by Allan Frost
They stood in silence for a several minutes. The moon, slim as it was, bathed everywhere with a very faint light, barely bright enough to create distinctive shadows. Only the glow from the butane lamps inside the marquees penetrated the darkness to any appreciable extent.
‘How much longer?’ said Cedric grumpily. ‘Could do with another drink and it’s cold standing here.’
Tim peered around the corner.
‘Look over there, Cedric. At the far end of the chapel. No, don’t switch your torch on! What can you see?’
‘Not sure. Is it moving branches?’
‘But there aren’t any branches here! All the vegetation was removed from the stones a while ago.’
They watched again.
‘Creep along the side of the wall,’ whispered Tim. ‘Keep close, and don’t make a sound!’
Little by little, they edged their way furtively along the wall until they were within a few metres of the east window.
‘What do you see?’ asked Tim.
‘Nothing. Let’s get back. There’s nothing there.’
Someone giggled. Someone else said, ‘Shh! Get a move on!’
‘Keep your voices down!’ hissed another voice. It was Prior Thomas’s. ‘Cross the cloisters and into the refectory! Quick and quiet! Hurry up, Theophilus, there’s a good boy.’
Suddenly, all went quiet.
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Tim.
‘I did,’ confirmed Cedric. He didn’t know whether to feel excited or frightened.
‘Don’t worry about them, they can’t hurt us. I wonder what they’re up to?’
‘They mentioned the refectory. Know where it is? The voices seemed to be going from right to left.’
Tim tried to picture the plans of priories he’d seen before and the aerial photos he’d examined on the computer.
‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘I reckon the communal eating hall will be in that direction. Shall we follow them? Are you up for a little furtive undercover work?’
‘Why not? Always wondered what it was like. I’ve heard so much police evidence in the courtroom but never had the opportunity to experience intelligence gathering for myself.’
They clambered through a hole in the masonry where a door from the chapel once led through to the cloisters. Facing directly in front, Tim and Cedric tiptoed forwards for some thirty or forty metres until they reached another low wall. It was only slightly higher than Tim’s head.
‘There’s another doorway somewhere near here,’ he said. ‘Can you see it?’
Cedric screwed his eyes up. He knew not to switch on the torch.
‘I think it’s a little to the left,’ he said, feeling the wall. ‘Yes, here it is!’
The doorway was rather low, a fact discovered the hard way when Tim deposited a small amount of hair and skin on a jutting stone.
‘Ouch! That hurt!’
‘Shush!’ said Cedric. ‘Can you see or hear anything?’
‘Only light coming from the marquees,’ answered Tim. ‘And music from the minstrels.’
Cedric wasn’t so sure. He listened carefully and shot quick glances around the area.
‘Listen carefully and look around,’ he said. It was possible his eyes and ears were deceiving him; he wanted a second opinion. ‘Tell me what you hear.’
‘Music from the marquee.’
‘Listen harder.’
Tim wondered what Cedric meant at first. The sound of Medieval music was obviously coming from the marquee yet, even allowing for some distortion over the distance, the beat didn’t seem consistent.
‘It’s almost as if there’s another band competing,’ said Tim. ‘Playing a different rhythm.’
‘Quite so,’ said Cedric. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, someone in the rival group is playing a shawm.’
‘A what?’
‘A shawm. It’s a wind instrument, an early type of oboe.’
‘So?’
‘Your consort doesn’t have a shawm. Listen again.’
Cedric was right! And the more Tim concentrated, the more he was able to separate the two sources of sound.
‘There’s someone else here!’ he exclaimed.
‘Must be the Prior’s people,’ concluded Cedric. ‘There’s more, though. Look in the direction of the marquee but try to focus on somewhere in the middle, halfway between us and the light.’
It took some doing but eventually Tim could see what Cedric meant. He caught fleeting glimpses of something, he couldn’t decide what, dodging about in the intervening darkness. It was a pity the light from the marquees wasn’t more powerful.
‘It’s definitely people,’ said Cedric. He felt quite thrilled. ‘We need more light to see what’s going on.’
At that moment, someone lowered the awning at the front of the marquee.
‘Must be getting cold in there,’ said Tim. ‘I can’t see so clearly now, can you?’
‘No. Shall we slither along the wall again? Get closer to the action?’ suggested Cedric, gripped with curiosity. ‘This is like an Enid Blyton adventure, isn’t it?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be Two-In-AMental-Hospital!’ chuckled Tim. ‘You go first, I’ll follow. Stop when you feel like it.’
Odd that Cedric seemed more sensitive to these phantom phenomena; perhaps it was because he was, in the natural order of things, closer to joining them in the Afterlife.
Cedric came to an abrupt halt about halfway along the wall.
‘I can hear them quite clearly now,’ he said. ‘Can you?’
Although they stood only a short distance from whence the noises emanated, they seemed to come from much further away. But, yes, he could hear singing, laughter and a generally confusing cacophony.
‘Sounds like regulars in a public bar having a boisterous party,’ said Cedric. ‘Not that I’ve experienced one first hand, you understand,’ he added, not wishing to give the wrong impression. ‘I’ve heard hubbub like that in the Bull at Ambridge in The Archers.’ Damn. That made him out to be a radio soap opera fanatic. Which he wasn’t. Well, not really.
Tim’s mind was thinking along different lines.
‘When I say ‘Now’, shine your torch over there,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the same.’
‘Won’t we make our presence obvious?’
‘That’s the whole point. Don’t worry, we won’t come to any harm. Just remember they’re ghosts.’
‘Sure there aren’t any poltergeists? Not that I think they exist, but I didn’t believe in ghosts until you came along. I hear poltergeists can be quite vicious.’
‘No, there aren’t any poltergeists here, Cedric,’ Tim replied. ‘At least, I hope not. We’ll soon find out.’
He was about to call, ‘Now!’ when something made him hold his breath. Was that a car engine he could hear?
Yes, it was. The distinctive sound came from the lane. Headlights momentarily lit up the side of the marquees and, as an Ackney Cab came to a stop, briefly shed a powerful light into the refectory area. Equally briefly, all activity in the area froze; the noise stopped as if every one of its revellers was holding their breath.
Tim heard the car arrive and the door slam, then saw a silhouette walking towards the central marquee. Was it a man or woman? He couldn’t tell. Whoever it was pulled back the flap and said something before going inside.
‘That wasn’t Crimp or Hives, was it?’ whispered Tim.
‘Could be. Wasn’t able to see clearly, though. What do we do now?’
‘Wait and see what happens.’
They didn’t have to wait long.
‘All clear, everyone!’ Prior Thomas’s voice declared, whereupon the music and ribaldry recommenced, initially with some hesitation but, casting caution to the wind, rapidly degenerated into chaos.
‘Now!’ said Tim.
The light from their two torches blazed across the ground. Cedric gasped. Tim’s jaw dropped with a loud clang.
‘Would you feast your eyes on that!’ he exclai
med.
‘I’d never have believed it!’ said Cedric, full of awe.
‘Thank goodness Hilda isn’t here.’
‘Or Cynthia. Could give her ideas and I’m getting too old for that sort of thing!’
Thoroughly stunned yet at the same time wildly fascinated by the images picked out in the beams of torchlight, Tim and Cedric tried their utmost to absorb changing scenes as each one was picked out.
In a corner slightly away from the prying eyes of the crowd, Prior Thomas stood behind a young man who was bending over and seemed to be in some pain. They were partly hidden by rows of candle-lit, food-laden long tables and benches occupied by the spectres of canons, nuns, artisans and servants plus a few sundry others who had, presumably, met their ends while enjoying the Priory’s hospitality.
All semblance of restrained behaviour had, with their living breath, disappeared long ago. Canons chased nuns, nuns chased anything wearing trousers: a few grabbed hold of anyone that came nearby, irrespective of gender.
One female marched up to a couple, who didn’t seem to have enough hands to satisfy their groping needs, and slapped the man’s face until it spun completely round.
‘Swine! Two-timer!’ she shrieked.
The woman with the man grabbed a thick church candle and offered it to her. ‘Take this if you’re desperate!’ she snarled. ‘He’s mine!’
‘It’ll give me more satisfaction than he ever could,’ said the face-slapper, snatching the candle and storming off into the peripheral darkness.
Several others weren’t so concerned about hiding their affections. Heads disappeared under the folds of habits and gowns, others stripped to the waist, many more were content to quaff as much wine or ale from a plethora of crocks and pewter tankards as their bursting bellies would permit.
In another corner sat a man in the centre of a small circle, impressing onlookers with the tricks he had taught scurrying rats and jumping fleas. Meanwhile, three troubadours attempted to make their music audible above the din.
Why on earth this Rabelaisian scene didn’t disturb the party in the marquee was beyond Tim’s comprehension. It was amazing the noise was limited to inside the perimeter of the refectory. It went against all rules of physics and scientifically proven limits of travelling sound waves.
‘All we need now is for Hilda to witness this,’ said Tim.
Suddenly an angry voice yelled above the din.
‘Oi! Put those lamps out!’
‘Don’t switch off!’ ordered Tim.
‘I said, douse those lamps! Prior Thomas, they won’t put their lamps out! We’ll be seen!’
‘Who’s there?’ shouted Thomas, adjusting his habit. His flustered face appeared redder than usual. Must be all that bending down. Tim shone his torch directly at him as he approached. The Prior was in a foul mood.
‘It’s you again!’ he exclaimed, exasperated. ‘Didn’t I tell you to go away?’
‘Is this what you mean by living a life according to the scriptures?’ asked Tim calmly. Don’t let him get the upper hand! ‘Seems to me as though you get inspiration from Sodom and Gomorrah!’
‘Are they not mentioned in the Old Testament?’ responded Thomas with indecent haste. He’d had plenty of practice justifying such behaviour.
‘I thought they were examples of immorality, to be avoided if your souls were not to be damned.’
‘What we do in the privacy of our enclave is none of your business!’
Cedric flashed his torch around the area. He wished he hadn’t; the menacing crowd gathering around the Prior made oversized goose pimples the size of peas (garden, not chick) pop up on his arms. The sparse hair on the back of his neck rose and a tremendous shiver shot down his spine.
‘It’s OK, Cedric,’ assured Tim, sensing the old man’s alarm. ‘They can’t hurt us.’
Prior Thomas overheard him.
‘We may not be able to cause you physical harm,’ he said, casually bursting a fresh boil at the end of his nose. ‘But we can terrify you and your guests. You won’t be able to separate fact from imagination by the time we’ve finished with you!’
Had Cedric been inside the dining tent when the cover was pulled open by the person who had recently arrived in the taxi, he’d have been equally, if not more, stunned, at what met his eyes.
A strikingly attractive woman, well and truly on the wrong side of thirty and perhaps even over forty, smiled apologetically.
‘I’m terribly sorry to intrude,’ she said politely. ‘My name’s Fatima Arkwright. Is this where I can find Sir Cedric Foot-Wart?’
XIX
Fatima’s unscheduled appearance was greeted with a mixture of surprise and mild annoyance that a stranger should gatecrash their party. More to the point, what was she doing here and why did she want to speak to Cedric?
‘I remember you,’ said Cynthia after racking her brain to recollect where she had seen this personable young woman before. ‘You used to come into the shop. Two packs of condoms once a month, if my memory serves me right. I haven’t seen you since you bought all our stock of condoms and that pretty pink outfit.’
Fatima turned her eyes away from Cynthia and blushed. The others sat wondering what on earth was going on. Even the Medieval Minstrels stopped playing momentarily.
‘That’s me, Lady Cynthia. I’m surprised you remember,’ she said shyly.
‘Did they have the desired effect?’ asked Cynthia. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,’ she added, noticing Fatima’s fingers fiddling with the clasp of her handbag. ‘You wish to speak to Sir Cedric? He was here a few moments ago. Has anyone seen Cedric?’ she asked.
‘I think he went to the Flushes,’ said George.
‘That was ages ago,’ offered Hilda.
‘He could be with Tim,’ said Sarah.
Fatima was stuck for words. ‘I really don’t want to spoil your evening,’ she said. Was her bottom lip trembling?
‘Nonsense!’ insisted Sarah. ‘It must be something important to bring you here at this time of night.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘Oh, this is all very embarrassing. I really don’t know what to do for the best.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Hilda. ‘George, get her a glass of brandy.’
George handed her a glass. Fatima took it gratefully.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Sarah. ‘You look worn out.’
‘Haven’t had anything since breakfast, apart from a cup of tea,’ she replied.
Sarah handed her the sandwiches. Fatima tucked in. The others waited patiently until she put the plate down.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Can we help?’ asked Cynthia. The poor woman seemed so distressed, only an inch or two away from tears by the look of it.
‘I’ve had a dreadful day,’ Fatima explained. ‘I left Lancashire this morning. By train. Well, it was meant to be by train but they’re doing so many track repairs, I seem to have spent most of the day waiting for buses to ferry me from station to station. I should have been here hours ago.’
‘Have you anywhere to stay? Do you live near here?’ asked Cynthia.
‘I used to live in Wellingley until last year when my mother was taken ill,’ Fatima replied, speaking quickly as if to offload a heavy burden. ‘She died in February. So many things have happened since, I couldn’t wait to leave. Make a fresh start. I’d heard about the Priorton Arms and thought we could take a room there for a couple of days while I tried to . . .’ she hesitated. ‘. . . see what my options are. Unfortunately, all the rooms are taken so, as it was getting late, I thought I’d ask if Sir Cedric could help, just for one night. The taxi took me to Blister Grange and the butler said he was here. So here we are.’
It was a long speech. She was obviously quite upset,.
‘Someone should find Cedric,’ said Hilda.
‘I’ll go,’ said Augustus. ‘I can see much better than you in the dark.’
Cynthia patted Fatima’s hand reassuringly. There were several questions she desperately wanted to ask. Cedric met so many people in court and at innumerable functions, and perhaps he’d offered to help Fatima but forgotten to mention it to her. He seemed to be getting more forgetful by the minute.
‘Just sit back and listen to the music, my dear,’ said Hilda. ‘It’ll calm you down while you wait.’
Fatima nodded her thanks.
But there was no way she could calm down.
W hen he left the marquee, Sir Augustus Wilton could see straight away that Tim and Cedric were in a dangerous situation. He drifted along as fast as the Afterlife allowed and bobbed up and down between the living and the dead.
He drew his sword. It had the desired effect. The gap in front of him widened. He knew the ghosts understood that, although they were dead, his sword couldn’t maim or kill but it was capable of inflicting severe pain.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, keeping a wary eye on the mob.
Tim explained briefly. Cedric kept quiet and pinched himself to make sure he was still in the land of the living.
‘Is that the Prior?’ asked Augustus.
‘Yes.’
‘Is he aware you own this land and have rights to exercise your power?’
‘Exorcise? You have rites to exorcise?’ gasped Thomas, shrinking away. ‘Bell, book and candle? You can’t do that! Have you no mercy?’ he shrieked.
Tim was quick to take advantage of the misunderstanding.
‘You leave me no choice,’ he said. Don’t smile. Whatever you do, don’t smile!
‘You have threatened my friends and myself. You said you’d drive us insane. Surely you can’t begrudge us the means to protect ourselves?’
‘But you can’t! Have you any idea of the consequences?’
‘It’ll put an end to this miserable existence, won’t it? Don’t you want to go to Heaven?’
‘Heaven? With our track record? You must be joking!’
‘You said you lived a pious life.’