Ghostly Murders Page 9

  ‘I like you,’ she declared. ‘You talk to me. You don’t call me a dirty, old hag and throw me your scraps. Or look at me as if I am a witch ripe for the stake. Priscilla,’ she repeated. ‘It’s a Roman name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who was your mother?’ Philip asked.

  ‘God rest her, I never knew. Some local girl. I can remember. Romanel never told me.’

  ‘And your childhood?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I remember being here,’ she said. ‘I always remember Romanel but sometimes, sometimes . . .’

  ‘Sometimes what?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Sometimes there are other,’ she tapped the side of her head, ‘other pictures.’

  ‘Do you know where your mother’s buried?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Yes, come with me.’

  She put the piece of linen down on the stool and, without waiting, walked into the trees, gesturing for the priest to follow. He did so. They entered the cemetery. She stopped for a moment, fingers to her lips. She went across to a gnarled yew tree.

  ‘Romanel told me she’s buried beneath here. This is where I come to pray.’

  ‘Did anyone in the village talk to you about her?’ Philip asked.

  A shake of the head. ‘I leaves them alone, they leaves me alone.’

  ‘And your father, the priest Romanel?’

  ‘Came out of hell and went back to hell, Father. He should never have been a priest. A man of great lechery, hand in glove with the old lord he was. They did everything together: hunt the deer, carouse and drink till the early light. Romanel was good to me.’ She walked towards the corpse door of the church. ‘He was always good, Father. I mean, he bought me dresses and taught me. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Sometimes I’d just catch him watching me. You know, like a cat does a mouse or a bird.’

  ‘The treasure?’ Philip intervened. ‘Did your father ever tell you about the treasure?’

  ‘Oh, there were rumours.’ The old woman rubbed her face. ‘There were rumours that he had done something terrible. I can’t remember what. Indeed, I can’t remember much, Father. You talked about the village. I remember, after Romanel had died, I went down to the tavern, one of the few occasions I did. It was very hot and I was thirsty. There was no fresh water so I wanted a pottle of ale to wet my lips and slake my throat. I went into the tavern, just within the doorway. They didn’t really like me there. Well, I asked for my pottle of ale. I thought I’d a penny but I hadn’t so the landlord told me to go away.’ The coffin woman looked up at the sky. ‘That’s it.’ She whispered, ‘A kind man, long dead now. He bought me a tankard of ale. Told me to sit on a bench outside and watched me sup it. He asked me questions. Simple ones about the weather, how I was feeling? I hurried my ale because I was getting frightened but, just before I left, the kindly man, he took my hand.’ She closed her eyes. ‘One of the few times any one really touched me.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I am a virgin, you know, Father: born a maid, I’ll die a maid.’

  ‘What did the man say?’ Philip asked curiously.

  ‘He just said it was pleasant to hear me talk as, when I was small, when he first met me, I never said a word!’

  Philip smiled and realised the old woman was beginning to ramble. She stretched out and grasped his wrist, her nails digging deeply into the skin.

  ‘I’m not witless, Father. I’m not witless. I just thought it was strange that people can remember times whilst I cannot.’

  ‘The treasure?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Oh yes, as I was saying, the treasure. There were rumours. I once asked my father. He just laughed but, as his mind slid into madness, he always laughed. One day he was sitting on the steps of the church. His face was grey. His eyes, well, he looked as if he hadn’t slept for years. He was muttering to himself. I asked him what was the matter? He replied, “If they only knew what the treasure really was!” That’s all I know, Father. But come, I wish to show you something.’

  She led him through the door of the church along the dank, middle aisle past the Montalt tomb and into the Lady Chapel. She lit a taper from a candle and, beckoning Philip, went up to the left side of the statue of the Virgin. She crouched down, holding the flame against the wall.

  ‘Look, Father, can you see something?’

  Philip, crouching beside her, studied the wall carefully. There was a faded painting, a crucifix surrounded by people, faces lifted, hands outstretched in supplication towards it.

  ‘Study each of them, Father.’

  Philip did so. He gasped, almost knocking her aside as he pointed to one face.

  ‘Romanel!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s Romanel!’

  ‘How do you know, Father? How could you possibly know a man who has been dead for over seventy years?’

  Philip got to his feet and walked out of the Lady Chapel.

  ‘You’ve had a dream, haven’t you?’ She followed him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I had a dream: Romanel’s face looked ghastly and he was whispering at me, “Kill her! Kill her!”’

  ‘Kill whom?’

  Philip turned round but the coffin woman had gone.

  Chapter 2

  Philip arrived at High Mount just before dusk. His journey through the woods from Scawsby had been uneventful. The priest was lost in his own thoughts, wondering how to cope with the difficulties facing him. As the trackway left the trees, Philip, once again, appreciated Stephen’s good judgement. True, there was a distance between the village and High Mount but Scawsby was so prosperous it would eventually break out of its confines whilst the new church would have plenty of room to expand and develop. Parishioners would have to travel a little further but this was no bad thing. Father Philip had talked to diocesan officials and his own bishop about his dream; they had concurred. There was a growing apprehension that if a church was part of the village, its buildings and cemetery might be used contrary to the rite of consecration. Philip had seen this happen in other towns and villages in Kent: the church was often regarded as the personal property of the powerful burgesses. Markets were held in the cemetery, church sales in the nave, whilst the porch could be turned into a tavern where people gathered to claque and gossip.

  Philip reined in his horse at the bottom of the hill and looked up. Not too steep, he thought, and it would give the church a certain prominence. He looked up at the sky. Already the evening star could be seen and the faint outlines of the moon. It had grown much colder. Philip urged his horse on up the narrow trackway. On either side he passed remnants of the old priory, the ruins of what must have been outhouses. He heard voices from the top of the hill. When he reached there, Edmund and Stephen, faces flushed, came running towards him like two boys. Piers the verderer was crouching against the wall as if seeking protection against the cold breeze.

  ‘Well, Brother?’ Edmund, cloak off, tunic hitched, sleeves rolled up, stood before him, hands on hips. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s going to be a splendid church,’ Stephen broke in. ‘We’ll build along the outlines of the old walls.’

  Philip smiled in reply. He had been here on previous occasions when he visited Scawsby. Then he had just seen High Mount as a good place to build his new church, an old ruin which would soon disappear. Now, knowing what he did, this derelict priory with its crumbling walls, desolate sanctuary, and, above all, those grave slabs laid out before him, assumed a sinister, eerie atmosphere.

  ‘What happened here?’ he asked.

  Edmund’s smile faded. Philip looked pale and drawn, dark rings under his eyes.

  ‘We expected you sooner,’ Edmund replied. ‘But all we’ve done is walk around, measure the width and length and try to draw Piers into conversation. However, he’s not as friendly as he was this morning.’

  ‘I heard that.’ The verderer got to his feet. He walked over using his long bow as a staff. ‘I don’t like it here,’ he declared. ‘There is something about this place, it’s cold and empty.’

  ‘What happene
d?’ Philip repeated. ‘No, I don’t mean what have you been doing?’ He dismounted and hobbled his horse. ‘What happened to the priory?’

  ‘It’s an ancient place,’ Piers broke in. ‘Founded after the legions left, or so one of the priests told us. The Norsemen sacked it long before the Conqueror came to this country. It was a ruin then, it’s been a ruin since.’

  ‘And these graves?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Oh, they house brothers of the priory,’ Stephen replied. He gazed up at the sky. ‘I think I’ll stay out here tonight.’

  ‘No you won’t!’ Philip snapped. He forced a smile. ‘I don’t think you should stay here.’ He winked at Edmund. ‘I have something to tell you tonight when we sup.’ He recalled the entry in the parish journal about bones being found. ‘Is there a ditch here? A pit?’

  Stephen pulled a face.

  ‘There’s the well,’ Piers broke in. He pointed to the far end of the priory. ‘It’s there, behind the chancel wall: a deep well.’

  Philip gazed around.

  ‘How do you see it, Stephen?’ he asked. ‘How do you see our new church?’

  ‘Well, the hill is not steep,’ Stephen replied. ‘And there’s a broad enough plateau. I think the church and cemetery should be built here on the top: the rest of the hill being used, in time, as a further place of burial. The priest’s house could be built either at the foot of the hill or, if there’s room, here, linked to the church through the sacristy.’

  ‘I wonder if it should be built here?’ Philip murmured.

  ‘What?’

  Philip felt himself spun around. Stephen was glaring at him, he had never seen the mason so angry.

  ‘You might not build it here? What do you mean?’

  ‘Stephen, Stephen.’ Philip put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I have doubts about this place.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen my plans.’ Stephen was still glaring at him. ‘You asked me a question and I am replying. There’s more than one scheme that can work. We can have the church on the top of the hill and the cemetery below. Lord Richard has promised High Mount and the fields around.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Philip replied wearily. ‘It’s called a Deodandum: a gift to God. But, if we are going to build a church here, we must make sure it is right.’

  Stephen slunk away. Philip, now intent on finding out about the well, walked through the ruins. He turned at the entrance to the sanctuary and looked back down at the nave. Stephen was now whispering to Edmund. Piers, bored, was shuffling the arrows in his quiver. Philip sighed. Sweet Lord, he prayed, let me keep my temper. He paused. Was this what happened to the other priests? he wondered. Tempers becoming frayed? Harsh words, a growing sense of unease?

  ‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come on, Stephen, you’ll have your church here. Let’s see this well!’

  He went out through a gap in the wall and flinched at the cold breeze which caught him. He walked across to the edge of the hill: the mist was creeping in but something caught his eye: a smudge of smoke against the horizon, black and thick.

  ‘What’s that?’ he called out and pointed.

  Piers came up, narrowing his eyes. ‘There’s no place there, Father,’ he declared. ‘Only some outlying farms. Perhaps they are burning the fields?’ The verderer moved restlessly. ‘But it’s getting dark, here’s the well, Father.’

  It lay to the other side of the church. The brick wall around it was crumbling the brick and the peat-wooden roof had long gone; only a battered upright remained. Philip crouched and stared down the well but he could see nothing. He took a pebble, threw it and heard a splash.

  ‘Has anyone ever been down?’ he asked.

  Piers pointed to the steps built into the wall, thickly covered with moss and lichen.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he declared. ‘But it could be dangerous.’

  ‘I’m going down,’ Philip retorted.

  ‘What?’ His brother caught his sleeve. ‘Philip, are you mad?’

  ‘I want to go down now.’

  Philip took off his cloak and, despite the protests of his companions, lowered himself into the well. He found the steps deeply cut but the slippery moss was dangerous. Philip moved slowly, marvelling at the skill of the mason who had dug these ancient steps.

  ‘It’s quite safe.’ He called out, his voice echoing round the walls. ‘The stone is very firm. The well can be used again.’ He glanced up at the three faces peering down at him. ‘Don’t worry, Edmund,’ he joked. ‘If I slip, you will be parish priest.’

  He went further down, keeping his mind on the task, feeling for each foothold before he moved. On one occasion his boot slipped and Philip cursed his own stupidity but he wanted to see what lay at the bottom. If he stopped to think, he would never find out. He continued on down, the rim of the well above him growing smaller, the faces of his companions indistinct. Philip paused and sniffed. The air was remarkably fresh, which meant the well must be built over some underground spring, the water flowing in and out. At last he reached the bottom. There was a ledge about a foot wide and he carefully stepped on to this. It was dark but, by scrabbling around, he could feel the water beneath him On either side of the well, two culverts allowed the water to run in and out. He moved round the well, counting as he did so, he did not want to forget where the steps were.

  ‘If anything happens,’ he whispered, ‘it’s not too deep: a rope and a horse can pull me out.’

  His foot hit something which fell into the water: his boot touched something else, he felt it break under him. A branch? Philip crouched down, hand out. His fingers caught something, round and smooth with holes. Philip, keeping his back against the wall, picked it up. At first he thought it was a stone but it was too thin, then he realised. It was a human skull and what he was standing on were other bones. He fought hard to control his panic. He opened his tunic, put the skull carefully in and began to move back, careful lest he crush it against the wall. Voices shouted from the top. Philip looked up and panicked. He could see no one. He began his climb, drawing himself up, ignoring the aches in his body. He stopped for a moment. He wondered if the dead, the ghosts of those skeletons who now lay at the bottom of the well, were rising up to pull him down. He cursed himself as a fool, whispered a prayer and continued to climb. When he reached the top, Edmund helped him over the rim. Philip sat with his back to the wall, gasping, waiting for the aches in his arms to subside. Stephen and Piers stood a distance away talking to a new arrival. Philip rubbed his eyes and recognised Crispin, Roheisia’s son. He took the skull, yellow with age, and put it on the ground beside him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted.

  Stephen led Crispin across.

  ‘Very bad news. A journeyman going through the forest found Adam Waldis’ corpse bobbing on the top of a marsh. He dragged it out and went into the village. The corpse has been collected and taken back to the church. Lord Richard has come down, the villagers are gathered.’

  ‘Was he murdered?’ Philip asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Stephen replied. ‘Common report says that Adam, who was born in the area, would know the woods like the back of his hand. They find it difficult to believe he became lost.’

  ‘Mystery piled upon mystery,’ Philip murmured. He scrabbled behind him and brought out the skull. ‘The remains of Adam Waldis are not the only ones discovered.’

  ‘You found that?’ Piers exclaimed, coming up.

  ‘Aye, on the ledge at the bottom of the well.’ Philip held it up. ‘God knows how this poor being died. I suspect a violent death.’ He placed the skull back on the ground. ‘For the time being, it can stay here. But, before I get much older, that well has to be searched, there’s more below.’

  ‘To whom can they belong?’ Edmund asked. ‘I mean, the venerable monks who lived her would hardly be guilty of murder.’

  ‘If the place was sacked,’ Stephen broke in, ‘perhaps the corpses were thrown down the well?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Philip replied. ‘But,’ he go
t to his feet, ‘it will have to wait. We have more pressing matters to attend to.’

  They collected their horses and rode back through the gathering darkness towards Scawsby village. Torches had been lit in the cemetery: the village folk were gathering round the death house which lay on the other side of the church. Lord Richard Montalt came out to greet them.

  ‘You’d best come.’

  He took them into the grim, dank-smelling hut. Waldis’ corpse had been stretched out on the trestle table. Tallow candles burnt at his head and feet. Pitch torches, fixed to the iron brackets, filled the death house with dancing shadows. The coffin woman had already been busy. Waldis had been stripped of his clothes and she was now washing away the dirt and slime of the marsh. She paused as Philip knelt beside the corpse and, trying to ignore the stricken face, whispered the words of absolution.

  ‘I shall anoint him later,’ he declared, getting to his feet. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘There’s no mark of violence on his body,’ the coffin woman announced. ‘No sign of a knife or arrow.’

  Montalt called out over his shoulder. The journeyman who had found the corpse came out of the shadows, his fardel still on his back.

  ‘I was coming through the wood,’ he explained. ‘It was late afternoon. I decided to take a short cut. I wanted to be in Scawsby by nightfall.’ He scratched his unshaven cheek. ‘I don’t like it out there. Anyway, I passed the marsh. I know the path round, I have taken it many a time. Something colourful caught my eye. I went across, it was Waldis.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Philip asked.

  ‘Well, he is the parish clerk,’ the journeyman replied. ‘I often travel to Scawsby, have done for years. He was just bobbing there, face down, so I dragged him out. I then raised the hue and cry and he was brought here.’

  Philip went back to study the corpse: touching the hand and arm, he found the flesh cold and hardening.

  ‘He’s been dead some time,’ the coffin woman replied. ‘Well over a day and the marsh water’s cold.’ She looked up; in the candlelight her face seemed youthful. ‘If you go down into the marsh,’ she continued, ‘it closes in around you.’ A faint smile crossed her face. ‘But, sometimes, it spits you back.’