Betrayed by his neighbour, Albert caved in.
We started work together now, under Stanton’s directions. His strength was formidable. While the rest of us kept things steady, he hauled on the ropes to raise the lid and slip it beneath rollers.
But for the sound of our working, the chancel was unnaturally quiet. The heavy snowfall muffled all sounds from outside, and it felt as though the world had been taken away completely. All that was left to us was the dark church, and even that was circumscribed. Ryman had brought large candles from the vestry, and we had set them around the tomb, in order to illuminate our work. A few others continued to burn in other parts of the church, lighting a lectern here and a carving there. Otherwise, we were in the deepest darkness, conscious of the mass of stone about us, and the vastness of the roof, soaring high above us.
The lid rolled back slowly, and though a dark odour rose from within, no one cried out or fainted. We paused at one point, and a great silence fell, and then, before we could fall to work again, there was a sound out in the shadows, not far away. Something was shuffling across the flagstones.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Go on with your work. Nothing will harm you.”
Stanton and Ryman were sweating, less from physical exertion, I thought, than fear. I could feel my own heart beating horridly, and when I looked at Lethaby he was as pale as the light in which he stood.
“Take this,” I said, passing a sheet of paper to Lethaby.
“What is it?”
“A formula of excommunication. It dates from the tenth century. I want you to read it aloud.”
“But surely you can—”
“No. You are a priest.”
I remembered William’s challenge to me that night in the rectory: Thou nart a prest. Thou hast noon auctoritee over me.
“Will this be enough?”
I shook my head.
“It will do no more than hold him back. There is something here stronger than you. It must be destroyed.”
The dragging sound continued. No one moved. Lethaby unfolded the paper with a shaking hand.
“It’s in Latin,” he said.
“Just read it,” I told him.
“In nomine patris,” he began, “et filii et virtute spiritus sancti necnon auctoritate episcopis per Petrum principem apostolorum divinitus collata, a sanctae matris ecclesiae gremio segregamus ac perpetuae maledictions anathemate condemnamus . . .”
The shuffling stopped abruptly.
“Keep on,” I told the men. “It will stay back.” They hesitated, then set to work again. The sound of the stone being rolled back mingled with that of Lethaby’s voice intoning the malediction. One candle flickered and went out, as though snuffed by an invisible hand. I went to it and lit it again. Another was extinguished, then another. Lethaby continued to read, moving from one candle to the next, while I followed him, relighting them.
“That’s as far as it’s safe to take it, sir,” said Stanton.
“Thank you,” I said.
Lethaby’s voice faltered and died away. He had come to the end of the formula.
“Should I read it a second time?”
“Not unless it starts up again. Come over here. Bring a couple of candles with you.”
He joined me at the side of the tomb and handed me one of the candles. I looked at my watch. Just after nine o’clock. Was Simone still alive? And Bertrand—had he fallen ill yet?
I raised the candle, and together Lethaby and I brought light to the inside of the tomb.
I am not sure what I expected to see. Bones, perhaps, or a mound of dust. Certainly not what was lying there at the bottom of the tomb.
Lethaby uttered an ejaculation and stepped back, almost stumbling against the trestle. I remained fixed there, unable to pull myself away. I made no sound, I did not move for a long time. Lethaby stood watching me, his candle trembling in his hand.
“Who is it?” he asked at last, and his voice seemed small and trembling like the candle flame he held.
“Matthew Atherton,” I said as I stepped away from the tomb. The body lying there was lacerated like nothing I had ever seen, but the face had been untouched. There could be no mistake. I looked up at the shadows and felt them press down on me like naked stone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When I had recovered myself sufficiently, I returned to the tomb and looked inside again. The face of Matthew Atherton, twisted into an expression of frank horror, stared up at me, but it was not him I sought. I moved the candle from side to side, peering sharply into every corner. As far as I could tell, Atherton’s body was alone. What I had come for was not there.
Desperate now, for I was certain I had lost Simone, I looked up at Lethaby.
“It isn’t there,” I mumbled. I had come to some sort of end, yet I could not come to terms with it.
“Tell me what it is you’re looking for.”
I raised the candle to see him more closely. He was standing with Stanton and Ryman, watching me as though they thought I might have been personally responsible for transporting Matthew Atherton to that terrible place.
“A relic,” I said. “A small statue in the shape of a seated man, perhaps with a goat’s head. It was brought to de Lindesey when he was Abbot of Thornham. I am convinced that all his strength for evil resides in it. We have to find it and render it harmless.”
“And you think de Lindesey’s inscription points the way?”
I shrugged.
“I thought it might have done. Now, I’m less sure.”
“What exactly did it say again?”
“‘I am not dead, but living; you shall find me where I lie, beneath the body of Christ.’”
“You think it refers to this relic?”
“I don’t know what else it can mean. The relic was precious to him, and we know he travelled with it as far as France. There’s no record of it after his death. The inscription on his tomb makes no sense if it simply refers to his own remains. But it may have been intended as a clue to anyone after him who wished to know the location of the statue.”
“Then perhaps they have already found it. The relic may have been removed hundreds of years ago.”
I admitted it was a possibility that had already crossed my own mind. But if the relic had indeed been buried with William de Lindesey, it was hard to see how anyone could have found it before this without drawing attention to the fact that his tomb had been reopened. To my knowledge, there was no record of such a task having been undertaken.
“You say this statue was a relic?” Lethaby asked.
“Possibly. It was certainly treated as one. I think it may in reality have been some sort of pagan fetish from the Middle East. It makes little difference.”
“Perhaps not.” Lethaby looked round nervously into the shadows. Since he had stopped reading the malediction, the silence had grown menacing again. “But remember that relics used to be deposited in altar stones.” I stared at him. How could I have been so obtuse?
“Beneath the . . . the Body of Christ,” I stammered. “The consecrated host.”
He nodded, then glanced round again. A muffled sound came from the shadows to his right.
“How many altars are there in this church?”
“Seven,” he answered.
“We’ll try the high altar first.”
He looked at me as if I had suggested setting fire to the church.
“That’s out of the question,” he said. “I wonder you can even think of it. It would be an act of sacrilege to dismantle the altar.”
“What do you call that thing out there?” I shouted. “Isn’t that sacrilege enough for you?”
“You can go to Ely tomorrow and obtain a dispensation. I’ll travel with you, we’ll present the case together.”
“Tomorrow will be too late. My wife will be dead.” In my new-found hope, I thrust from me the thought that Simone might already be past all help.
“I’m truly sorry, but the altar is sacred. I can’t let y
ou desecrate it.”
He turned to Ryman and Stanton, who were standing nervously a few yards away, as though ready to take to their heels the moment they saw or heard anything untoward.
“You men,” Lethaby ordered. “I want you to take Professor Asquith from the church. What he is planning is sacrilege. Don’t hurt him, but make sure he is put out and kept out.”
The two villagers looked at one another awkwardly. Ryman, more accustomed to the ways of the church, spoke up.
“I’m not rightly sure, Rector. That sounds like police work to me. I’m not sure as we could do it with a conscience.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Lethaby’s voice began to grow shrill. The fear was blunting his powers of self-control. “I want him out now. See to it.”
Had he been a liked man, had he ingratiated himself with the people of his parish as much as with Sir Philip Ousby, perhaps Lethaby’s orders might have been heeded. I know I could not have resisted a man as strong as Stanton, even had I had a weapon to hand. But the rector had undermined his own authority by his brusqueness, and neither Stanton nor Ryman was going to get dragged into a quarrel for his sake.
“Come on,” said Stanton to his friend. “I reckon the rector should see to church affairs hisself.”
The two men turned and, without another word, hurried out of the chancel and down the nave. They were gone from sight in moments, and I only knew they had gone when the west door slammed shut with a crash.
Lethaby and I remained in the darkness. The shuffling sound had started again, louder now, and more insistent.
“For God’s sake,” I urged him, “read the malediction again.”
“It’s too late for that,” he said. “It’s out of my hands now. We should leave and close the church, just like Edward Atherton tried to do. I should have done it months ago.”
I shook my head. What he proposed was monstrous.
“I will not leave this place without attempting what I came to do. Are you willing to help me or not?”
He looked at me once, then cast a glance in the direction from which the shuffling came.
“You must find your own salvation,” he hissed. He crossed himself once, then turned and followed the others. His footsteps rang out loudly on the stone floor, quick and echoing all the way. At last, the great door slammed again, followed by the sound of a heavy bolt as Lethaby rammed it home.
I was alone at last with what I feared most in the world. For the first time since entering the church, I noticed how very cold it was. My breath hung in a white cloud in front of the candle next to me, and vanished, and reappeared.
I looked away, and there, beneath the east window, I caught sight of two candles still burning on the altar, and a steady light before the host. My mind was made up.
I walked slowly to the altar rail. It ran the full width of the chancel, but at the centre a small gate had been inserted to allow the priest passage. I drew back the bolt and pushed the gate open. Behind me, a new sound started in the darkness: measured footsteps in the nave, now fading, now growing strong again, and again fading.
“Lethaby, is that you?” I called, thinking he had returned. There was no answer. Again the sound of footsteps, again silence. “Ryman? Stanton? Are you there?” Still no answer. I peered into the shadows, but could see no one. Steeling myself, I turned my back on the body of the church and stepped through the gate.
The altar was still decked with the Eucharist plate. Hurrying now, I cleared it away—a large cross, two enormous gilded candlesticks, a gold chalice, a platen, and two silver cruets. A long embroidered frontal hung down the face of the altar. I tore it away, and pulled off the altar cloth. Beneath lay a large rectangular stone block topped by a mensa, a thin marble slab running its entire length.
The marble was too heavy for me to move unaided. I exerted all my strength, but it simply would not budge. My heart sank, all my hopes, faint as they were, cheated by this last, unexpected obstacle. Behind me, the shuffling sound suddenly quickened.
I looked about me in desperation. On the floor beside me stood the candlesticks, which I had left there to provide me with a little light. There was still a chance. I removed the candle from one and lifted the stick. It must have weighed at least thirty pounds, and though it could be gripped easily enough by its stem, it was rendered extremely unwieldy by its large base. I am not by any means a strong man, but fear and pity lent me the strength I needed.
I raised the stick and brought it down, base first, upon centre of the marble. Again and again I hefted it, bringing it crashing down on the same spot, and at the fourth or fifth blow I heard a cracking sound. I raised the candlestick again, and this time when it smashed against the slab, the stone broke in a single ragged fissure across its entire width.
Even halved, the marble was hard to shift. I managed to insert a hand into the gap opened at the centre, and by hard pushing widened it until I had the whole thing moving. A little further, and it dropped over the edge, striking the floor with a sharp crash that echoed through the church.
I turned and took the candle from the second stick. Turning back to the altar, I held it low over the stone. In the centre, flanked by four consecration crosses, was a square hole that had been excavated from the bare rock. Inside the hole lay a large bundle wrapped in embroidered silk cloth. I reached inside and lifted the whole thing. The cloth had rotted and fell away in strips at my touch, but the object it contained was perfectly solid and quite heavy.
With shaking hands I tore at what was left of the fabric. It dropped to the ground, revealing what lay beneath. Eyes stared out at me, then I distinguished the shape of a monstrous head, inhuman, satanic. The next moment I recognised it: I had seen one like it before, in the Fitzwilliam Museum. A wooden statue of the ram-headed Egyptian god Knum, his twisting horns and long ears branching from an elongated head. In that dim light it seemed to me the very embodiment of evil.
There was a sound behind me. This time I turned.
Half in darkness, half in light, a hooded figure stood at the foot of the altar steps watching me, a thing of shadow, yet shadow married to substance. I saw very little of it, and nothing of its face, yet one thing impressed itself on me and will never leave my dreams, and that was the hand that emerged from the wide-necked sleeve. It was a hand neither of flesh nor of bone, but somewhere between, with the look of ashes about it, as though it had been burned and then monstrously regrown.
He stood there like everything I had ever feared, misshapen, silent, and reeking of malice. The church was filled with the stench of him and the atmosphere of menace that followed in his wake.
I began to recite what little I could remember of the malediction I had given Lethaby to read, but I had no heart in it. I was not a priest, I had no authority. My voice faltered and the words fell from me like dead leaves from a tree. I looked at the abbot, not knowing what he might do, knowing only that he was too powerful for me. As I did so, my eye was caught by a slight movement to his left. On the ground beside him, something dark and misshapen had started crawling towards me.
At that moment, I heard a voice behind me, a man’s voice, pleasant and relaxed, yet somehow insistent. He was speaking words I knew well, the liturgy for the dead from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. I turned and looked behind me. Near the altar stood a barely visible figure. I cannot say for sure, but I did think then that he was dressed in the clothes of a priest.
I stepped quickly back to the altar and, raising the statue in both hands, brought it crashing down on the side of the stone. It split into dozens of pieces, and I did not have to strike with it again.
There was a great cry behind me, and every candle in the church was snuffed out, leaving me in the most absolute blackness. The cold, which had been intense, grew deeper and more bitter still. A terrible wind rushed through the darkness, knocking me down against the side of the altar. I lifted my head and tried to rise, but the darkness bewildered me. The last thing I remember is hearing my name called out again a
nd again, then silence, then nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They tell me I was ill for two months afterwards. I know nothing of that. Mrs O’Reilly kept me in the room she had made ready at the inn, and the local doctor came to visit me there.
My first memory is that of opening my eyes on a morning in early spring to see Simone’s face gazing down at me anxiously. I remember thinking first that it was the next morning, and then that everything had been a dream. Only gradually did I come to understand the truth.
In spite of the smile, there were tears in Simone’s eyes. When I looked more closely, she seemed older than when I had last seen her. Her own illness had left deep scars, and the weeks of anxiety, when she did not know whether I would live or die, had exacted an even greater toll.
“You were very unfair,” she said. “You left me in Cambridge dying, then I got better, then a telegram came from this place saying you were ill.”
The doctors allowed me to go home three days later. Mrs O’Reilly bade me a tearful farewell and asked me to keep in touch, to let her know how I was faring. When I offered her payment for her board and lodging, she refused, and when I persisted, she grew angry.
“None of us here knows rightly just what has happened in Thornham, but we all reckons as we have a lot to thank you for, sir. I’ve been speakin’ with Albert Ryman, and he’s told me a bit of what went on that night in the church. Whatever you did, sir, it’s been quiet round here since.”
“Quiet?”
“Ever since the old rector died, folk have heard things at night. And some have seen things, things I’d as soon not talk about. But since that night all’s been much as it was. Our days and nights are quiet again, sir. And your good self apart, no one’s fallen ill since then neither. Or died for that matter.”
“I’m heartily glad to hear it, Mrs O’Reilly. Tell me, did you hear or see anything yourself?”
Her face paled, and she nodded.
“Yes, sir. More than once, sir, I seen it. I’d as soon not talk about it, sir.”
“I understand. And you say all is as it should be now?”
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