by Tia Reed
“It has a decidedly European flavour,” she commented, refusing to admit how breath-taken she was. For all its grandeur, she felt ill at ease. Church was not a place she attended regularly. Crime reporting tended to disabuse one of the notion that everyone deserved to be forgiven, and experience had taught her unconditional love only led to being taken advantage of.
“Quite medieval, actually. I want to check the lower level.”
It was the logical place to start, considering both of them had noticed a light down there on the nights of two separate disappearances. She walked down the central aisle under the pious scrutiny of the superbly crafted statues which lined the walls. She recognised Saint Francis and Saint George from her childhood education at Catholic school, but her attention soon drifted to the luscious carvings of the wood-lined choir stalls. Beyond them, the altar was a golden miracle of filigree. The gallery above backed onto a detailed fresco of cherubs and saints in defeat of a dragon while soldiers slew infidels, a masterful but very un-Christian-like depiction in her view. Ella could only wonder at the expense. Mouth open, she followed Adam left into the south transept, where the grille to the lower level stood open.
A hammering echoed up the stairs. As the workman paused, they heard a yelp. It jolted them into jogging down the stairs into a small, unadorned chamber. The arches ringing it might have impressed if its grey stone blocks weren’t such a cold contrast to the dazzling limestone above. Ella left the final step and stopped. Across the chamber, the bold iron hinges on an oak door bled rust onto the stone. As if that wasn’t enough to give her the creeps, planks were nailed haphazardly across its width, as though after it fell into disrepair a child had made a clumsy attempt to fix it.
The hammering recommenced, resounding through the small chamber from behind the door. After several beats, the workman stopped.
The church plunged into silence.
Adam knocked.
The hammering resumed.
When quiet fell once more, Adam banged against the wood.
The door creaked open. A hunchback, neck extended, peered out in enquiry. His dusty coveralls hung about his thick body as if he had suffered a precipitous drop in weight. Behind him, yellow light illuminated the room they could not yet see and threw his skewed face into shadow.
Taken aback, Ella stammered a greeting. “We heard you working and were hoping to talk to someone about the church.” She hoped it didn’t sound like they wanted to join the congregation.
The hunchback moved his head, up and down, side to side, examining every inch of her body. Affronted, she buried her hands in her pocket and hunched her shoulders. She was about to make a stinging comment when the man spoke.
“Bitter, bitter,” he muttered, his voice husky. “No good, no good.”
Ella had the distinct impression he was talking about her. Unable to think of a retort, she blinked at Adam, who cleared his throat.
“I’m Adam Lowell. I’m researching bats in the Adelaide metropolitan area. The caretaker, Mr. Genord, is aware of my project. My assistant and I were hoping to examine the bats in their sleeping quarters.”
The hunchback smiled, his mouth gaping through missing teeth. “Bats up. Tower.” With what looked like great effort he pointed a bloodied hand to the ceiling. His finger failed to rise higher than his head. “Up.” He nodded and closed the door. A few muffled scuffles preceded further hammering.
Ella shivered. “Do you think he cut himself?”
“It would explain the scream.” Noticing her discomfort, Adam flashed her a smile and said, “He looks harmless enough.”
“It’s not him. It’s damp down here.” But the hunchback’s appraisal had disconcerted her.
She left Adam to examine the repairs to the door and walked under the closest of the arches which ringed the room. Trailing a hand along the grey stone, she made her way around the shadowed cloister. She could hear herself breathe, her lungs raspy with the moist air. Near the back of the stairs she found the narrow window which must have leached light across the lawn the night Adam had lost Cecily. The absence of an electric bulb was enigmatic, but the wicked axe hanging on the wall below the foggy pane was downright ominous. It looked just the sort of weapon to break through a door.
“I can’t see anything suspicious here. Ready?” Adam queried.
“Yes. No!” She had just spied a glint at the back of the stairs. Recessed by the arch which adjoined the staircase, an iron door devoured most of the back wall. Ella fingered the bold padlock. Too bad none of the lowlifes she’d investigated had taught her how to pick locks.
What little light penetrated the corner dimmed as Adam’s silhouette filled the arch.
“A door. We need to get inside,” she said.
“We’ll ask the caretaker.”
“And have him tell us ‘no’ or ‘later’ and provide the opportunity for him to get rid of whatever evidence may be buried there.”
“You haven’t even met him. What makes you so sure he’s involved?” Adam came forward to examine the lock.
This close, his spicy aftershave overpowered her senses. She must have been comatose not to have noticed how yummy it was before now. “The first rule of an investigation is trust nobody until you have the facts.” It was a dumb, robotic reply, since she got the impression Adam had extended an invitation to incriminate the caretaker. “The police should examine that door.” That was hardly more intelligent. It had to be that aftershave confounding her. He really should have worn less.
“They’ve already searched the church.”
Of course they had.
A desperate scream made them both jump. They raced for the wooden door. Ella grasped the handle and flung it open. The windowless room was illuminated by white candles. They burned on crude wooden workbenches cluttered with implements and cooled wax. The dirt floor was littered with crumbling stones and masonry tools, and the walls were bare save for a gnarled wooden cross so dry and brittle it cast the aura of a bygone age. In the centre of the chaos, the hunchback huddled over a disintegrating statue, crooning unintelligibly. Ella shared a wary look with Adam. While there was nobody else in the room, a door stood wide open in the back wall. Adam ducked around the central worktable and peeked in.
“Bats uuup,” the hunchback cried, before subsiding into a series of agonised moans. One arm over the statue’s pitted shoulder, the other pressed to its side, he reminded Ella of a parent hugging an injured child.
Adam retreated. “It’s a bedroom. Nobody there.”
“Mr Lowell.”
Adam started. “Mr. Genord.”
Reluctantly, Ella turned her back on the hunchback. The caretaker, a tall, thin man, straight-backed and clean-shaven, was staring in disapproval.
“You must excuse Romain. Unfortunately, his lack of language is greater than his incapacity.” His formal words were delivered in a clipped accent.
Ella stole a final glance inside. Romain, left sleeve rolled above his elbow, was plastering a crack in the statue’s side. She gasped as a drop of blood ran down his arm to the point of his elbow and fell to the floor. There wasn’t time to question the mason about his work.
Genord reached behind her and pulled the door firmly closed. “This part of the church is not normally accessible to the public.”
“We heard a scream,” Adam said, not in the least daunted.
“Romain is a little clumsy. He often hurts himself with his tools. It is never anything serious.”
“He’s bleeding,” Ella persisted, because no way had Romain’s husky voice produced the high-pitched cry.
“A minor wound, I’m sure. He is perfectly capable of tending to it himself. In fact, he detests attention. Do not be so quick to judge on appearances.”
Ella felt her cheeks colour and was grateful for the dark. Ordinarily, she would have quipped a tart reply. She needed him on her side, however, and Genord, with his polished tones and condescending manner, perturbed her more than Romain’s gaze. “Is the statue for the
church?”
“Assuredly. He is the best mason I know. Perhaps you would like to see some of his work, Miss . . . ?”
“Jerome.”
“Jerome. Ah.”
Ella couldn’t help feeling everyone in the country recognised her name.
“Please come.” Genord led the way up to the nave.
“Ella is helping me with my research.”
“Of course.”
Adam must have caught the amused tone, because he added, “She’s working on an article on bats to help allay the public’s fears.”
“Naturally, you came to observe the bats. Where did you leave your equipment? Perhaps I could be of assistance in positioning it. There are a great many stairs to the top of the tower.”
In the brighter light of the church, struck by the intelligent glint in the caretaker’s eyes, Ella was sure Genord was hiding a great deal.
“I was hoping to check the layout and come back later this evening, when the bats are active.”
“I regret that is impossible. Recent events have left the church open to wild accusations. Whenever an institution stands for righteousness, there will be those who seek to defame it. History has taught us as much. I have opted to avoid slanderous tales by closing the church at dusk on weekdays.”
“I see.”
“I’m very glad you do. Now, Miss Jerome, would you care to peruse Romain’s work? It will, I am sure, convince you what a fine craftsman he is.”
He led them to the rear of the church, where a staircase led up to the gallery which ran along the length of the nave.
“Romain has an interesting name. What nationality is he?” Ella enquired.
“He travelled with me from France. Alas, since his French is as limited as his English, he has not been able to communicate the details of his life. It is lucky for me he is supremely skilled with a mallet and lucky for him I have need of a mason.”
“And you? Where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.” It certainly held no trace of French.
“I am of no particular place, Miss Jerome, as this church is of no particular faith.”
“Originally, though, Mr. Genord, you were born with citizenship even if you later chose to renounce it.”
“I know it is the habit of journalists to persist, so I will not count your discarding my answer as rude. I am not originally from anywhere, and I regard myself as a citizen of the world.”
Ella tightened her lips. Journalists persisted, but only crooks evaded. The more she spoke to Genord, the more she became convinced he and his church warranted further investigation.
“Let us proceed.”
They continued until they were standing in front of the fresco. A door had been incorporated into the wall, its edges barely discernible.
“You must watch your step, of course,” Genord said as he inserted an ornate key, opened the door, and gestured her in. For an institution supposed to preach trust, Ella thought there were far too many locks.
“I’m right behind you,” Adam whispered as she started up a spiral staircase. Shallow, narrow, and banister-less, it hugged the walls. To her left the shaft dropped two stories to a wooden floor. Good enough reason to keep one hand on the wall and her eyes down.
Months of self-neglect left her legs fatigued before she had covered three rotations. How embarrassing that she had started to puff. She stopped on the pretence of gazing out of one of the slit-like windows, but it revealed only clouded sky. It wasn’t a moment too soon for her jelly legs when she stepped onto a creaky wooden platform. Her nose thought otherwise. She wrinkled it at the reek of acrid urine and musty bat droppings plastered over the floorboards, a less than fetching expression for Adam to see as he emerged, in full control of his breath. When Genord joined them on the platform, the boards groaned. That executed her smile real quick. She looked down at the cracks between the wood.
“It’s quite safe, I assure you,” Genord said, reading her nervous expression. “Up there, Mr Lowell, are the bats you seem so fond of, as I am sure you are aware.”
Ella peered up. Roosted across rafters, wings tightly furled, she spied about ten of the hideous creatures hanging upside down. A rickety ladder balancing against the far wall led up. Much to Ella’s dismay, Adam started to climb.
“Come, Miss Jerome. We shall leave Mr Lowell to his pursuit, and I shall show you Romain’s work.”
“I would prefer to wait for Adam. That ladder doesn’t look too safe.”
“Go ahead,” Adam called.
“Shall we?” Genord indicated an external door. This time steps led down to a large, flat roof. Certain by now Genord was aiming to unnerve, Ella didn’t hesitate. Though open and exposed, balustrades on either side made her feel safer than she had climbing the confined tower. She sent a silent thank you to the heavens for the lack of wind. The faintest gust would have kept her away from the fantastic creatures that sat at regular intervals on both the waist-high outer wall and an inner square ledge.
“Oh!” Ella exclaimed. “Romain is carving gargoyles.”
“They are grotesques, Miss Jerome. Gargoyles are waterspouts used for drainage. You will not be able to see any from here. These statues have another function entirely, and that is protection. They scare away evil spirits.”
“Well they’re not doing a very good job at the moment.”
“I beg to differ. A young woman was wandering around the grounds last night.” Ella spun to face him. Merriment danced in his eyes. “Perhaps without their protection she would have suffered the fate of that poor girl they pulled from the river.” Ella felt her heart hammer away in her chest. It had been so dark he couldn’t possibly have known it was her, and yet she felt exposed under his derision. He shifted his gaze to a goblin-like statue. “If you would grace my establishment with another visit on All Hallow’s Eve, you might judge their efficacy for yourself. A number of churches yet acknowledge it is the time when evil walks abroad. Then again, perhaps grotesques only protect the faithful. Are you a church-goer, Miss Jerome?” he asked in a tone that suggested he knew she was not.
Ella forced herself to relax. Any observant person would sense she felt ill at ease in the building. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”
“It is why I brought you here.”
Ella moved to the closest. Incredible detail was finely etched into every feature. She ran a hand over the shoulder, admiring the delineation of the muscle groups. From the front, the toothed mouth appeared to snarl defiance. A little spooked, she went to the next. The eyes pleaded, every bit as realistic as the last. Romain had captured human expressions within these stone monsters, displaying a remarkable gift. She wondered what the outer grotesques looked like. Too high to see clearly from the ground, they were presumably no less astonishing.
“I’m impressed,” she told Genord, who had followed her along the line.
“I would expect no less. Tell me, which do you find most appealing?”
Ella smiled. “I’ll reserve my judgement.”
“Certainly. See the rest. I will, however, expect an answer, Miss Jerome.”
As Ella moved back toward the stairs, she noticed a gap on the outer ledge.
“That place is reserved for the grotesque you saw Romain working on.”
She nodded and continued to a leonine creature with rounded wings. Its flat, elongated head had prominent orbital ridges while its scrawny body hunched on powerful limbs and wide paws which ended in vicious claws. For all the power in its bearing, Ella was drawn to its face. Its mouth and eyes drooped in a surprisingly sympathetic expression.
“This one has such a human expression.”
“You think the others do not?”
“They do, but somehow, I can imagine this one as flesh.” The hairs on her arms bristled. It was almost as if the statues were watching her. This one, though, for all its warped features, was pitiable. She touched its head, but the stone was uncomfortably cold.
“Romain models all his creations on real people
. It is, I think, why he has become a master. This one is his favourite. A gentle creature, he calls her. Despite her formidable appearance, he maintains there is not a shred of bitterness in her.”
Angelina Jolie, move over, because Ella was a star, to react with no more than a widening of her eyes. She avoided Genord’s gaze by studying the figure while she collected herself. It held an innocence the others lacked. Her eye was drawn to a bracelet, of all things, carved around its left paw. She traced a hand over the piece of jewellery. Tiny letters had been carved into a central plate. C-E-C-I-L-Y. Ella drew in a sharp breath and moved to the next figure. Her knees had become weak, her breathing shallow.
“This one’s good too,” she forced herself to say. Genord was rapidly convincing her he was dangerous, and the importance of remaining calm did not escape her. “But I still prefer the other.”
“Very good, Miss Jerome. Perhaps it is time we joined Mr Lowell?”
GENORD ESCORTED THEM down the two flights of stairs to the main doors.
“Perhaps you would care to return on All Hallow’s Eve, Miss Jerome.” He shut the door on them as soon as they had passed the threshold. They heard a bolt slide into place.
“He’s a really charming guy,” Ella said.
Adam put his hands on his hips and looked up and down the elaborate façade. Impish faces and scrolled stonework adorned the doors and walls. Higher up, a gargoyle in the shape of a dragon head watched over all who dared enter, no doubt showering a few unsuspecting worshipers in wet weather.
“The bell doesn’t look like it’s meant to be rung; there isn’t a rope or clapper. Otherwise, there was nothing suspicious in the belfry.”
“Did you expect there to be?”
He led the way back to the cars. “I don’t know, but I was never going to get a better opportunity to check the tower out.”
She shook her head. He was the one who had said the police had already been through the place. “Adam, was Cecily wearing anything that might help identify her?”