A Shadow on the Wall Page 10

  By answer, Abbot William said that a clamor must be set up before God and in the presence of the people. Few of the brothers had heard of this, for it is an old custom, long out of use, and none in our lifetimes have performed it or seen it performed. Nevertheless, our lord abbot was adamant, and that night, between Nocturns and Matins, he instructed Brother Precentor in the ceremony to be followed, and he in turn explained all to us and prepared us. The rules for the clamor and the maledictions that followed had been brought by my lord abbot from France, where they were at one time in common use.

  When Matins had been sung, a solemn mass was said, and when the Paternoster and Pax Domini were done, bread and wine were prepared, as is customary. Whereupon Abbot William instructed the sacrist to cover the pavement before the altar in a coarse cloth, and on this he laid the crucifix, the Gospels, and the holy relics that belong to the abbey church, to lie prostrate there, in a state of humiliation before God. And while he did this, the sacrist closed all doors but one, and barred them with thorns, and placed thorns upon a cross of wood that he laid in the nave, where Sir Hugh de Warenne and his wife were kneeling.

  Among the objects that were laid before the altar was one unfamiliar to me. It seemed to be the figure of a man seated upon a chair, his hands raised high in a gesture of supplication. I caught but a brief glimpse of it, but thought it unlike any relic or holy statue I had seen before. I cannot be certain, but it seemed to me that it had ears like a goat’s ears, and the head of a ram, and I remembered me of certain things I had been told as a young man concerning Baphomet, the idol of the Saracens.

  When all this had been done, we prostrated ourselves on the floor before the altar, singing all the while the words of the psalm, Ut quid Deus reppulisti in finem. It was dark all about us, for dawn was still a little while away. As we lay thus prostrate, the custodians rang two bells, continuing until the psalm had reached its end. Whereupon our lord abbot stood alone before the altar, and in a loud voice intoned the clamor, which is a prayer beginning with the words, In spiritu humiliatis, and to this he added maledictions and curses upon the enemies of God, excommunicating them and damning them for eternity for having caused this pestilence, in that they had provoked God’s wrath. But at no time did he name these evildoers, or say in what manner they had provoked God, or for what sins.

  When this was done, all candles were put out, leaving us in darkness absolute, and bells were rung, and we remained prostrate upon the floor to sing yet more psalms, capitula, and collects.

  That is what I remember of the great clamor. But in my heart of hearts I am afraid, for I reckon a terrible wickedness has been done at Thornham Abbey, and that there will be a terrible retribution.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Something happened at Thornham Abbey that should never have happened. The clamor—a form of ritual cursing that had been much in vogue in the eleventh and twelfth centuries—seems to have been carried out much in accordance with the correct forms. Yet our anonymous chronicler had the severest misgivings, and I too found myself perturbed by his account.

  If the form of malediction used by Abbot William had been, at least, canonical, there could be no question but that the humiliation of relics before the altar had been most irregular. The practice had been prohibited by the Church in the previous century, something William would most certainly have known. As for the supposed reliquary “in the shape of a little man,” I cannot say what it may have been, except that the chronicler was wrong in thinking it a “Baphomet.” The word is no more than a corruption of the name of the Arab prophet, and since Mohammedans do not worship idols, the notion of statues of a god by this name is simple fiction. All the same, I would be prepared to wager that this strange object was indeed what Sir Hugh de Warenne had brought to Thornham Abbey.

  Simone arrived as planned a few days later, accompanied by her parents and Bertrand, the latter fully recovered from his illness, but ill at ease on this, his first trip away from France. Already unsettled by the move consequent on his father’s death, the boy was understandably bewildered to find himself in a foreign country where everyone spoke a strange language. When we were all together, we spoke in French, of course, but in wider company English was needed. I promised Bertrand that I would give him lessons, hoping in this way to secure his affections. I knew little of children, for they had never figured in my life until then; but I prided myself on having some knowledge of sound education, and hoped to win Bertrand to myself as the supervisor of his schooling in years to come.

  Both my parents are dead, and I have no close relations apart from my sister Agnes in Trumpington and a brother, Albert, who lives in Edinburgh and visits us here very little. Since our wedding was to be a quiet affair, I had no plans to tour the counties, exhibiting Simone to aunts here and cousins there.

  When, however, I explained to Agnes that I had secured lodgings for Simone and her family in a boarding house on Chesterton Road, she lost her temper with me for the first time since we were children, said that she and her husband would never hear of such a thing, and made immediate arrangements to accommodate them at her own home. I cannot say but that I was immensely delighted. It would give Simone a splendid opportunity to get to know Agnes, who would, after all, be her first female friend in the city, at the same time permitting Bertrand to form ties with his cousins-to-be.

  Herbert, the elder of Agnes’s two children, was, at ten, rather an old playmate for Bertrand, but Alice, my niece, was almost exactly the same age, and of such a sweet temperament that I was sure they would quickly form the closest of attachments. At that age, language is little impediment to friendship, and I was confident that a few weeks in one another’s company would soon see Bertrand in possession of more English than I could teach him in months.

  Having recovered from the initial shock of hearing that I was to be married after a life of bachelorhood, my sister was cautious as to what manner of wife I might have procured for myself. She has never been overly fond of the French, ever since an unfortunate experience in childhood when she caught sight of her governess sans wig, teeth, and corsets. I think she was at first anxious on my behalf, hearing that I was to join myself to a French widow, imagining, I do not doubt, some frumpish dowager, or, even worse, a harridan of advanced years and freakish notions.

  Her relief on seeing Simone (though I confess I had well prepared her by tedious description) was palpable, but her instant affection for my fiancee could not be disguised. Even my brother-in-law Charles, a man not given to enthusiasm for anything but a biological specimen, waxed eloquent after dinner that first evening, extolling Simone’s eyes, figure, and manner as though she had been his own discovery.

  Everyone loved Simone, and I spent my days showing her off to colleagues and friends, bursting with pride and filled with a mounting sense of our coming happiness. Simone was entranced by everything she saw: by the colleges, by the river, by the meadows that led down to Grantchester. The freedom we had enjoyed in the Pyrenees, when she was my guide and I a disinterested scholar, was denied us now we found ourselves in the more straitlaced atmosphere of Cambridge. Propriety, still a fierce watchdog in those days, followed us everywhere, and we seldom had an opportunity to be alone.

  A few days after Simone’s arrival, Charles and Agnes presented us with the most wonderful surprise. Simone, her parents, and I returned from tea with the Master of my college late one afternoon to find them all but hugging themselves in raptures. When asked the reason, they were at first mysterious, then smug. Finally, Agnes could stand it no longer and blurted out that they had found the perfect place for us to rent right there in Trumpington, a little Georgian house midway between Anstey Hall and the church, and scarcely two minutes’ walk from their own.

  We went to inspect it first thing in the morning. Simone pronounced it indeed perfect, I agreed (though I think I would at that time have agreed with anything), and we went directly to the agents to sign our lease. Bertrand was quiet, needing time, as I thought, to adjust to the
idea of yet another home. But I wonder now. I wonder if he had not sensed something amiss even then.

  That same afternoon, Atherton appeared at the Napiers’, having been sent on there by my college porter. I must admit that the sight of him as he entered the drawing room, shuffling and nervous, an odd creature out of his depth amidst so much domesticity, struck me as though someone had dashed a jug of ice-cold water in my face. Simone later asked me why I had gone so pale to see him come in, and I lied to her for the first time, regretting that I did so; nonetheless, I was determined she should have no knowledge of the business in which he and I were involved.

  He apologised for the interruption in that awkward way he has, and asked if he could speak with me alone. Charles, who knew him slightly on account of their common membership on a couple of university committees, looked at me askance, but nodded permission for us to retire. We went to the study, where lights had already been lit for Charles, who likes to work there undisturbed in the evenings.

  “I’m most awfully sorry to intrude like this,” Atherton began, “but I had to see you.”

  “Did you get my note?”

  We had not met since the day of our abortive visit to Lethaby. I had sent a note to Sidney Sussex, saying that my researches in Cambridge and Ely had borne some fruit, but without elaborating on what I had discovered about Abbot William. Atherton had not replied.

  “Yes,” he said, “but that’s not why I’ve come.”

  I noticed now that his face, dim in the fading daylight of the drawing room, was drawn and pale, and that his eyes were restless.

  “Has something happened?” I asked, knowing my question was redundant.

  “My mother’s grave. That is . . . She was buried with my father at Ely, as you know, and the grave refilled. The mason is to carve her name next week—a space was left expressly for that purpose.”

  “Words have appeared on the stone?”

  He shook his head.

  “That would have been preferable,” he said. We were seated by now, facing one another in large armchairs. The gas-light dimmed and brightened again above our heads, casting our shadows across the wall. “I had to confirm the details of the inscription with the sacristan,” he continued, “so I visited him yesterday at the cathedral. I thought him a little odd at first: he’d been a friendly man on the few occasions I’d met him in the past, but yesterday he seemed rather stiff. We talked for a while, mainly reminiscences of my mother, whom he had known in the days when my father was bishop.

  “It was as I was leaving that he admitted to me what was troubling him. He considers it one of his duties to ensure that the cathedral precincts are clear of interlopers at night. Sometimes vagrants go there, and even women of uncertain morals. The sacristan does his rounds about ten o’clock. Last week, while passing through the graveyard with his lantern, he noticed that the flowers had been disturbed on my parents’ grave, which lies near the path.

  “On reaching the grave, he bent down to straighten the wreaths that had fallen, and, as he did so, he heard . . .” Atherton broke off, agitated. He looked at me appealingly, as though I might be able to help him, but I remained silent, locked in my own dread of what was to come. “He swears to this, you understand, he maintains the truth of it. Not a fanciful man, you see, not prone to . . . fancy. You do understand?”

  “Yes,” I answered, pitying him, “I understand perfectly. Go on. What did he hear?”

  “Sounds coming from beneath the earth. He made quite sure of that. They were not in the vicinity, but from the grave itself.”

  “I see.” I felt darkness growing in me again, after days of sunshine. I pushed all thought of Simone from me and asked him again. “What sort of sounds?”

  “Bangings. Short cries, much broken. Scratchings. He thought at first my mother must have been buried alive, and was making haste to summon men to dig when he saw it was impossible. There would not have been air enough for her to survive so long. Not by many days.”

  “And did he summon anyone?”

  “He left the place in horror and has not ventured out by night since. I asked him if he had said anything to the dean, but he said he could not face him or any other member of the chapter with such a story.”

  “He has returned to your mother, then.”

  Atherton nodded.

  “What can we do?”

  I hesitated. I knew what had to be done, and I knew it must be done that night, but the thought of leaving Simone there and going to that churchyard filled me with terror. But I thought of the promise I had made. Tonight would not make an end of the matter, but it might bring Atherton’s mother and his brother rest.

  “We must go to Ely tonight,” I said. Are you willing?”

  I saw the hesitation on his face, and the fear. But he nodded gamely.

  “I’ll do whatever has to be done,” he said.

  “You must make up your mind to that,” I said. “There may be much to do before the night is over.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It is best, I think, if I pass over in as few words as possible what went forward that night in the churchyard at Ely Cathedral. Much of what Atherton and I did was performed under the cover of darkness, and out of sight of any onlooker, cleric or lay. Apart from a dark lantern, I had brought with me only a box of consecrated wafers and a fifteenth-century liturgical volume, containing certain texts for use in exorcism. These latter I had picked up from my college rooms before heading for the train.

  Our task took well over an hour to accomplish, and by the time it ended we were barely able to return to Cambridge by the last train. Atherton seemed drained, almost on the edge of a nervous collapse, for the grave had not been quiet when we first arrived, and he said he could still hear terrible sounds ringing in his head. I too found it impossible wholly to rid myself of them.

  That night I was in no state to return to Trumpington, nor was I composed enough to see Simone again until the following evening. In the morning, I sent one of the college servants to present the excuse that an emergency had arisen concerning one of my students. When I saw the family before dinner that evening, I reiterated my apologies, but I could see that my precipitate departure the day before had awakened some measure of disquiet.

  Simone and I found an opportunity after dinner to walk for a while in the garden unchaperoned. The darkness, for all it was filled with her gentle presence, reminded me uneasily of the night before, and brought back a host of unpleasant memories.

  “You are very quiet, Richard,” she said after we had walked a little way. There was a scent of woodsmoke in the air. The first leaves had started to fall.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” I replied. “I’m a little preoccupied.”

  “Not on account of me, I hope.” I could detect a tiny edge of anxiety in her voice, and hastened to reassure her.

  “Good heavens, no. How could you think such a thing?”

  “You don’t seem yourself. As if . . . It is as if a cloud has come over you.” She paused while we walked a little further, arm in arm. I wanted to stop and kiss her, hold her hard against me as a shield to ward off the darkness, but in that mood I could not trust myself. She must know nothing of what had happened, what might yet take place.

  “You have changed since Mr Atherton’s arrival,” she went on. “Charles wonders how you come to know him.”

  “Oh, Matthew and I are old friends,” I lied. “Charles moves in quite different circles. He would not know of our acquaintance.”

  “He appeared distressed when he came here yesterday.”

  “Yes, he was disturbed about something. A private matter. I really can’t tell you more without breaking a confidence.”

  “A woman, perhaps?”

  Above us, tall trees stood dark against the sky, their branches vaguely threatening. I shook my head.

  “No,” I replied. “He has had some personal tragedies this year. His brother died in January, his mother but a few weeks ago. He has not yet got over her death.”


  “I see. Yes, I must have misjudged him.”

  We turned to more personal matters, and by the end of the walk Matthew Atherton and his visit had been forgotten.

  That night, before I returned to college, Charles himself took me aside to ask me about Atherton. He was rather awkward, as though preparing himself for a difficult interview with a student in danger of being sent down. In spite of our relationship, Charles and I were not close friends. For one thing, he was somewhat pious, a regular attender both at college chapel and his parish church, and inclined to fudge the contradictions between his science and his faith. He was also rather stuffy in matters of social convention, a tendency he had inherited from his father, who had been a professor of theology noted for his traditionalist views.

  “I’m sorry to ask about this, Richard, but I feel a certain . . . obligation.”

  “Is it about Simone?”

  “Gracious, no. We’re all delighted with Simone. Couldn’t be more so. And her parents are perfectly acceptable. A schoolteacher is not a don, of course, but he seems most erudite and . . . ”

  “Please get to the point, Charles.”

  We were in the study. The weight of his books on all sides lay on me like a strap. I wanted to go outside again, to breathe fresh air scented with woodsmoke. Among the books, shadows seemed to crawl like lobsters.

  “Yes, of course. The thing is, I couldn’t help wondering how you came to know Atherton. I shouldn’t have thought him your type.”

  “My type? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well, surely you know his reputation. Some of the men in my college think him odd. His father was a bishop, and I believe a brother was rector of a parish somewhere or other, but he himself is known to have unorthodox opinions.”

  “In that case, Charles, why on earth should you be surprised to find I know him? You’ve expressed disapproval of my opinions often enough.”

  “Oh, you’re merely a freethinker. There are enough of your sort in the university, that’s hardly important. But Atherton’s different again. He doesn’t scoff, but he makes it clear he holds views that other people might find . . . disturbing.”