thirteenth-century tower, nave and chancel, have been added a north and south aisle, south porch and a sanctuary. In common with many churches, there is little of the original structure remaining, after various rebuilding and restoration programmes, although the intuitive visitor will find much evidence of the original features. Three of the angle roof corbels from the old roof remain for instance, and it is thought the sedilia extended further to the west, for its westernmost seat is cut in half by one of the arches. The tower alone has remained relatively unchanged, except for the addition of supporting buttresses to prevent a collapse.

  Forty years ago the rector of Fernbury church was a fellow called Dean, a name that provided his clerical friends with much opportunity for mild amusement. He was a man who, were it not for a lack of both ambition and imagination, could have achieved a great deal more than to become incumbent of a small rural parish. As it was he had a quiescent temperament, which allowed him little time for regret or for feelings of thwarted advancement. He was an active man, concerned and involved with the practical side of his profession.

  In the third year of his incumbency, after obtaining the necessary permission, Dean decided to begin work on the much-needed restoration of the tower. But there had been a run of bad luck. Firstly there was the delay over the stone needed for the wall, and when it finally arrived it was the wrong type, there had been an administrative error with the order. As soon as work began, one of the workmen fell from his ladder and injured his leg. This proved to be the first in a series of accidents, all of which delayed things, and caused the rector to suspect that his project was to be plagued by ill-fortune. That very morning some of the men had begun to complain about a smell emanating from the tower, an occurrence previously unheard of with such a well kept church.

  It was therefore in a slightly depressed mood that Dean left the church that evening, later than he had anticipated, with the greyness of dusk settling over the still village. Twilight was his favourite time, and on this warm summer evening his spirits soon began to lift. He would never fail to be moved by the sight of the church with its headstones, and its trees, standing prominent against the darkening sky. As he crossed the green, for the short walk to the vicarage, the only sound was that permeable evening sound of stillness, a silence broken only by the stream meandering lazily around the village, the occasional splash of a fish rising for food, or the cry of an early barn owl searching the fields for mice. The rector breathed deeply. He had a lined oval face, with a balding head, which retained a halo of the once profuse black hair, a small lean body that was surprisingly agile for his age, and a gait that suggested he had once served in the Navy.

  At the end of the green there was a duck pond, by the side of which grew a willow tree. Pausing here, he was able to see his house at the end of the main street. It was of a later date than most of the village, a red brick building of turrets and gabled dormers, with a very healthy ivy covering the front and side walls. In truth it was too large for a man on his own, but a woman from the village cooked and cleaned for him. This suited him well, because he liked to live alone, and he would not have wanted a housekeeper who lived in.

  After his brief rest he set off again, with thoughts of his supper spurring him on. When he came closer to the house he could see someone standing in the porch-way, about to knock on his front door. Without his spectacles he could not see clearly who it was. Once a week he played chess with a man from the village but that was not tonight. He assumed it must be Pendle, his churchwarden, a tireless worker in the community but tiresome company, especially at that time in the evening. Dean was a kindly man and he admonished himself for such uncharitable thoughts, but even so he was pleased, upon reaching his home, to find that whoever had been standing there had gone.

  It was usual for Dean, on arriving home, to be greeted by his dog, an old English setter. As he shut the door behind him he was surprised to find that the dog did not come rushing, all tongue and paws. After a search through the downstairs rooms Dean eventually found him crouching in a corner of the study, his fur on end, whining as though frightened by something. A few minutes of friendly attention and the dog calmed a little, and later, when Dean was able to feed him, his appetite was as healthy as normal.

  The Rector's own meal was excellent. Afterwards he took a glass of port into the study, where he got out the folio of building plans and drawings for the restoration work. The tower dated from the thirteenth century, and apart from the work carried out to support the walls, there had been no alterations made to it. The result of this neglect was that the builders had a lengthy and involved task in front of them. A new door was needed, the ground-stage window and the bell-chamber windows on the north and east side needed replacing, and the stone of all the walls was badly weatherworn, and needed extensive renewing.

  Dean pored over the plans for most of the evening, stopping only for a while to catch up on his entries in the parish records; the keeping of which was a task he loathed, he kept them up to date as a necessary chore. Though he loved his church, and was particularly interested in the restoration work, he was more concerned with the reason for it being there, and the needs of the people it served.

  When he had completed his entries in the records he returned to the plans. Consequently it was past midnight when he went to bed. He left the plans lying on the oak dining table where he had been working, with the ink and his fountain pen next to them. He spent a restless night, caught between thoughts of the church and of a shutter banging noisily somewhere in the village. His dog seemed to spend the whole night whining and scratching at his door. By the time morning came he had slept only three or four hours, and he had the beginning of a dull headache.

  The day was not improved when he went downstairs to find his pen and ink flung everywhere, and the plans
for the tower strewn about, torn to shreds. Reluctantly he had to blame the dog. The animal had been acting strangely since the previous evening. Normally he was a well-behaved dog but the scratches on the table surface could surely have been caused by no other. Fortunately the builders had their own set of plans, and so the incident was not a disaster.

  After a full breakfast, he spent most of the morning preparing his sermon for the Sunday service. He invariably left it until the morning before as he found that by doing so it remained fresh in his mind. The congregation was always a good one, and tomorrow was sure to be no exception as people were naturally curious to see and hear how the restoration work was progressing. The scaffolding had already drawn the attention of a group of children who came to watch the men working. Given clement weather, Sunday service was a most satisfying time for the Rector, a time when he could meet all his parishioners together under one roof.

  He finished his sermon, and took the dog for a short walk, which tired them both, as it usually did. Just before lunch he strolled from the house in the direction of the church to see what the men had accomplished that morning. As he got nearer the church he could hear work in progress, but when he entered the gates he was dismayed to see that a quantity of the building stone which had been piled against the church wall, was now scattered over the churchyard. He went in search of the foreman with the intention of complaining about the mess, but he found that the foreman was waiting for him.

  "Someone has been here in the night, Reverend, and thrown our stone all over the place."

  "I admit at first I thought it was your men being careless," Dean said.

  "Begging your pardon, sir, my men have been most careful in all their work with this church. We're Christian men, all of us, sir."

  "Quite so, quite so," the Rector said hurriedly. "I did not mean to imply that your men were otherwise, but who would have done such a thing? I cannot imagine anyone from the village wanting to harm us here. You do not think it may have been those children who have taken an interest in you?"

  "No child could have moved those stones, heavy they are. My men cleared a bit of it away, it was worse first thing this morning."

  "I do not know what to think. I am so sorry."

  "Not your fault, sir, but my men don't take kindly to people messing with their work." He turned to walk away but evidently remembered something he had meant to say. "By the way, Reverend, that horrible smell is getting worse, coming from the tower; not drains, is it?"

  Dean promised to investigate and the man turned away. A few moments later the Rector decided he could do no more at the church, and made his way to the gate. He was about to leave when he heard a shout from the foreman.

  "I'm sorry to call you that way, Reverend, but I almost forgot to give you what one of my men found by the pile of stones this morning." He handed something to the Rector. "Looks like some sort of necklace."

  Dean examined it carefully. It was a medallion, made of metal but dull and badly worn. "It looks remarkably like a mediaeval burial chain, they used to place them around the necks of the dead man to ward off evil spirits. If I am right, this could be a very valuable find indeed. You may congratulate the fellow who found this. Excellent, excellent."

  On his way home Dean met Pendle, who became equally as excited about the find. They examined the item at length, and after deciding it was genuine, they discussed possibilities for it being put on display in the church. Neither had any idea where it could have come from, unless one of the workmen had unearthed it during the preliminary digging. As they parted, the Rector asked Pendle about the previous evening, but it was not he who had called to the house.

  On Sunday mornings he was always up early, toileted and breakfasted before eight. He walked the dog to the green and back before collecting his things together for the morning service. When he arrived at the church Pendle was already there, placing a hymnbook and service sheet at each position on the pews. Two of the village women provided fresh flowers when they could. Dean checked his bible references, while Pendle, who also played the organ, checked his music. It was a good time in the Rector's week, one he looked forward to with eagerness. Before anyone arrived, he went to the sacristy to await the church being filled. A last look at the notes for his sermon and he could almost deliver it from memory.

  At last he heard the organ strike out the opening bars of the first hymn. He walked slowly through the sanctuary and took up his place in the pulpit. The singing began. As the final notes of the organ faded away, the bustle and coughing of the people as they made themselves comfortable was a pleasantly familiar sound. A prayer followed, and then the sermon, delivered with passion in a clear, strong voice. When this was over another prayer, a hymn, and finally it was usual for the Rector to say a few words about the village, coming events, births and the like. On this occasion he also mentioned the restoration of the tower.

  "I am sure you will all wish to hear how well the work of restoring the church tower is progressing, particularly as much of the funds were raised from the contributions and efforts of your good selves." He thought it wise not to make reference to the disturbance of the stones, nor did he mention the item that had been found the previous morning. "After some delay, work has now commenced on the removal of the stone from the top of the tower. This will be continued down each wall in turn, and the new stones will be put in place of the old. It will not be very long before the tower is in as good a condition as the rest of the church."

  At the end of the service the Rector walked along the aisle to take his place at the south porch, where he could speak to people as they left. While Pendle played, the congregation began to file out. The Rector shook hands, said goodbyes, received thanks, and the people met in groups outside to discuss the sermon, and what they had been doing in the past week. Dean walked among them, stopping and chatting, giving advice on all manner of subjects from jam preserving, to a cure for hay fever. Three of the more senior of the men in the village had formed a group some distance from the stones, and it seemed to Dean that they were waiting for him to join them. When he could politely leave the people he had been talking to, he approached the three men, who all greeted him cordially. The men then came to the point.

  "It is about the bell ringing in the night," one of them began. "The last two nights in a row, and them who've heard it have not been able to get any sleep because of it."

  "Bell ringing at night," the Rector said. "I have given no permission for such an exercise."

  "Well it's happened right enough, one bell, ringing one note, over and over," the man said.

  "Like a death knell," one of the others added.

  "I can assure you, gentlemen that this has not been carried out with my knowledge. I have not heard the bell myself, but the matter will get my fullest attention. I will advise you of my findings."

  So the Rector said and so he intended to do. The people eventually made their way home, wandering off in groups, still chatting, breaking conversation only to admonish a child, or to ensure that they still had with them as many children as they had brought. Dean went back into the church where Pendle was busy collecting the service sheets and hymnbooks.

  "Don't you worry about those, my dear chap," the Rector said. "I'll finish cleaning up, you go off home and enjoy your Sunday lunch."

  "As you please, Rector, I've almost done."

  With that the churchwarden placed a pile of sheets and books on their shelf at the back of the church, and went off home as was suggested. The job of cleaning the church had almost been completed, and it did not take Dean a long time to finish it. When everything was in order he decided that there would be no better time than the present to look at the bell chamber, to see if anything was amiss with the nine bells, a sanctus and a peal of eight. There had never been any complaints about the bells before, and he was concerned that the work to the tower should not in any way damage them.

  The bell chamber was reached by means of a wooden staircase, which was itself in need of b
eing replaced. The handrail was rough and splintered, and the boards, worn and loose in places, creaked as the Rector's weight trod upon them. When he reached the top he was out of breath, and he rested. The sun had just reached midway in the sky, and, without a cloud to be seen, the chamber was illuminated by warm clear light. The bells were kept well polished and they shone proudly. Dean began a closer examination, to see if he could find any fault that might have caused a single bell to ring of its own accord.

  The chamber became warmer with each minute the Rector spent in it. By the time he was near the end of his examination, the smell in the tower had grown appreciably worse. The workmen had imagined it to be caused by drains, but to the Rector it smelt damp, musty, as if something very old that was buried had been lifted to the surface. He was just deciding whether or not he could bear the stench long enough to complete his task, when he heard someone catch their breath. He stepped back and a board creaked. The sound of this seemed to fill the chamber. Dean waited patiently for the silence to descend. When it did he listened carefully, but could hear nothing. Then a sharp rasping breathing rose from somewhere, a continuous pained choking noise filled with agony. The Rector moved slowly to the stairway as the bells began to vibrate, gently at first, becoming louder as the breathing increased. For an instant, as he stood at the top of the stairway, something cold brushed across his face, like a damp cloth, but as coarse as matted hair. It was enough to send him fleeing down the stairs as fast as he could go, with the door locked tightly behind him.

  He left the church soon after, and went straight home, where he ate a hurried lunch while he began a careful study of the parish records. He wanted to find any previous mention of restoration work to the tower. He had never looked at the older records before, having neither the time nor the scholarly turn of mind to do so. It took him the rest of the afternoon, and the evening to read through them, the first of which began in the 1540's. Some of the entries droned on for pages, while others, like those of Dean himself, merely recorded the necessary facts. He found numerous references to work on the tower being planned, but none that stated the work had ever got anywhere. In several places the relevant pages had been torn out, and on occasions the passages recording the planning stage ended abruptly, and a new hand took over.