A Shadow on the Wall Page 4

  “My dear Atherton, I am so distressed that we should meet again under such melancholy circumstances. I believe you feared something of this sort, did you not?”

  Atherton ignored the question. I could see there was little affection between the two men.

  “I would like to see my brother, if I may. We were told his body is here in the rectory.”

  Lethaby, shrugging off the rebuff, nodded.

  “He is lying upstairs in his bedroom,” he said. “Morris, the undertaker from March, came this afternoon to lay him out. A good man, Morris. Very respectful. I would not have left him here, but, as you know, the keys to the church have been mislaid.”

  “Has the doctor certified the cause of death?”

  “But of course. There will be no need for a post-mortem. A heart seizure brought on by apoplexy, that is all.”

  “And you have no idea what caused this apoplexy?”

  Lethaby shook his head. He was making a conscious effort to appear at ease, but I could tell that, underneath, he was anything but.

  “None at all.”

  “He had not quarrelled with anyone?”

  “Good heavens, no. Your brother was a most peaceable man, as you know.”

  “Nevertheless, even a peaceable man may be drawn into a argument.”

  “To my knowledge, nothing like that occurred. I was with him last night until almost ten o’clock. We dined together, then went over the parish accounts. There was nothing unusual in them, nothing that might have alarmed Edward. We said good-night, and, as far as I know, he intended to go straight to bed.”

  Atherton was growing agitated.

  “What I wish to know is what took place after that. I have heard that my brother was found under . . . peculiar circumstances.”

  “My dear Atherton!” Lethaby looked shocked and pained, yet I could see a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

  Atherton went on to relate what Mrs O’Reilly had told him. As he did so, Lethaby’s annoyance grew and took full possession of him. Alongside it, I detected not a little anxiety.

  “Why, this is all quite absurd. It’s the most absurd thing I have ever heard. I shall have words with Mrs O’Reilly. What can she be thinking of to fabricate such a nonsensical story?”

  “You deny it, then?”

  “Good heavens, of course I do. Your brother was found dead in his own bed. Whatever the exact cause of his demise, I assure you there was nothing untoward about it.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Atherton, though his voice lacked conviction. He sighed and rose to his feet.

  “I would like to go up now,” he said. “You don’t have to accompany me, I know the way.” He turned to me. “Asquith, do you think you can climb the stairs?”

  I had avoided stairs as much as possible in the past few weeks, but when necessary I could manage them.

  “One at a time,” I said. “You’ll have to give me a hand.”

  Lethaby offered to accompany us, but Atherton insisted he stay downstairs. He was polite, but firm, and Lethaby knew he was overruled.

  “Good Lord,” said Atherton in a low voice, as we started up the stairs. “That man is the greatest hypocrite on God’s earth. He used to infuriate my brother terribly.”

  “Yes, he does appear self-serving. I wonder your brother tolerated him at all.”

  “Oh, Lethaby has friends at court. To be precise, the Dean of Ely is his uncle. He has expectations of higher things than Thornham St Stephen.”

  “I wonder he came to be here at all.” Atherton gave a dry laugh.

  “Mr Lethaby does nothing by accident. It is precisely to deflect accusations of nepotism that he seeks no major preferment now, but plays the country curate, a man of humble means and humble ambitions. But take my word for it, he will not remain a curate long. My brother’s death will have been a most welcome boost to his prospects. He can confidently expect the rectorship, and can afford to spend a year or two here before moving elsewhere. He is still only seven and twenty.”

  I climbed each step as though it were a small hill, first raising my good leg to the step above, then pulling myself up with the help of the banister. Atherton held an oil-lamp to light my way. The stairway was dark. I felt a growing sense of apprehension as we mounted the stairs. The feeling I had experienced in the church porch was returning, less acute, yet unmistakable.

  With each flicker of the light against the wall, I expected . . . Well, I confess I did not know quite what to expect, only that something was here and that the unfortunate Atherton’s death had not expelled it. I still knew next to nothing about the business, but the deeper I went in, the more worried I grew that I was passing beyond my depth.

  The Reverend Atherton’s room was the second on the right off the first landing. My companion opened the door slowly, and I noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he turned the knob. Until now, he had seemed to me very well composed, and I had thought that, knowing less than I of these matters, his mind was less disturbed than mine. I realised that I had never talked with him about his beliefs. It could not be assumed that, since his brother had been a rector, he himself was a believer.

  Lighted candles had been placed by the head of the corpse, one on either side. The dead man lay on top of the covers, dressed in the black garb of an old-fashioned cleric, complete with gaiters. In spite of the best efforts of the undertaker, his face still exhibited signs of the horror that been imprinted on it when he was found. I watched as Atherton approached the bed and knelt down beside it. He remained there, silent and alone, though whether he was praying for his brother’s soul or just lost in his own thoughts, I could not tell.

  While he knelt, my eyes roamed about the bedchamber. There were no overt signs of anything amiss. It was a well-found room of generous size, well proportioned, and furnished in a style appropriate to a churchman of Atherton’s inclinations. There was nothing lavish or extravagant, no hint of luxury or self-indulgence; but the whole effect was pleasing to the senses, for the furniture and fittings were of the highest quality, and it was evident that both taste and independent means had gone into their choice.

  On one wall hung a drawing—by Butterfield, if I am not mistaken—of All Saints, Margaret Street, the paragon of the Gothic revivalists. Beside it had been placed a reproduction of a medieval painting, which I recognised as the crucifixion from the Abingdon Missal. Other prints and etchings covered each of the four walls.

  I returned my gaze to the bed, and to the body of Edward Atherton. His lips were parted in a dreadful rictus, the whole face portraying an expression of utter terror, as though, even in death, he could see what he had most feared in life. Clasped between his folded hands was a large Bible. I wondered if it could be the same one his brother had mentioned.

  Atherton sighed deeply, then eased himself to his feet.

  “I’m sorry to leave you standing there, Richard,” he said. “I just wanted to take leave of Edward. Mother arrives tomorrow, and then the rest of the family will descend. This was my only chance.”

  “Would you not prefer it if I left you alone with him for a while?”

  He looked at me, troubled, then shook his head firmly.

  “No, indeed. I don’t think I could stay in here for a moment on my own. It’s bad enough as it is. These shadows make my flesh creep.”

  I nodded. The room was hardly conducive to peace of mind. There was an oppressive air of religious melancholy everywhere.

  “Is that your brother’s Bible?” I asked, pointing to the volume that lay on the corpse’s breast.

  Atherton looked at it carefully and nodded.

  “I hesitate to suggest such a thing, but in view of the confusion there may be here tomorrow . . .” I looked earnestly at him. “I would very much like to see the papers you say he had in it.”

  Atherton nodded.

  “Yes, I think you’re right. It’s too late to help him now, but perhaps it may save some other poor devil’s life.”

  He walked over to a b
ookcase on the other side of the room, and returned carrying another Bible, a little smaller than the one we meant to remove, but, like it, bound in black leather. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the Bible that lay between his brother’s hands, but at the last moment drew back.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but I’m afraid I can’t bear to touch him.”

  I did it for him, exchanging the Bibles without disturbing the body. As I did so, the first Bible, the one into which Edward Atherton had slipped his little pieces of paper, fell open in my hand, as though to a spot at which it had often been turned.

  I saw it had fallen open in the Book of Ezekiel. Atherton had defaced both pages, blacking out every line with ink, scoring the paper hard enough at times to tear small holes in its surface.

  No, I was mistaken, the writing had not been completely blacked out. A single verse remained. I held the book to the light and read.

  Evigilavit adversum te, the text ran, ecce venit. It watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.

  I shut the book and said nothing, but my hands were shaking.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lethaby was waiting for us downstairs. He seemed slightly anxious, as though he had been expecting us to return furnished with complaints about the manner in which Edward Atherton had been laid out.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, “that things are not as they should be. The whole thing has been so sudden, and this business of the church keys . . .” He paused. “You have heard of their disappearance?”

  We nodded.

  “Yes, well, this business of the vanishing keys has put us out terribly. I would have preferred your brother to pass the night in the church, before the altar, but it was impossible to gain admittance without damaging the doors. The nearest locksmith is a man called Dunn from Wisbech. He was away on business all day, but his wife has promised to send him here first thing in the morning. Once the church is reopened, your brother may be moved there for a village service prior to his removal to Ely.”

  “Ely? Why should he be taken there?” Atherton seemed shocked.

  “Surely you knew that your brother is to be laid to rest beside your father in the cathedral. I understand the dean means to attend, and perhaps even the bishop himself—I have taken it upon my own shoulders to write to them, and to other members of the chapter. Your brother—” he inclined his head to Atherton with a most oleaginous smile—”was greatly loved by his fellow clergy.

  “Of course,” he looked grave for a moment, as though to elicit our sympathy, “you will understand that . . . should any rumours concerning your brother’s demise reach the ears of the dean . . . I think I need not say what an unfortunate impression that might make. And your dear mother would, of course, be so distressed, especially if there were to be any question about the propriety of a cathedral burial.”

  “You don’t need to spell it out, Lethaby,” said Atherton. “By all means have your bishop, your dean, and a flock of canons major and minor, since it pleases you and will no doubt please my mother. But I would prefer to talk more about this tomorrow. Professor Asquith and I have had a long journey. We will dine at the Three Windmills and have an early night. No doubt we shall see you in the morning.”

  He paused as though a troubling thought had occurred to him.

  “Do you mean to spend the night here?”

  For the first time Lethaby’s composure seemed to crack. He licked his lips, and I could not but notice the small motion he made as he glanced at the ceiling, in the direction of the room in which his rector lay.

  “I . . . regret . . . that is to say, I am invited to dine this evening with Sir Philip at the manor house. He is sending a carriage for me. Since Kennett House is some distance, he has suggested that I stay over. I did, of course, mention that you were to be here, but I felt that—” he flashed his most winning smile—”under the circumstances of such a recent bereavement, you would not wish to be in company. Sir Philip quite understood. He sends his condolences, of course.” He paused, as though uncertain how best to end this sorry narration. “Naturally,” he went on hurriedly, having spied the gap in his defences, “I would not go myself were it not that Sir Philip and I have urgent business to discuss, business that cannot be put off.”

  I saw Atherton suppress his rage. Later, he told me that Sir Philip Ousby, the local landowner, provided the benefices for the parishes of Thornham St Stephen, Thornham St Paul, and the remoter Thornham-Cum-Quy. Clearly Lethaby did not intend to lose a moment in winning the good Sir Philip to his cause.

  Atherton and I returned to the inn much fallen in spirits. It is never a cheering thing to be in the company of the dead, but the circumstances of Edward Atherton’s death and the happenings, as yet but dimly perceived, that had led up to it could not fail but to leave even the most buoyant spirit downcast. More than that, I felt a very real sensation of imminent dread, though I had then but the vaguest notion of what inspired it.

  Mrs O’Reilly prepared a splendid meal for us—finer, I have no doubt, than anything served that night to the Reverend Lethaby. The late Mr O’Reilly had left behind a recipe for Irish stew, and his widow brought it to the table along with a most delightful dish known as champ, another of her husband’s Irish delicacies—potatoes mashed and prepared with spring onions, milk, and butter. To the stew itself she had added dumplings from a recipe of her own, together with generous portions of the best local ale, and large glasses of the same brew to wash it down. We had neither of us felt much appetite, yet our plates were wiped clean and our glasses emptied as though we had been walkers come in from a long hike.

  We lingered over the meal and the whiskies that followed, talking quietly, staring into the flame-filled hearth of the little private room that had been put aside for us. From time to time, the voices of the inn’s other customers broke through the walls, the subdued tones of men from a small community that has known recent death. No doubt Mrs O’Reilly would have made sure they knew that the Reverend Atherton’s brother was her guest, and with him a professor from Cambridge, a place they had often heard of but never visited.

  No doubt, too, she was doing her best to spread Alice Ryman’s tale of the discovery of the rector’s body. I had spoken with her briefly, and tried to dissuade her from giving wider circulation to the rumour; but I knew it was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in Thornham St Stephen in the last hundred years, and had no great hopes that her natural volubility would not burst through somehow.

  Instinctively, both Atherton and I steered off that subject ourselves. I knew I should have to return to it in time, with or without him, for something in Thornham St Stephen was amiss, and I knew that what had been so carelessly awakened would not return to rest without great trouble. But that night I preferred to stick to less disturbing matters—mutual friends, academic topics, the recent gossip surrounding the Master of Pembroke, the declining quality of undergraduates.

  It was late when we took ourselves to bed. We had a room each, at either end of a short, unfurnished corridor. Upstairs, the inn, that had been so full of cheer below, was cold and draughty, and dismal in appearance. We said good-night to one another, and arranged to meet the following morning for an early breakfast.

  My room gave an impression of having been slept in very little. No doubt overnight guests were a rarity in such a remote part of the fens. The furnishings reflected this disuse, being mean bits and pieces that had been shoved into the room for want of anywhere else to store them. The thin curtains that covered the window did nothing to keep the cold out, nor did the pitiful fire that burned in the hearth make serious inroads on the damp chill that pervaded the air.

  The bed, at least, was warm. Mrs O’Reilly had taken care to place two warming-pans in it, one at the top and one at the bottom. I removed them and put them to one side, then slid between the sheets, grateful for all the Mrs O’Reillys of the world, and mine above all. Smiling, I turned down the lamp, though I did not extinguish it altogether.

  I was ex
hausted, and my body was warm and comfortable—inevitable preconditions for sleep, or so I imagined. Yet minute after minute passed, and sleep would not come. The harder I tried, the more elusive it became. In the near-darkness, my thoughts kept returning to that silent figure in the rectory bedroom, and to the words he had left in his mutilated Bible. When half an hour or more had passed, I was twisting and turning, unable to find repose. My leg had started to pain me, adding its twinges to my mental torments.

  In the end, I gave in and turned the light up full again. I felt hot, unpleasantly so, in spite of the cold outside. With an effort, I struggled out of bed. My dressing-gown was hanging at its foot, and I put it on. By now, the fire had burned very low indeed, but there were some coals remaining in the scuttle; I hobbled over and tossed them on, and in about ten minutes bright flames lit up the room.

  If I could not sleep, I might at least read. I had brought one or two books with me: the first volume of Odericus Vitalis’s Historia Ecclesiastica, in the edition of le Prevost and Delisle, and Riley’s edition of Thomas Walsingham’s Historia Anglicana. Taking them from my bag, I leafed through one and then the other, but found myself unable to summon up the necessary concentration to read more than a few lines. My thoughts were elsewhere, and not easily to be distracted.

  Edward Atherton’s Bible was on my bedside table, where I had left it, not meaning to look at it or its contents again until the morning. I took all the slips of paper from it and brought them to the fire, where I began carefully to go through them, placing them, as well as I could, in chronological order. When I had the sheets laid out, I began to read. This time my concentration did not fail me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  August 7th

  Cowper approached me today after evensong. He says his men are grumbling, and that they refuse to touch the de Lindesey tomb. I told him I would not tolerate such interference in my work, and asked what possible reason the men could have. His answer was that there are local legends concerning the tomb, and that it is widely believed it should never be disturbed. I showed him the archdeacon’s certificate which permits the work to be carried out, and gave him the benefit of a discourse on the idle fancies of the lower classes, reminded him just how much work—and money—he stood to lose, and ordered him to start first thing tomorrow.