The final piece of my puzzle fell into place when I looked again at my original transcription of the letters, which I had taken directly from the tomb: BCLDE * LALANTH * OHLELD * OELALDH * OHDMH * QHALHB * IILCD * BMIOBLD * LIMFEI * HBLBLI * OGGBLLA. I noticed something that had seemed insignificant before, but which I had nonetheless preserved as I wrote down the inscription. Some of the letters were joined by a short underline, no more than two at a time. What if these were to be read, not as independent figures, but as groups?
I looked again at my first group: IILCD, which I now wrote down as: IILCD. With a beating heart, I turned again to first Samuel, chapter nine, but this time reading the thirteenth chapter (L and C together making, I assumed, thirteen) and the fourth word: invenietis. “You shall find.” That seemed a great deal more promising. [This passage may seem a little obscure. Asquith was clearly working at first along the lines of the numerical alphabet known as abjad, used even at the present day by the Arabs and Persians. Used in that style, it is relatively simple to assign a value to each letter, for there are twenty-eight letters in the Arabic alphabet, and thirty-two in the Persian. Latin, however, has a mere twenty-one letters from which the cryptographer must work a little differently. Abbot William solved one irksome problem by using lines under letters in order to join them into numerical units, thus LC for thirteen, i.e. ten plus three.
The abbot was, of course, more cunning than this. Each letter (or group of letters) in the coded inscription points, not to letter in the normal text, but to a book of the Bible, a chapter, a verse, or a word. The Editor]
It took only minutes after that to assemble the letters into correctly divided groups, and perhaps fifteen minutes after that to translate those groups into a connected string of specific Latin words. The grammar left something to be desired, but William’s system of encipherment had left him little flexibility. I wrote it all out at last with a shaking hand, and I knew I had found part at least of what I sought.
Ego non sum mortuus, sed vivus; invenietis me ubi dormivi, sub corpus Christi.
It was not difficult to translate, though rather harder to understand:
“I am not dead, but living; you shall find me where I lie, beneath the body of Christ.”
It seemed a platitude; but no one, not even a monk with scholarly pretensions, goes to such pains to wrap a platitude in mystery. The words were individually lifted from Scripture, but the final result was not at all scriptural. William meant something by it, and I intended to find out what that was.
Heartened by my discovery, I went upstairs again to see how Simone was. I found her in as high a fever as ever, breathing hard, and clearly struggling for her life.
“When is Professor Charlton expected?” I asked.
The nurse shook her head. She was a plain-looking local woman of about forty, not very talkative, but, I sensed, efficient and dependable.
“Dr Willingham wasn’t sure. He’s not certain the professor’s in town.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head again.
“The doctor’s done everything he can for the moment. He believes she’ll live if she gets through the night.”
I looked at her despairingly. Her arms were outside the covers, and I picked up one hand and held it for a few moments. Her skin was as hot as coals; I almost thought it had left its mark on my palm.
I went downstairs again and fretted. Until Willingham returned, I dared not leave Simone’s side. Yet I desperately wanted to get away, to make a final bid to save her life.
An hour later, Willingham arrived with Charlton. The professor had been in London and had only just returned. They barely paused to greet me, but hurried upstairs at once to set about their examination. It took a long time. Bertrand was sleeping in the next room. I sat downstairs, watching the clock and chafing with the most terrible anxiety. It had grown dark outside. A long night lay ahead.
They came down at last, about fifteen minutes later, looking solemn. Charlton, who had barely paused to address me when he entered, now stretched out a hand.
“Professor Asquith,” he said. “I’m sorry we should meet under such melancholy circumstances.”
“How is my wife?”
“Gravely ill. I must be frank with you. I do not think she will last the night.”
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“Very little. Rest assured, I shall do all in my power; but I fear the worst. Hers is not an ordinary fever. Neither Dr Willingham nor I can fathom it.”
I looked at Willingham.
“You said you might transfer her to Addenbrooke’s. Is that still possible?”
He shook his head.
“Professor Charlton and I have discussed the matter. Her situation has deteriorated since I saw her last. She would not survive the journey. Nor do I think there is much they could do for her there that we cannot as easily do here. Believe me, we intend to exert ourselves fully on her behalf.”
“Will you both stay?”
Charlton shook his head.
“I have unavoidable duties at the hospital. But Willingham here knows what to do, and I promise to return when I can during the night.” I hesitated. What I was about to say would, I knew, seem inexplicable to them both, if not the very height of cowardice.
“I cannot stay here,” I said. “You will think it infamous of me, but if my wife is to be saved, then I have to be elsewhere tonight. Please forgive me, gentlemen, but I have no choice.”
I shall never forget the astonishment and disbelief on their faces. That I should thus desert my dying wife must have seemed to them the gravest moral turpitude. But what else could I do? It would be too late if I waited till morning.
Charlton took his leave shortly after, brusquely, but without retracting his promise to return. I sent Ned to fetch my sister, then went upstairs to see Simone. She did not recognise me. I kissed her forehead softly, then left her with the nurse.
Before leaving, I called on Bertrand. Mrs Lumley was with him. He had woken, and was asking to see his mother.
“Your mother is ill again,” I said. “You may see her later if she rallies, but at present she should not be disturbed. The doctor is with her.”
“Is that the doctor who was here before?”
“Yes, Dr Willingham. And he brought a colleague with him, Professor Charlton.”
“Is he the little man in a black suit?”
“No, the professor’s a tall man. He was dressed in grey. Did he call on you?”
Bertrand shook his head.
“I wanted to see Maman. I looked into the corridor, but there was a man outside her door. I thought it was the doctor, so I came back in.”
“Was this just now?”
“No, it must have been an hour ago.”
“You must have been dreaming.” I said. “Neither doctor was here then.”
“But I saw someone.”
“Perhaps it was the nurse.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve seen the nurse,” he said. “It wasn’t her.”
“A friend from college was visiting. Perhaps that was the person you saw. He was wearing a black suit.”
“Yes,” he said, “that must have been it.”
But I think he knew it was a lie, just as I knew he had not been dreaming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My journey to Thornham St Stephen was the most horrific I have ever made or ever hope to make. The night was pitch dark and bitterly cold, and several times I feared to have lost my way in the fens. Halfway there it started to snow, gently at first, then with increasing ferocity, until I despaired of arriving at my destination at all. Had it not been for my horse, whose sense of the road was unerring, I should certainly have strayed across open ground and very possibly have paid with my life for my foolhardy actions.
I arrived at the village just as the evening service was drawing to a close. Guided by the lights in the church, I headed there directly. It was still snowing heavily, and I w
as reluctant to leave my horse and the dogcart outside. I guessed, however, that everyone would be at church, even on such a night, and that going there would be my quickest way of finding someone to stable her.
I slipped inside and took a seat in a back pew, remaining there through the remainder of the service, a matter of some ten minutes. As the worshippers filed out, I caught sight of Mrs O’Reilly. Beckoning her aside, I asked if she would stable my horse.
“Will you need a room for the night, sir?”
“I don’t think so. I shall want to get back to Cambridge once I’ve finished my business here.”
“I’ll make up a bed for you all the same, sir. You may not be able to leave Thornham if this snow holds.”
“Very well. But I may arrive late at the inn.”
“No matter, sir. What are inns for? Come as late as you please. By the way, sir, have you seen anything of Dr Atherton, the old rector’s brother?”
“Matthew?” I thought it best to conceal the truth. “I saw him a few days ago. He was very well. He sends his best wishes to you, and asks particularly after your Irish stew and—what was it?”
“Champ, sir. I can make some for you tonight, if you need to fill your stomach.”
“That’s very generous of you. I may take you up on your offer. Now, I think the Reverend Lethaby is waiting.”
She hurried out through the west door, and I followed at a slower pace. Lethaby had been shaking hands with his parishioners, bidding them good-night with the patronising air common in churchmen of his temperament. His eyes widened with far from good-natured surprise when he caught sight of me approaching from the empty church. It took several moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to re-invent his unctuous smile. “Professor Asquith! Goodness gracious. I had no idea you were in the congregation.”
“I came in at the end. I was sorry to have missed your sermon.”
“There was little to miss. I keep my preaching short on a Sunday evening. A brief homily on the follies of socialism. But what on earth brings you to Thornham on a night like this?”
“My wife is dying, Mr Lethaby. She is in the grip of a fever from which the doctors do not expect her to recover. They think she may not last the night.”
“Good heavens, you leave me quite speechless. I did not even know you were married. How did this tragedy happen?”
“I think you know that as well as I. I’m here to put an end to this thing. But I cannot do it without your help.”
The expression of professional sympathy on his face collapsed at once into one of sullen defiance.
“I think it would be better if you left, Professor. We’ve had this out before. I’ve told you what I think.”
“You know I can’t do that. If I don’t stop him, his depredations will continue. Are you prepared to have the weight of that on your soul?”
“I mean you no harm, Professor. But I cannot permit—”
“Permit? Who are you to permit or ban? It is not within your authority.”
“The bishop—”
“The bishop is in Ely. He will not come here tonight, he need know nothing of what passes here. Not he, not the dean, not the entire chapter.”
“I cannot act without—”
“If you do not act, others will die. Edward Atherton is dead. His mother is dead. And now Matthew Atherton is missing.”
His face turned grey. I had expected a longer struggle of the sort I had encountered previously, but something seemed to have happened to Lethaby in the meantime. He tried to put up a show. His face worked for several moments, searching for an expression to suit a stouter rebuff, but he had no heart for it. His collapse, when it came, was complete.
“Very well, Asquith. What is it you want me to do?”
“I want to start by opening William de Lindesey’s tomb again.”
“Out of the question. Apart from other considerations, it would take several men.”
“What became of the equipment used to lift the lid?”
“Cowper took it back to his yard after his men put the lid straight again.”
“Has no one in the village tackle of the kind?”
“I dare say the blacksmith . . .”
“Then we shall go to him. Has your churchwarden left yet?”
He shook his head.
“Albert stays on till the church is shut. He’ll be here somewhere.”
“Let’s find him, then. If he’ll lend a hand, we can have this done in a trice.”
We ran Albert Ryman to earth in the vestry, where he had settled down with a bottle of “something against the cold.” It was, I think, how he best liked to spend a Sunday evening. He was not well pleased to be told of my plan, and at first refused to have anything to do with it. I remembered that it had been he who had opened the door of the rectory bedroom and found Edward Atherton in that terrible condition. The poor man could scarcely be blamed for his reluctance. But that evening Simone’s life was more precious to me than anything, certainly more than Albert Ryman’s sensibilities. I told him why I had come, and I told him what would happen to us—all of us—should I not succeed. I had scarcely finished when he hared off to the blacksmith’s as though the devil himself was driving him.
“What has happened since my last visit?” I asked Lethaby once we were alone.
Now that he was in the vestry, he busied himself in putting away his vestments. He had already hung up his chasuble and stole. As I spoke, he was untying the strings of his amice, and I noticed that his fingers fumbled at the knots.
“There have been some deaths in the parish,” he murmured, visibly unhappy to be forced to this disclosure. “More than there should have been. A number of children have died, and the doctor thinks that if there are others the authorities will have to be informed.” He paused, removing the amice and folding it. It went on to a shelf next to his maniple.
“Another child fell ill yesterday,” he said. “His mother was with me today. We said prayers for him at both morning and evening services. A farmer’s child called Dan Piggott.”
“Another choirboy?”
He nodded glumly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. All the dead children sang in the choir. It seemed mere coincidence at first, then evidence of contamination. We suspended the choir a few months ago, but the illnesses have continued.”
“There is contamination here,” I said, “but not of the physical variety.”
He told me more of how Thornham St Stephen had suffered, and admitted that, for some weeks now, he had been attempting to exorcise the spirit of William de Lindesey.
“I pray in here night and day,” he said, “but it makes no difference.”
“Prayer alone will not suffice. There is something else that must be done first.”
“What is that?”
I hesitated.
“Let us wait until we’ve looked inside the tomb.”
“Why do you need to do that?”
“I’m looking for something,” I said.
I told him of the inscription, and my decipherment of it.
“But surely there’s never been any question of where William de Lindesey was buried,” Lethaby observed. “The inscription must mean something else.”
“I agree. But until I’ve opened the tomb again, I cannot be certain.”
At that moment, Ryman returned, accompanied by a huge man in a heavy coat who was introduced to us as Harry Stanton, the blacksmith. Big man though he was, Harry was plainly terrified to be brought to the church for such an undertaking.
We went back into the main body of the church, a dark shell lit only by candles. Ryman and the blacksmith together wheeled a heavily laden barrow down to the chancel, setting it down with a very final bump next to William de Lindesey’s tomb.
The tarpaulin had been removed, and the lid set square again as Lethaby had already told me. Stanton said he would set up the equipment, but that nothing would induce him to remain while we opened the tomb. He had heard what had happened to E
zekiel Finch on the occasion of the tomb’s first opening, and would not be persuaded that the same thing or worse would not happen now.
His refusal put new heart into Ryman, who now put in his own objections.
“At least set up the equipment for us,” I said, “and show us what to do.”
There was some quibbling, but in the end they agreed. I looked at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. How long would Simone take to die if things continued as they were? Was she dead already? I dared not let myself think like that.
It took the two men some time to set up the trestles and winch. Stanton’s equipment was not really designed to move heavy stone, only to lift carts and pieces of farm machinery, and even as he erected it he expressed reservations about its suitability.
“I don’t think it’ll hold, Reverend,” he muttered at one point. That lid’s heavier than anything I’ve ever lifted in the smithy. The whole thing could come collapsing down, as ‘twere.”
Lethaby looked at me, almost relieved by this prediction of impending failure. Perhaps I would even now abandon my scheme.
“Mr Stanton,” I asked, “do you have children?”
“Five young ones, sir. The oldest is twelve.”
“Any that sing in the choir?”
I saw his face turn pale beneath the surface ruddiness of the skin. He knew what I was driving at.
“When choir was together, yes, sir. Ezra and Jude, sir. Bible names. Reverend will tell you my wife is constant at church, sir. She chose all their names from the good book.”
“Mr Stanton, you know that some choirboys have already died. You must be worried about your two boys. Then let me tell you why I’ve come here tonight.”
I made no tales up, but spoke to him directly, telling him what fate might await his children and others if we could not lay William de Lindesey to his eternal rest—or eternal punishment. He listened without so much as a shake of his head, like a great silent beast giving ear to the herdsman’s voice. When I had finished, he simply nodded. He would help us.
“What about you, Albert?” Lethaby asked his churchwarden.
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