by Dion Fortune
“I expect Ambrosius thought those thirty pounds were thirty pieces of silver before he had finished with them,” said Hugh in Mona's ear.
“Eh, what's that?” said the curator.
“It was a lot of money for those days,” said Mona, tactfully heading him off. Then he was called away, and left them in the hands of a youth with instructions to get them whatever they wanted. Hugh gave him the list Mr Watney had furnished, and the youth deposited a pile of books before them and disappeared.
“Now then, we'll share these out,” said Hugh. “I'm an adept at skipping.”
They got to work, and silence fell between them.
Mona was the first to break the silence.
“This is interesting,” she said. “It's the ghost at the farm. The one Mrs Huggins swore wasn't there.”
Hugh left his chair and came round to her side of the table and sat down beside her, reading over her shoulder.
The book that was open before them was an old bound volume of the proceedings of the local archeological society, and the paper in question concerned local superstitions.
According to the writer, Monks Farm bore a sinister local reputation, and was about as thoroughly haunted as any place could be, and in order to justify his thesis, he gave an account of its history.
It appears that it was not originally a penal house, such being unknown in England, though common enough on the Continent, English abbots contenting themselves with penancing the lives out of recalcitrant monks. It had been built by the famous—or infamous—prior, Ambrosius, as a special place of retreat and meditation to which certain picked monks retired at certain seasons. It was not until the trouble broke out that it was turned into a penal house by the simple expedient of blocking up the cell windows and making the monks who were there, stop there, whether they liked it or not. Ambrosius was taken to his own special priory and bricked-up below-stairs as a warning and an example. The other monks were kept in their cells on a low diet till they died more or less naturally. They never saw the light of day again. In darkness and solitary confinement they waited their end. One man lived to be over eighty—fifty-five years' imprisonment. Their jailers never spoke to them, and jailer replaced jailer till the last monk died, and then the place was abandoned. The ghost of the prior was supposed to walk round the cells, talking to his monks and consoling them. At any rate, it was a well-established fact that the monks in solitary confinement talked to someone, but then men in solitary confinement often do that. There are always naturalistic explanations of supernatural phenomena to be found if one will only look for them and doesn't mind their being farfetched.
The discussion that followed the reading of the paper, and which was recorded in all its wordy fullness, somewhat took the gilt off the gingerbread, however, for it was pointed out by persons familiar with local customs as well as local superstitions, that the empty buildings of Monks Farm had long been a favourite haunt of lovers without benefit of clergy. This apparently disposed of the ghost of Ambrosius once and for all, and though the speaker was thanked for his paper, no one said they believed him.
“That's a useful clue,” said Hugh. “What do you suppose they were up to at that priory? Raising the Devil?”
“I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they were trying to do exactly the same thing that you are trying to do—”
“What is that?”
“Break away from their limitations and find fullness of life.”
“I don't blame them. A monk's life must be a pretty empty life for an active chap.”
“That is where you are mistaken. A contemplative life can be an extraordinarily vivid and interesting life, provided one is getting results.”
“What did the old boys do, besides saying their prayers?”
“There is more in prayer than just asking for what you want. We Protestants don't know anything about it, but with the Catholics it's a fine art. You can get wonderful experiences from prayer and meditation if you know what you are about. If you once get on the track of those, a contemplative life is lively enough for anybody.”
“I don't think it would suit my style of beauty. I am out after Pan.”
“Well, aren't you approaching Pan through prayer and meditation?”
“Now you mention it, I believe I am. In fact, I tried to apply to him the Method of St Ignatius. And I got results, too. I've had them twice now.”
“Do tell me, what are they?”
“Well, I made a mental picture of ancient Greece, and it came alive, and for a moment I found myself there. And then, last night, when I tried to do it again, I was too sleepy to keep control, and first I slipped off into nightmare from going to sleep on my back, and then I escaped from the nightmare into the very scene I had been imagining, and do you know what the nightmare was? I dreamt of poor old Ambrosius. Or rather, I dreamt I was walled-up, like him, and very unpleasant it was, too. Then I bust out of that dream onto the Greek hillside in the sunshine, and someone was going up the hill ahead of me, and I believe it was you. At any rate, it was someone with your build and walk.”
“That's interesting,” said Mona noncommittally, apparently absorbed in an account of the way in which the ancient Romans laid their drains.
At that moment the curator returned.
“I am sorry to have had to leave you,” he said. “Would you care to see the illuminated manuscripts?”
They acquiesced, and he led them to a glass case, unlocked it, raised the lid, and began tenderly to turn over the heavy vellum pages of an exceedingly fine psalter.
“This is particularly interesting,” he said, “because all the initial letters are set in little scenes of the Abbey.”
He pointed out to them the high altar, the cloisters, the bell-tower, the great gate, the monks at work in the scriptorium. Then he turned another page, and pointed to a little picture of a black-robed monk sitting at his desk writing.
“This is the man,” he said, “who laid the foundations of the famous library. A great scholar in his day, but died young. Life was short in those days.”
They saw a minute but diamond-clear portrait of a youngish man, round-shouldered at his desk. Sharpfeatured, clean-shaven, tonsured. Mona glanced up involuntarily at the face of the man beside her, bending over her shoulder. Feature for feature, the faces were identical; even the scholarly stoop of the shoulders was reproduced.
“That was one of the priors, Ambrosius,” said the curator.
There was dead silence for a moment, Mona holding her breath and wondering what was going to come next.
Hugh broke it, and Mona thought his voice sounded rather odd.
“That's interesting,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Yes, there's a good deal about him in the library, scattered here and there. It is all gathered together in one of these Transactions, however, and by our mutual friend, Mr Watney, too. I expect he is greatly excited by your purchase of Monks Farm. He has always wanted to excavate there, but Miss Pumfrey would never allow it.”
“He said something about it,” said Hugh, “but I am afraid I did not encourage it. I did not fancy the idea of having my future garden all dug up.”
“But my dear sir, a garden has to be dug up. If I were in your place I should tell Watney he can dig up the garden provided he'll manure it while he's about it. Let him have any bones he finds in return for the manure.”
“Sounds good value,” said Hugh. “By the way, where did they plant Ambrosius after they held the inquest on him?”
“Ah, now, that's a curious story. There is a small monastery in the town of the same Order as once owned the Abbey. The coroner offered the bones to them to inter in their graveyard, but they declined them, so they were buried in the churchyard in the village. Evidently Ambrosius died in bad odour, but you would not have thought they would have carried on the feud all these centuries, would you?”
“I couldn't say. I know nothing about their habits. But whatever he had done, they might have le
t his bones rest among friends after all this lapse of time.”
“Ah well, you know, they have very strict views. I have no doubt they were right according to their lights. If you will excuse me, I must get back to my work. Perhaps you will return these books to the desk when you have finished with them.”
Hugh took the chair Mr Diss had vacated and sat staring into space, making no attempt to start on the volume lying open in front of him. Mona, watching him, saw that he had gone very white and his eyes had a startled look in them.
He looked up.
“Do you know, it gave me quite a turn seeing that picture of Ambrosius.”
“It did me, too,” said Mona.
“It made me realise what that bricking-up meant. There was the fellow sitting quietly at his desk studying the things that interested him, and all the time there was this bricking-up business hanging over his head. What with seeing the actual place and dreaming about him last night, well-it gave me quite a turn.”
“You have been extraordinarily lucky in the way you have struck his trail.”
“Yes, haven't we? Now let's have a look at this paper and see what else there is to be seen.”
He began to skim rapidly, reading out excerpts to Mona, who listened, watching him, and wondering what Mr Jelkes would have to say to the transaction. Mona felt a strong sense of responsibility to old Jelkes for Hugh Paston, It was as if she had been allowed to take someone else's baby out for an airing.
“‘Born in 1477’,” read Hugh. “‘The illegitimate son ofa huckster's daughter.’ (Possibly got a bit ofgood blood in him somewhere.) 'Showed such marked promise in scholarship that he was admitted to the Abbey school without fee. Received the tonsure while still a youth. Was in great favour with the abbot. His rapid promotion caused much jealousy. A special mission was sent to Rome to protest against the appointment of so young a man as prior. The old abbot lived to be eightysix, and for the last few years of his life was bedridden. Ambrosius as prior had complete control. Much jealousy and opposition. Ambrosius, a man of strong character, overbore the opposition and carried out his own policy. He was not a great building ecclesiastic, but he was a great scholar and collector. Much criticised for using funds to buy Greek manuscripts instead of a piece of the True Cross that was on offer to the monastery. Influence of his enemies finally prevailed with Rome after the death of the old abbot, a mission of enquiry was sent to the Abbey, and he was removed from his place as abbotelect. Nothing further is heard of him. There is no record of his fate, death, or place of burial.' (I suppose this was written before they found the bones up at the farm.)
“‘Although he added nothing to the structure of the Abbey, he built a daughter-house three miles away at Thorley, and there he appeared to have founded a subsidiary community of his own; nothing is known of its nature, however, the records of this period of the Abbey's history having been destroyed in a fire which burnt out a part of the famous library, and in which perished all the Greek manuscripts purchased from Erasmus.’
“Well, that doesn't say much, but it tells us a good deal. I wonder who lit that fire? Their new Dago abbot, probably. I should say there is not much doubt about it that Ambrosius was up to some queer games, and as Uncle Jelkes says, the Greek manuscripts were at the bottom of the trouble. Corrupted his mind, I expect. But can't you see the fellow getting shoved into the Church as the only possible outlet for a poor scholar in those days, and not belonging there a bit, and breaking out good and proper when he struck those Greek manuscripts? Come on, let's go home and ask Uncle Jelkes what he makes of it.”
Hugh deposited Mona at the bookshop and went to put the car away.
“Uncle jelkes,” said Mona, as soon as he had disappeared, “Mr. Paston has gone completely mad on Prior Ambrosius and forgotten all about Pan.”
“Splendid,” said Jelkes. “I'm exceedingly glad to hear it. I had hoped something of that sort would happen if you took him in hand tactfully.”
“But that isn't all. We've traced out the story of Ambrosius pretty completely, and Ambrosius was also after Pan, or something uncommonly like it. And I'll tell you another thing, we saw a little picture of Ambrosius at the museum, and it might have been a portrait of Mr Paston.’
“Gorblimey!” said the old bookseller, and sat down in his chair with a flop. “I knew it was going to be bad, but I never dreamt it was going to be as bad as all this!”
“Uncle Jelkes, I think it wouldn't take much to send Mr Paston off his head, if you ask me.”
“Well, my dear, we can't stop now we've started. That would make the devil of a mess. All we can do is to hang onto his coat-tails and hope for the best. But where is the thing going to end? It struck me when he was talking last night that he felt very strongly about Ambrosius, but I put it down to his having just heard that ghastly story and seen the place where it happened. After all you know, some people have such vivid imaginations that they will react to a novel. Ambrosius' death was a pretty dreadful one. Are you sure you aren't imagining things, Mona?”
“The facts about Ambrosius are history, Uncle, and you can verify the portrait for yourself if you don't believe me. And I'll tell you yet another thing, Mr Paston had nightmare last night, and it must have been a pretty vivid one, because I could see that it upset him to talk about it, and he dreamt that he was Ambrosius, walledup and dying, and then he escaped from there into Greece, and was wandering over the hills in the sunshine.”
For some reason best known to herself Mona did not mention that in his dream Hugh had a companion.
The old bookseller scratched his bald and vulturine head.
“Any single one of those things one would pay no attention to,” he said. “But when you get them all together like that you have to take notice. The interest in Ambrosius would mean nothing by itself; nor even the interest and the dream together, because the interest might have caused the dream. But when you get the interest, and the dream, and the same sort of history in the two men, and on top of that, the likeness—well, you can't get away from it that something is afoot. I've known things like that happen before. When a man who has been on the Path comes back to it again, circumstances often take him to the place of his last death. Now we will watch and see what happens. Hugh may start recovering the memories of his last life.”
“Won't that be rather trying?” said Mona. “They must be pretty awful memories. And what is going to happen when we get Pan and the monastery all mixed up together? Is a monastery a good place for the invocation of Pan?”
“Goodness only knows,” said the bookseller. “This one ought to be!”
At that moment Hugh returned, and they all sat down to one of the queer, scratched-up meals that the bookseller produced out of his hat, as it were, at any moment.
CHAPTER XIII
ONE subject, and one subject only, interested Hugh at that moment, but he found that neither Mona nor the old man were willing to talk about it. Whenever he introduced the name of Ambrosius they simultaneously and with one accord talked of something else. Hugh, who was an unsuspicious person, found this irritating. He was not sorry, therefore, to get off to bed early, and once warm under the eiderdown, he lit a cigarette, and set himself to have a good think.
He was not particularly anxious to attempt the experiment of the previous night and risk another such nightmare—that was an experience not to be repeated. Hence the cigarette and the candle.
It was extraordinary the way that the recreant prior haunted his imagination; he could not get rid of him. Again and again the memory of his terrible death came back, and of the circumstances that led up to his death. From the scanty materials they had obtained, and his still more scanty appreciation of their significance, he tried to form a picture of the man's personality and of the true inwardness of his history.
He could imagine the brilliant son of the huckster's pretty but none too virtuous daughter, and wondered whether the abbot's interest in him had been genuinely paternal. It was quite likely. Rome has always take
n a humane view of human nature. He could see the lad accepting the monastic life with its intellectual opportunities readily enough; throwing himself heart and soul into it in fact, and winning rapid advancement at the hands of the all-too-complacent abbot. Then he could see the sudden wakening of another side of the man's nature at the touch of Greek thought. God only knew what vivid play or daring poem had been among that job lot of Greek manuscripts purchased untranslated from Erasmus. He could imagine the tentative experimenting with some chant of invocation, and the sudden and unexpected obtaining of results, just as he himself had obtained them that night when he applied the Method of St Ignatius to the invocation of Pan. A man trained in the cloister would get results quickly and very definitely because mind-work, though otherwise applied, would be familiar to him.
He could imagine the fascination of the pursuit growing on Ambrosius; the guarded sounding of others as to their fittedness for the enterprise; and then the cautious organisation of the special daughter-house where the new and absorbing interest could be pursued, safe from prying eyes.
Then he could imagine suspicion gradually being aroused; the spying and watching; the gradual piecing together of the damning evidence; finally, when the death of the old abbot removed his influential protector, the sudden swoop of Rome; the clean sweep of all sympathisers; the quarantining in their own priory of those who had actually participated in the pagan rites; and the walling-up of their leader in the cellars under their feet as a terrible warn ing, the slow tolling of the bell informing them of the slow approach of his death. Then the long dragging years of silence and solitude and darkness till to one by one came the still slower but inevitable end. And finally the old, old man of over eighty, on whom the cell-door had shut as a lad in his twenties, found at last his release, and the priory was abandoned to the wind and the rain and the work of the rats.
There was one gleam of light that comforted Hugh in the utter gloom of the tragedy—the return of the prior's spirit to stand by the men who had trusted him. He could imagine the shadowy figure, tall and gaunt in its heavy black habit, moving on sandalled feet along that upper corridor and pausing to talk to each monk in turn through the small barred wicket that alone remained open in the nailed-up doors of the cells. It never occurred to Hugh to ask himself how he knew that the cell-doors were nailed up. He just imagined it that way, and that was good enough for him.