Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

Father Aylred looked tired and anxious. He plucked at Ralph’s sleeve and took him into the tower, locking and bolting the door behind him.

‘All is ready,’ he said. ‘Sir John has cleared Midnight Tower of everyone.’

Ralph gazed around. The vestibule had been transformed. All the sconce torches had been lit and burnt fiercely against the darkness. At the bottom of the steps a small altar had been set up, covered with a linen cloth. On this stood candles, a small metal cross, a wooden triptych, breviary, chalice and paten with two offertory cruets, one full of wine, the other of water. On a small stool lay the black and gold vestments for a Requiem Mass. On the wall above, a makeshift crucifix had been fixed.

‘We should begin now,’ Father Aylred said wearily. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘Are you well enough, Father? It can always wait. Do you think this is really necessary?’

‘The dead are close about us here,’ the priest replied hoarsely. He rubbed the side of his head. ‘They throng about. There’s wickedness, an evil which has to be purged, sins that cry out to be forgiven. The Mass for the dead will provide some light and hallow this dreadful place.’

Ralph forgot his own misgivings and helped the priest dress. Then Father Aylred stood at the altar. He bowed and kissed the red cross painted in the centre of the altar cloth.

‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti… I will go unto the altar of God,’ he intoned, ‘to the God who gives joy to my youth.’

Ralph was about to reply when another voice spoke, clear as a bell.

‘I will go unto the altar of God, to the God who gives joy to my youth!’

Both priest and clerk froze. The voice was not pleasant, mocking in its imitation.

‘We should leave this,’ Ralph urged.

‘That’s right, clerk, piss off!’ the voice snapped.

Two of the candles went out.

‘Why don’t both of you just piss off and leave us alone? What good is this mummery!’

Father Aylred calmly crossed himself again and began the Mass. This time there were no offensive remarks. Ralph nervously glanced up. The flames of the sconce torches had changed; they were no longer red and vigorous but weak with a bluish tinge. He noticed how cold it had grown and there was an offensive stench as if a cesspit had been opened. Father Aylred remained resolute. He opened the missal and quietly recited the collect, followed by the epistle. He was about to move the missal to the right side of the altar for the gospel when one of the sconce torches fell from its bracket, narrowly missing the altar, to clatter on to the floor.

‘Look, Ralph!’ the voice commanded. ‘Look up the stairwell!’

He obeyed and sprang back in horror. The darkened stairwell had disappeared. He stood at the mouth of a heavily-wooded valley. He was sure a veritable army was hidden among the trees on either side. Along the floor of the valley a man leading a sumpter pony was coming towards him. At every step the bells sewn on his jerkin jingled; it was as if some madcap child had seized a cluster of handbells and was ringing them for the sheer malicious joy of shattering the silence.

‘Don’t look!’ Father Aylred whispered over his shoulder. ‘Ralph, the Gospel according to St Mark.’

Ralph tore his eyes away and stared at the gold cross on the back of the priest’s chasuble. He forced himself to make the sign on his forehead, lips and heart, a symbolic gesture indicating that he was prepared to listen to and act on the gospel reading. The tower fell silent. Father Aylred finished the reading and moved to the offertory. The bread and wine were raised. Ralph, as if in a dream, got up to help him prepare the lavabo, where the priest washes his hands before the consecration.

Aylred’s face was now soaked in sweat. ‘Remember the Mass, Ralph,’ he whispered. ‘Try not to let the darkness daunt you. Say the psalm with me.’

‘I will wash my hands among the innocent, I will encompass thine altar, Oh Lord, that I may hear the song of your praise and tell them all of your wondrous work.’

‘You stupid bastards!’

Ralph was sure the voice was Beardsmore’s.

‘Ralph, you are a clerk! Tell this hedge-priest he’s just farting in the wind!’

The door to the tower started to shake as if mailed men were trying to break through. The same sound came from the stairs behind as if a horde of marauders had broken in and were clattering down, swords at the ready. Aylred grasped Ralph’s wrists and kept him at the altar.

‘Stay here!’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me!’

Ralph was too frightened to move. A cacophony of sound broke out. People shouting, crying, moaning, accompanied by pungent, acrid smells. Faces appeared on the walls as if the stonework was being sculpted by invisible hands. Somewhere a wolf howled. Ralph looked up. The wall opposite had disappeared. He was in that valley again. The eerie figure was moving towards him. Two great mastiffs had appeared with eyes like hell’s fire, cruel teeth bared. Ralph felt something kick his ankle and stared down at the priest who held the Host in his hands.

‘Stay next to me, Ralph, and watch what I hold.’

Ralph obeyed. The phenomena around him became more intense. Both men had to brace themselves against a rushing wind which seemed to come through the walls. Ralph felt as if he was on the prow of a ship heading into a storm. Shapes and shadows flitted round the altar. Father Aylred was quiet now, weak, but the sacred words were uttered. The bread and wine became the sacred Body of Christ. Everything fell silent. Father Aylred intoned the prayer for the dead, the solemn invocation that Christ and his angels would take all the souls of the faithful to a place of calm and peace. After that the disturbance faded. The sconce torches burnt more fiercely. But, just when Ralph thought they would be troubled no further, he felt as if doors were slamming shut around the altar, trapping them in a cage. Ralph was seized by a great terror as if some hideous horror from Hell was standing close by. A deep despair swept over him, a sense that all this was futile, a waste of time, and when the voice spoke, it seemed to come from the depths of his own heart.

‘What’s the use, Ralph? What is the bloody use of all this? Where’s Beatrice?’ A pause. ‘You know where she is! Wandering the snowy wastelands of Hell. Leave this priest to his mumblings.’

‘No, she isn’t!’ Father Aylred suddenly exclaimed. He turned his pallid, sweat-soaked face to Ralph. ‘My mother’s in Heaven,’ he gasped. ‘Isn’t she, Ralph?’

The clerk opened his mouth.

‘I’ve wasted my life. I might as well whistle across the graveyard. It’s so futile.’

‘It’s not futile!’ Ralph found it difficult to speak. ‘It’s not futile at all, Father!’

The priest looked as if he was going to leave the altar. He placed the Host down and stood, slightly swaying, as if he wanted to walk away but could not.

‘Take him away!’ the voice urged Ralph. ‘What he needs is a good cup of claret and a warm pair of tits!’

‘Let’s be away,’ Father Aylred hissed. ‘I say Mass and God doesn’t listen!’

A chorus swelled up, demonic voices shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ The rattling on the stairs, an icy coldness. Ralph realised that Aylred had reached the doxology of the Mass. He stretched out and picked up the chalice and the sacred Host. They both felt hot to the touch.

‘Say the words!’ he whispered.

Aylred swayed, face white, eyes dark pools of anguish.

‘Say the words!’ Ralph insisted.

Aylred turned away to retch. He leaned against the wall, spluttering and coughing. He began to edge towards the door. Ralph seized him and brought him back. He thrust him against the altar, eyes on the Host and chalice, ignoring the nagging insistence of the voice within. Ralph grasped the chalice and Host.