The Abbey Close

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Well?’

  ‘This,’ he said, pointing at the squat building. ‘Near to the bake-house, right? What is always near to any kitchen?’ Taking Danforth’s blank stare as encouragement, he went on. ‘The drain. To get rid of waste. The source of the bad smell.’

  ‘Martin, what do you hope to learn, exactly?’ Danforth shook his head slowly. It was apparent to him that Martin had embarked on a useless mission, intent on proving some private theory. It was almost as though he wanted to discover a great conspiracy.

  ‘I want to see how Hector got out. If he got out.’ With that, he stepped towards the outhouse and pressed on the door. It scraped open. Danforth turned around, looking into the gloom for any sign of life. No lights. No sounds. No movements. He slid into the doorway after Martin.

  Immediately Danforth raised a hand to his face, nudging the door shut with one foot. The smell was at its height, centuries of rotting food, human waste and mould. It was pitch black. ‘Martin, I cannot see you. Where are you?’ Fear tightened his throat. The repeated striking of a tinderbox answered him, as Martin brought a little candle to life.

  ‘Never without one,’ he smiled.

  The light from the tiny flame did not do much, but it was enough to reveal that they were in a small, windowless room. Its only feature was a shallow flight of stone steps leading downwards. ‘Must be ancient,’ said Martin. ‘It goes underground, this drain. Like a secret tunnel.’

  ‘I am not going down there. A drain is a drain. Wade through monks’ ... leavings ... yourself, sir.’

  ‘Fine,’ snapped Martin, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Walk out through the gate. I’ll see you back at the inn.’ Bending forward, he descended the steps.

  Danforth stood for a few moments, the dark enveloping him, and then felt for the door. Grasping an iron ring, he pushed it open and stepped back into the night. He would not be coerced into some madcap scheme. He began to creep away from the entrance when a sudden noise reached him. Heavy footsteps were marching across the path, accompanied by cheerful whistling. He stood rooted to the spot until they died away, to be overtaken by the sound of the gates clanging shut. He was being locked in.

  11

  Panic seized him. He fought for control, willing his heart to slow. Wild thoughts raced through his mind: banging on the gate; rousing the Prior and announcing that he had been surveying the grounds and got locked in as he stopped for a piss; perhaps he could invent some urgent message and say he had come to convey it. Nothing seemed plausible. He ran a hand through his hair and bent low. He lurched to the drain house, threw himself in and kicked the door shut.

  ‘Martin,’ he cried, as loud as he dared. ‘Martin, where are you?’ He dropped to his knees and groped for the dip of the first step. By touch, he began to inch his way to the bottom of the worn stairs. As his feet splashed into black water, he cried out again, his voice echoing in both directions. ‘Martin, come back here, damn you!’

  After a few seconds came a rhythmic splashing and a bouncing light. Martin reached him, and in the glow of his candle were revealed the walls of a stone tunnel, tapering up to a vaulted, sandstone-ribbed ceiling. ‘We are locked in, by God. How do we explain that to the Prior, sir? You have led us on a fool’s errand, and we will look foolish if not criminal in being caught at it. The Cardinal, Martin! What will the Cardinal say, should he discover that his servants were trapped in an Abbey, creeping around when on his business?’

  ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Done? We shall both be undone by this!’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Danforth. Look, this water goes on for a bit, and then falls into a channel with stone paths on either side. It leads back the way we came above ground. Towards the river. The old builders knew what they were about.’

  Danforth squinted into the direction Martin had come from. The tunnel was like something out of a grand romance from centuries past, all grey stone and arches. All it lacked, unfortunately, was a procession of torches. They had come into it midway along – it ran ahead of and behind them, the water flowing surprisingly slowly the way they were going. ‘We could be trapped down here. We have no idea where it leads,’ said Danforth.

  ‘We can find out then.’ Martin clapped him on the shoulder and began to splash off again. Already Danforth could feel the hem of his robes beginning to soak through, the weight of them pulling down on his neck. ‘Shit, and slide in it,’ he hissed. It was one of the Cardinal’s curses.

  Martin had been right. After walking further than it felt they had walked above ground since entering the gates, the tunnel widened. The channel of water remained the same width, but instead of bleeding slimy greens and browns up into the stone walls, it fell between two flag-stoned paths. Danforth allowed the lither Martin to help him step out of the running water and onto the walkway on the right. As he did so, fear gripped him. Though not afraid of the dark, he was certainly afraid of the breathless and blind unknown, as the curving walls seeming to press down and in. The air was cold, the smell even fouler. The place seemed to have been given no attention, the stones half buried by dirt and piles of rat droppings.

  ‘No one has set foot here for years, I should think,’ said Danforth.

  ‘No one with a broom, no. But it has to go somewhere.’

  ‘The river, of course. But it will be blocked.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  They made slow progress in the dark, but Martin’s candle held out. If anything, it seemed to glow brighter into the drain, as though the noxious airs gave it life. With no points of reference their direction was uncertain. Eventually Martin stopped, and Danforth bumped into him, before peering ahead.

  ‘Ha! You see? A grate.’ In front of them, thin iron bars descended from the ceiling.

  ‘A broken grate. Look.’

  Danforth leant forward and scowled. Martin was right. The rusted iron bars had been smashed away on the left walkway, allowing passage. They stepped lightly through the sewer water, around the collection of unidentifiable floating objects which bobbed forlornly against the grate, and up onto the other side. Bits of snapped iron jabbed down at them. ‘Mind yourself,’ said Martin. ‘Catch your hand on one of those, and the cut will turn rotten and kill you before a physician can.’

  ‘Just hurry,’ said Danforth, his teeth beginning to chatter.

  Through the grate, the stone pathways came to an abrupt end, and were replaced by sludgy silt, as though the drain itself had turned into a minor stream. Nearest the walls, the dirt was dry, and they pressed themselves against it.

  ‘How far have we come?’ asked Danforth. There was a change in the air. He sniffed at it. ‘It is less odorous here.’

  ‘Don’t know. I think we must – here, wait. There’s something. Danforth, I stepped on something. Merde!’

  ‘We are in a drain, sir,’ sniffed Danforth. Before he could say any more, the light wobbled and Martin gasped.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Oh, hell, Danforth, I think I stepped on someone.’

  Danforth drew his breath and resisted the urge to cross himself. ‘Mr Martin, the light please.’ He got no response. ‘Martin, give me the light.’ With trembling fingers, Martin passed it to him, and he bent down on one knee, holding it close.

  On the ground at their feet, laid out along the wall of the drain, was something covered in a black sheet. Near the top sat a crucifix. Danforth picked it up. It was new, of polished wood. He set it aside and looked up at Martin. ‘Shall I lift this?’ Martin, his face shrouded in darkness, nodded, and Danforth swept up the black cloth. The movement caught the flame. It faltered but held.

  It was a body.

  ‘Christ Jesus, is it Hector? Is it a young man?’

  Danforth said nothing, pouting as he let his eyes run over the corpse. It was desiccated, almost a mummy, the preserved flesh that was left turned to parchment. It was clothed, but much of what it was wearing had been eaten away. What was left was old-fashioned, the crude tunic and hood of the previous century. ‘Is it him?’ Martin persisted. H
e was not looking at the corpse.

  ‘If it is, he has decayed himself unnaturally quickly. No, Mr Martin, this poor fellow has been here since before I was a boy.’ He waited for the jest, but it didn’t come. ‘The clothes, you see, the apparel. Always pay attention to the apparel of the dead. It tells us just as much about folk after death as it tells us when they live. Ho, what is this?’ Around the body was scattered a random assortment of objects. Purses. Danforth picked one up and turned it upside down. Some coins fell. He retrieved one and held it to the light. ‘Old. From the reign of the third King James.’ He put it back by the corpse. ‘There is a stone here too.’ Next to the body was a broad chunk. Danforth held the light to it and traced a finger along the carvings. ‘Music. Ancient music. A valuable thing.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Martin, sounding agitated. ‘I stepped on him, Jesus.’

  ‘I think we have stumbled upon the den of a long-dead thief. Look at his head, Mr Martin.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘We are all come to it, sir. You have nothing to fear. Look.’

  Martin briefly glanced down at the mummified corpse and then looked away again. ‘So?’

  ‘Unless the rats have had remarkable care in their nibbling, this creature has had his ears cropped. A thief. I should imagine that, in his day, he used this tunnel as a lair. A hole from which he could take from the Abbey or the town, hidden between both. No, I am not so interested in him.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘You wished to find answers here, sir. I have no interest in the body, but what covered it.’ If he expected some excitement, he was disappointed. ‘This crucifix,’ he went on, ‘was freshly placed. And the black sheet. Did you mark it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A monk’s cowl.’ He picked it up and waved it again, this time triumphantly.

  ‘Brother Hector’s, you think?’

  ‘It is possible. Likely, even. Our young Brother Hector made his escape through these tunnels; like us, he chanced upon this corpse, and, being a monk – to some degree – he covered it with the vestment he wished to be rid of and placed a crucifix. I ask you, Mr Martin, does that sound like the action of a man on his way to butcher his lover?’

  ‘No, indeed not. It sounds like what a good man would do.’

  ‘A good man would not have a mistress, nor seek to depart his duty.’

  ‘Can we go?’

  ‘By all means.’ Danforth picked up one of the coins and dropped it into the black hole of the body’s mouth. ‘You have crossed your Styx, sir,’ he muttered, before replacing the black cowl. ‘Lead on. Here.’ He passed Martin the candle, and they continued through the subterranean tunnel, neither speaking. With alarm, they realised that tunnel ceiling began to lower, but as it did, the sound of rushing water increased, and the air grew fresher still. Martin had to cover the candle flame with his hand, as a breeze met them, carrying with it the wild smell of woodland. The tunnel, much tighter than it had been, ended in a forest of brush and scrub.

  They emerged into a thicket by the Cart, where the drain’s water rushed forward to join forces with its bigger brother. Both gulped in deep lungfuls of fresh air, uncaring of the brambles and twigs which plucked and nipped at their skin and clothing.

  ‘So, where are we? Outside the Abbey’s walls?’ asked Martin.

  ‘We must be. It would do little good to funnel their waste only a few yards away, within their same walls.’

  ‘Thank God. But I was right, you have to admit.’

  ‘About this Hector escaping the Abbey through the drain? Perhaps. Yes, I rather think you were. But what does that tell us?’

  ‘That he escaped, he got away.’

  ‘Away, into the woods by the river. The river where his lover was found slain, and he gone.’

  ‘But you said he didn’t do it.’

  ‘I said no such thing. I presume nothing. If anything, we now have a channel from the Abbey to the river, where Kate Brody was washed up. I do not like it, but there it is. Anyone might have carried her along that tunnel, even.’

  Martin kicked at a stone half-buried in the ground. Danforth realised that the younger man was nervous, his exhilaration at sneaking into the Abbey deflated. Probably he would expect him to be annoyed by the reckless adventure; probably he expected recriminations. Danforth stood quietly, shaking his cloak, unwilling to give the satisfaction of a predictable reaction. ‘Should we report that body down there? The ancient thief?’

  ‘Indeed we shall not. How might we account for finding it? “Father, we were clambering around like knaves in the bowels of your Abbey, because we suspect you and yours of murder, and we came upon a mouldering corpse. Kindly bury it.” We should never live it down. No, Mr Martin, that poor creature has his grave. His dusty bones would only be thrown in the river, or some unconsecrated ground. He has the luck to be lie beneath one of Scotland’s holy shrines. Let him lie.’

  ‘The river is over there,’ said Martin. ‘We have to cross it to get back to the inn.’

  ‘Then let us, before any of the Town Council discover us skulking about in the woods. I am freezing. Jesu, but how to explain to our hostess that we carry on us the stench of a sewer.’

  ‘That’s the good thing about city living, Mr Danforth,’ said Martin, attempting a smile. ‘You can smell like shit and no one notices any difference.’

  Together they trooped through the undergrowth and back to town, shivering and stinking.

  Later, Danforth wrote in his Book of Hours, ‘Wise people think before they act. God forgive me. The Holy Place has secrets. God forgive them.’

  Friday morning dawned bright and rosy, the clouds edged with cheerful pink hues. But the rains had left the streets and buildings washed out, like a painting faded and blurred with wear. Before Danforth and Martin could leave for church, a glowering Mistress Caldwell informed them that their new shirts had arrived. They returned to their rooms to change, and brought down the soiled bundles, Danforth asking their hostess if she might have them cleaned. Attempting conciliation, Martin informed her that there was no need to rush. ‘I’ll have Archie tend to them. Though his feet are more leaden than winged,’ she said, giving Martin a smile before turning an acidulous look to Danforth. Evidently, he had not been forgiven for dealing with her roughly.

  Freshly shod, they gave their customary morning glance to the horses. ‘How do you fare, Woebegone,’ asked Danforth, ‘trapped and stabled with this Cur?’

  ‘Eh?’ screeched a petulant voice. It was Archie, lingering in his little shack at the back of the stables by the water trough. ‘Ye call me a cur?’

  ‘No, Archie,’ said Danforth, ‘I was speaking of Mr Martin’s mount.’

  ‘Oh.’ His face brightened at horse talk.

  ‘You are doing a passable job. You shall be rewarded for it.’ The hint of a reward got Archie to his feet, and he began a little display of labour in tending the horses. Danforth and Martin turned away from the stable gate, chuckling.

  ‘He’s a good one, I think,’ said Martin.

  ‘Aye, perhaps. How are you, sir, after last night?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Martin. His eyes betrayed him. They were hollow, the black patches under them deep.

  ‘It was not a pretty sight. I know that. Let us hope you have to look upon no more.’

  ‘Have you thought on what we saw, sir? Come up with any ... any solutions?’

  ‘None that please me. Say a prayer for the poor soul this morning. You will feel better for it.’

  ‘It’s just ... the thought of that Abbey, lying in splendour above the bones of a poor, dead nobody.’

  ‘Do not think on it. Mr Martin, if you stopped to think of the bodies that lie beneath the earth, and have done since time immemorial, you would never again step foot outside of your house.’ Danforth had no wish to coddle. It had only been a dusty old corpse. ‘Come.’

  They made their way towards the market cross, intending to climb the wynd to St Nic
holas, and were stopped by a little crowd of hooting, jeering people. They spotted Mistress Clacher, her voice raised above the others; young Jardine, his eyes wide; Pattison the baillie, pushing and grabbing. Martin elbowed his way through them, Danforth following. Soon they found the source of the mirth. Scattered about the street, being picked up and passed around, were little scraps of paper. Martin snatched one from a woman’s uncomprehending grasp and read it.

  ‘The Cardinall ys ane whooremongere.’ Danforth’s face whitened. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Martin. ‘But our libellers have lost their wit.’ Burgesses – those who were not laughing and reciting the line – were trying to restore order. Regaining his composure, Danforth began collecting up some of the scraps, and then turned on the burgess who had a sheaf of the ragged papers in his hand.

  ‘What is this, sir,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘We are servants of his Grace the Cardinal, and we will have the truth of it.’ The burgess shot him a look half-apologetic, half-fearful, and then held out the pile of papers for him.

  ‘These were thrown about the street, sir, during the night. None will claim knowledge of them. What are we to do? We have enough trouble here trying to keep the drinking and the fighting down.’

  ‘You are to do nothing and to say nothing. This is our affair now.’ A look of relief crossed the man’s narrow features.

  ‘Bless you, sir. Please explain, please tell the Cardinal that nothing of the like has taken place here before. We harbour no Lutherans in these holy lands. We are good Christian people, true in the faith and loyal. Some devil from abroad has passed through in the night to slander both his Grace and our burgh, sir.’ His eyes were open and pleading. Danforth sensed the fear in him. He should welcome it. Fear, he supposed, ensured that men would stay true. But again, that was the thinking of an Englishman. It was the thinking of King Henry’s spies and informers. No man should love God out of fear of reprisals.

  ‘Silence. Disperse these people to their devotions and tell them that if any word of this is breathed abroad, they shall suffer for it. Bid them pray that they are forgiven for giving eyes and ears to the defamation of a man of the Church.’