A Shadow on the Wall Page 2

  “Another Ecclesiologist?”

  He smiled faintly and nodded.

  “But, of course. They’re all ‘pals,’ you know. Even so, there was the usual question about where the money for the restoration would come from, but Edward has a small private income, and he was able to persuade the diocese that the work could be accomplished without calling on much-needed funds. He decided to begin by restoring the chancel, since that is the most sacred part of the church. The most prominent feature of the chancel at St Stephen’s is the de Lindesey tomb. My brother set to work on it the very day the bishop authorised the undertaking.”

  Atherton paused, as though his fund of words had suddenly run low. There was a ravaged look in his pale eyes, and I noticed how he passed his hands one across the other, as though he washed them. Some inner torment gnawed at the man. I had misgivings as to where this was leading.

  “I do not know quite what happened,” he continued, “for Edward has veiled over the precise train of events in the accounts he has given me. I have gathered that work on the tomb was extensive, and that it involved dismantling most of the structure in order to restore its foundations. Of what took place there he will not speak, though I understand he was present all the time the work was proceeding.

  “It is my impression that the masons disturbed something they should not have in the course of their labours. During the work one of the workmen had a serious accident, as a result of which he lost a leg and eventually died. A few days later, another was struck down by a fever, and in spite of the best efforts of the local doctor he also died within three days.

  “Since then my brother has been a changed man. Work on the church has stopped, and he says it will not recommence. At first, I thought Edward’s condition no more than a reaction to the shock of seeing two men die within such a short space of time, but as time passes I am confident it is more than that.”

  “What precisely do you mean?”

  “I don’t know for certain. All I can tell you is that he has fallen seriously ill. For months now, he has scarcely slept at night. When I enquired, I was told that he will not go to bed without a light. He is an unmarried man, and sleeps alone. On those few occasions I have stayed with him of late, he has entreated me to share his room at night. Wakeful myself, I have noticed that he starts as if at sudden sounds, when there are none. I catch him staring as though he can see something, but when I look there is nothing to be seen. Otherwise, he is of sound mind. His doctor says he can detect nothing physically wrong, yet he fears for Edward’s life should this continue. I beseech you to help him. You are the only hope he has.”

  I was bewildered by this account, so full was it of generalities and vague allusions. There could be any number of reasons for Edward Atherton’s lamentable condition.

  “I regret I am not a physician,” I said. “I don’t see how I could possibly be of assistance to your brother.”

  He shook his head vehemently, more vehemently than seemed proper in a man blessed with such a cherubic countenance.

  “It is not a physician I seek,” he said, his voice quite thick with emotion. “It is not a physical ailment that threatens my brother’s life. His body may be in danger, but I believe it is his mortal soul that is most truly at peril.”

  “Then I really cannot be of assistance. I am not a clergyman, indeed I am not even a believer,” I protested. I was wishing he would leave. The conversation was vexing me.

  Atherton got to his feet, angered by my deliberate obtuseness.

  “You are trifling with me,” he said angrily. “I have already told you that this is not a clerical matter, that the Church authorities would have nothing to do with it. My brother requires the services of someone who understands whatever forces these may be that are destroying him. I ask you again: are you willing to help, or must I leave Edward to his fate?”

  His voice had changed from anger to dread, and I found myself dismayed both by his evident concern for his brother’s well-being and by the clear distress my behaviour had caused him.

  “Please,” I urged, “try not to distress yourself. Sit down and tell me exactly what it is you wish me to do. I make no promises, but I will at least listen to you.”

  He hesitated, drawing a hand over his head and face, dislodging strands of wispy hair. His agitation communicated itself to me. I watched him nervously as he resumed his seat.

  “Here,” he said. “Perhaps this will help explain what it is I seek from you.”

  He drew a piece of crumpled pale blue paper from his pocket and passed it to me without another word. When I glanced at it, I saw nothing but lines of scribbled writing, jotted down in purple ink as though in haste. Both sides of the sheet were covered in the fine, spidery writing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t understand what this is.”

  “It’s a page from a diary of sorts,” he answered. “My brother has been keeping it. He has a large Bible which he carries with him at all times. At night, he lies in bed—I do not say ‘he sleeps’—with it beneath his pillow. In the middle of a conversation, he will break off in order to leaf through it, in search of some passage or other. The habit is a new one, formed only in recent months.

  “He keeps little sheets of paper like this interleaved with the pages of the text. At first I thought them notes he kept there to use in his sermons, or perhaps to help in writing his commentary on the Pauline Epistles, on which he has been working for several years. But one day about two weeks ago, while I was there on a visit, this leaf fell from the book without his noticing. I only caught sight of it later, when he was no longer in the room, and I picked it up, meaning to return it to him. But when I saw what it was, I slipped it into my pocket instead, thinking it might serve as an indication of my poor brother’s state of mind.”

  I looked again at the little sheet. Bit by bit, I succeeded in deciphering Edward Atherton’s rapid, nervous hand. I still have the sheet in my desk drawer, and am able to reproduce some of it here.

  September 4th

  Prayed alone in the chancel this evening. He was laughing all the time I stayed there, until I could stand it no more and left. As I returned to the nave, I saw his shadow on the pulpit.

  September 15th

  Sive irascatur sive rideat non inveniet requiem. “Whether he rage or laugh, there is no rest.”

  Friday

  Considerat peccator iustum. “The wicked watcheth the righteous.” I saw him twice today, once in the chancel, and again in the parvis, where I had gone to read. He did not laugh, but remained silent and watched me. I pretend to ignore him, but he knows it is a front. Where is my Saviour? I pray, but the heavens remain closed, as though a lock had been placed there.

  I have written again to my lord bishop, pleading he set things right; but I look for little help from that quarter. What have I done?

  October 5th

  One of the choirboys has been taken ill, young Will Manning. I visited him today, but could not stay long. I had no words of comfort for his parents, who are frightened he may die like Thomas Rawlings, whose symptoms were similar. I have spent the afternoon in prayer, but I have little hope. Dear God, I may yet have to perform the exorcism myself.

  October 6th

  Si quis tetigerit os illius vel sepulchrum inmundus erit. “Whosoever toucheth a bone of a man, or a grave, shall be unclean.”

  I looked up to find Atherton gazing at me anxiously. When I handed the paper back to him, his hand was all of a flutter.

  “This does indeed make things clearer,” I said. “But you should understand that it is perfectly possible your brother has been suffering hallucinations.”

  “I was not given to understand that you were a sceptic.”

  I shook my head.

  “I am. But I am by no means rigid. Such things as are described in your brother’s notes are possible. I do not dismiss them out of hand. But as often as not there are other explanations. Fraud (which I consider out of the question here), misreporting, natural phen
omena, and hallucination. I can rule nothing out without fuller evidence.”

  “But you will look for such evidence?”

  I hesitated, but inwardly I knew I was beaten. He gave me no choice.

  “If you would like me to do so, yes. But you see how things are with me. My doctor has given me strict orders to remain in bed for at least a week. I dare not set foot outside these rooms for a fortnight or more. Travelling to Thornham St Stephen is out of the question.”

  “My brother is a dying man.”

  “I recognise your urgency, Mr Atherton, but surely you see that I have no choice in the matter. I do promise, however, that the moment I am given permission to move, I shall be on my way to visit your brother.”

  “He may be dead by then.”

  “Then I suggest you find some means of preventing it. It is almost Christmas. Surely he will accept an invitation to spend the season with you here, or at your mother’s house.”

  He looked doubtful, but agreed to try.

  “I will let you know the moment I’m allowed to travel. If I come across anything that might shed light on the case, I’ll write to you. And if you hear anything further, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Very well,” he said. I could see the disappointment etched on his face, and the resignation with which he stood and made for the door. As he reached it, he turned to me.

  “I’ll try to make him leave,” he said, “but I don’t hold out much hope. He won’t abandon his parish for the Christmas season.”

  “Has he no curate?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course—a man called Lethaby. I’ve met him once, but I can’t say I took to him. A dry stick of a man, humourless and, I think, most ambitious. Edward would never leave the parishioners in his care at such a time.”

  “Then pray for him,” I said. “You can do that, at least.”

  He looked at me, as though surprised to hear such advice from an unbeliever. In all honesty, I had said it for his comfort more than out of any conviction it would do any good. I had begun to fear the worst for his brother.

  “Yes,” he said, “I shall pray for him. But I do not think my prayers will be answered.”

  When he had gone, I lay in bed for a long time, listening to the voices of the choir at evensong. Outside, the darkness thickened and grew strange.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the event, I was less than true to my word. I did not get in touch with Atherton, I did not ask for books that might have told me more about Thornham St Stephen and its church, I did not even mention to Dr Phillips that I might want to travel out to the fens. Confined to my rooms, I spent my time propped up in bed or sitting in an armchair with my leg stretched out in front of me on an embroidered stool. I read and wrote as much as possible, and my friends were solicitous: they would pop in to keep me abreast of the latest university gossip or to go through neglected items of college business. My students resumed their tutorial visits, and I listened to their ill-formed essays almost eagerly for once, as though to blot out thoughts I would rather not have had.

  But, in the end, colleagues and students alike would leave me to myself, and I would face long dull hours in which my thoughts returned again and again to the events at Thornham St Stephen.

  In particular, I was troubled by those scriptural quotations with which Edward Atherton had interspersed his jottings, the meaning of which remained obscure to me. And I regretted not having asked the other Atherton what had been the fate of the choirboy who had fallen ill.

  I had all but resolved to speak with Atherton again, when Christmas intervened. My sister Agnes, who lives in Trumpington, arranged to have me stay at her home for most of the vacation. She is married to Napier, the Queens’ Fellow who has made such a name for himself in biology of late. Charles is a kind man, and my sister appears to be entirely happy with him, though I am not sure she is ideally suited to be the wife of a don. Napier can be a little stuffy, and is often wrapped up in his research. He was one of the first college fellows to take advantage of the Revised Statutes that allowed them the comforts of the married state, but he did so rather late in life, and I am not sure he has adjusted well. The children are, I fear, something of a thorn in his academic flesh. Yet he mocks me for my own continued celibacy, and with Agnes’s connivance endeavours—I may say without success—to present me with a string of eligible spinsters, none of them remotely suited to me.

  Not many of us in Cambridge keep carriages. The colleges are all within walking distance of one another, and most academics continue to reside in rooms. The question of how I might be transported exercised us all terribly at first. My brother-in-law keeps a horse, but that was hardly a suitable conveyance for one in my condition. In the end Dr Phillips arranged for me to be taken to Trumpington in his brougham, and my vacation was saved.

  I had such a delightful time with Agnes and her family that time quite slipped away. This year I was mercifully spared the parade of spinsters. Perhaps I should sprain my ankle more often.

  It was well past New Year when I finally returned to college, many pounds heavier and with a lighter mind. I scarcely thought of the Athertons all the time I stayed at Trumpington. Imagine my consternation, therefore, when the porter brought me a message which had been waiting for me since Christmas Eve, marked “Urgent” and bearing the crest of Sidney Sussex on the rear of the envelope.

  The letter was from Atherton, and in it he reproached me for not having got in touch. He was about to set off for Thornham St Stephen, having just learned that his brother’s condition had deteriorated in the meantime. Would I please follow him there if at all possible, for he feared the worst. I surmised that it had not, after all, proved possible to dislodge Atherton from his church.

  I immediately sent to Sidney Sussex, apologising for my lack of consideration, and asking Atherton to contact me at his first opportunity, indicating that I was still willing to lend what assistance I might to the efforts he was making in his brother’s behalf.

  Within the half-hour, Atherton appeared in my rooms in person, much altered since his last visit. His face, though it had lost little of its plumpness, seemed drawn, and his skin paler than it had been. Beneath their cherub’s lids, his green eyes showed signs of strain.

  I rose from my chair and, reaching for my stick, made to hobble towards him, but he hurried forward, pressing me back. He stood above me for a moment, his cheeks quivering.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “My brother is dead,” he said. “I received a telegram an hour ago, and then your note. I hardly know what to do. I must go down, but I can’t face it alone. Will you come with me?”

  “Dead?” I echoed. “Did the telegram say what caused his death?”

  Atherton shook his head.

  “No, it was short and to the point. Lethaby sent it—Edward’s curate. I’ve heard he is most economical.”

  “And have you answered him?”

  He shook his head. His entire bearing bespoke despondency. He had not come to rebuke me but to seek my help. This time I could not in all conscience refuse it.

  “You must telegraph to him at once,” I said. “Tell him to expect us this evening. Perhaps he will do us the courtesy of reserving rooms for us at the local inn.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We reached Thornham St Stephen a little before sunset, in time to see a tired and heavy sun drop down through ragged purple clouds. A dogcart had brought us out from March. It was a long and tedious journey, and my leg ached insufferably all the way. On all sides, the flat expanse of the fens stretched to infinity. We seemed marooned in a world unlike any other, in a landscape almost without feature, frosted, bleak, and white. Midwinter lay on the untidy fields like a penitential garment, ravaging and quite without pity. The dykes, filled with winter water and ice, ran in unbroken lines through the dark, knitting horizon to horizon. I saw a farmer walk, huddled and alone, in a wind-driven expanse where there was no habitation. The sound of our horse’s hooves rang across
the gaunt open countryside and was lost for ever among the marshes.

  We saw the village long before we came to it across the flat surrounding wastes. It seemed to have no purpose, to be nothing more than a crouching of buildings set down in dead country. Before all else, we saw the church tower, lifted above the world like a tower of Babel, and as we approached a single bell began to toll, as though in anticipation of our coming, or as a warning of it.

  The village, as we entered it, lay grey and forbidding at the end of a long rutted lane. Our conveyance bounced and cracked its way along, unsettling us both, and sending jolts of pain through my leg. Low, unprepossessing cottages huddled together on either side of the track, their doors shut tight, their windows shuttered against the sharp fen winds. I saw a white face at a window, staring down at us briefly, then jerking back into the shadow in the room behind.

  The Three Windmills had been named after a trio of local windpumps that serve to drain Thornham Fen into the Middle Level Drain. It was situated on a drab, winter-stained green, more frosted mud than grass. A weathered sign showing three faded mills hung crookedly above the door, and a faint light crept out onto the cobbled street. The dogcart driver deposited us and our luggage outside, and made off at once, a small lantern swinging at his stern like a diminishing star.

  Atherton pushed open the door and helped me over the stoop into a hot candlelit room full of flickering shadows. The room was still and empty, and the only sound came from the tolling bell outside. Atherton stuck his head through a door at one side, but came back to say it too was empty. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and, from the look of it, it had been lit not very long before.

  “Hello!” I called. “Is there anyone here?”