Michael Jecks: The Chapel of Bones

‘This man was walking along here,’ Stephen said in a cold tone, ‘while another mason was up on the scaffolding removing a stone from the wall.’

‘It was a sad accident,’ Robert de Cantebrigge stated.

‘It was either incompetence or an act of malice,’ Stephen countered.

‘Ah?’ the Dean enquired.

‘You know how they lift the heavier blocks …’ Stephen began, but then he caught sight of the expression of baffled amiability on the Dean’s face and gritted his teeth. Stalking to a block nearby, he pointed. ‘Look! All the masonry has to be taken down from the wall.’

‘Yes. I — ah — thought so,’ the Dean agreed affably.

‘Except: how to lift them?’

‘They use a crane, do they not? Hmm?’

‘But the stones are too heavy to lash to a crane safely, so each has this channel cut into it,’ Stephen said.

The Dean peered. Where the Treasurer was pointing, a deep curiously-shaped hole had been carved. From above, it looked like two slots, joined to each other on their longer edges. Above was the shorter, below the longer, which overlapped its neighbour at either end by about two inches. Looking into the hole, the Dean saw that both slots had the same base. That with the narrower entrance still had a ten-inch base deep inside the stone, but its sides sloped inwards towards the entrance-hole. If the rock were to break where this hole was dug into the stone, that part would look like a dove’s tail, the Dean thought wonderingly.

‘This is how they lift them,’ Stephen said. He picked up an iron bar. In section it was a trapezium — like an isosceles triangle with the topmost part of the narrower angle cut off. It had a base of almost ten inches, and was some two inches thick. In cross-section, it was the same shape and dimension as the dove’s tail shape inside the rock, the Dean guessed. He was right. ‘This bar drops into the larger slot,’ Stephen said, plunging it in. ‘And then it’s shoved over into the recess carved to fit it,’ he grunted, twisting and rocking the metal until it slipped sideways and sat in the narrower recess. Pulling on it, he said, ‘The space at the top of the hole is too small to allow the base of this iron bar to be pulled out. While it stays in the hole, the rock is secured to this piece of metal.’

‘And how would you — um — retain it there?’ the Dean enquired.

‘A two-inch thick wedge. It fits into the wider slot and prevents the bar from sliding sideways, which would allow the rock to fall. Except some fool today forgot to put the wedge into its hole.’

‘Are you sure? That is a — ah — serious allegation, Brother.’

‘If it wasn’t there, the iron could move, and then the rock would fall,’ Stephen said, folding his arms. ‘As it did.’

‘It was an accident, I say,’ the Master Mason repeated. ‘I saw my man setting the rock ready, and he’d already taken off the first three courses from this wall. He knows his job.’

‘You weren’t there to watch?’ Stephen asked.

‘No, but I know Tom. He’s no fool.’

‘Who else did see him?’ Stephen demanded.

The Master Mason stared at him from lowered brows for a moment, then he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Your vicar there,’ he said at last. ‘He saw it. He was up there with Tom.’

‘Matthew, come here, please,’ the Dean called.

The Clerk of the Fabric Roll looked as though he was still suffering from shock, but that was only to be expected.

‘I was up on the scaffold, Dean,’ Matthew began. ‘It was terrifying. I thought we must all die when it fell …’

‘Why did this wedge of iron move in its slot? Did you see?’

‘Yes. The rock was ready to be hoisted just as the others were, and it seemed solid enough. But I think that the iron block you’re holding there, Treasurer, is so heavy that it dropped and slackened in its slot. The hole in the rock, perhaps, was not the right size? For whatever reason, I think that the wooden wedge holding it in place got loose. Then, when we were about to lift the stone and swing it from the wall, the wedge was squeezed out. Instantly, the iron block moved sideways and the rock was released. When that happened, all that restrained it was the rope about it, and that wasn’t strong enough.’

‘There — ah — Stephen,’ the Dean said. ‘It was an accident. Very sad, I am sure. We must do something to honour this poor fallen hero. He was here to help us complete our great work, and has died trying to see our vision realised. It is a terrible thing to have another death on our hands.’

The Master Mason Robert rubbed his forehead. There was something about these canons that raised his hackles. The Dean seemed to walk about in a daze most of the time, while the Treasurer watched Robert as though expecting him to take off with the church plate. ‘Dean, we’ve been very lucky so far. We’ve had very few deaths,’ he said tiredly.

‘Which is how I want it to continue,’ the Dean shot back, and the Master Mason was surprised to hear how sharp his voice suddenly grew.

‘Now — ah — Stephen. Please see to it that this poor fellow is cleaned up and made a little more presentable. We shall — ah — hold a service for him,’ Dean Alfred said, his affable manner returning. Then, with a quick look down at the ruined body. ‘Perhaps we should buy a small coffin.’

‘Certainly won’t need a big one,’ Robert muttered under his breath with a look at the half-sized corpse before him.

Thomas was relieved to be able to settle the woman in her hut with her children and three of her female neighbours to look after her.

There was nothing he could say. His only consolation was, he had done all he could. At least poor Sara had been informed now. It would have been cruel to leave her unsuspecting. Thomas had seen that before on other building sites where the Master Mason was less caring than Robert, and widows had been left without even the courtesy of a message to tell them of their husband’s death. Robert’s bark was much worse than his bite, and today he was mourning not only a companion of some years, but one of his best trained and experienced masons.

On his way to the hovel today, Thomas had spied a small shop with skins of wine for sale. He hurried away and bought one, carrying it back less swiftly, hoping that she might have recovered. Hers was the sort of face he’d have liked to see smiling, not full of grief. When he first saw her, wearing that sweet and mischievous smile, he had felt that he would like to see her smile like that for ever.

She was awake, lying on her palliasse and shuddering with grief, when he gently pushed at the door and peeped around it. As soon as he did so, a matron of his own age, sixty or so, rose with a glower and thrust a hand against his breast, almost knocking him over.

‘Mistress!’ he cried.

‘Shut up. You’ve done enough harm already, bringing the maid this news. Do you go, now, and leave her to recover. Go on, clear off!’

‘Mistress, I have brought her this to soothe her spirits. Please tell her I’m very sorry.’

‘Sorry won’t buy bread for her and the boys, will it?’ the woman said caustically, snatching away the wineskin and closing the door in his face.

Henry Potell belched as he tipped the jug one last time. There was a small trickle, then two drips, and that was his supply of wine finished. He slumped back in his chair, polished off the remaining dregs, and stared moodily at the far wall.

Joel. He was to blame. It was all his stupidity that had led to this disaster. Soon Henry would hear that the pleader had been instructed, and then he’d be called to the court to explain his mistakes. Not that there was any excuse for what had happened. He’d simply trusted Joel, that was all. He’d been buying his frames from Joel since he first set up his shop. If he was to be sued now, he’d sue Joel as well. There was no reason why he should be held responsible, when it was another man who had built the blasted things.