Paul Doherty: Song of a Dark Angel

'Look over there!' She pointed.

Corbett stared at the wall; he noticed that one small section of it, level with his eyes, had, at some time in its history, been plastered and carefully painted. There was a similar, but much larger, patch at the base of the wall.

'What was this?' Corbett asked.

'An anchorite's cell,' Dame Cecily said. 'A small recess built into the wall with a small door for the hermit to crawl through and a squint hole through which she could see out. In the early days of our house there would always be an anchorite living in that cell. She would fast and pray, participating in the services by peering through the squint hole. The sisters would leave bread and water outside the door. As the years passed, this practice ceased.'

I am sure it did, Corbett thought, staring at the prioress's plump face, her gold trimmed head-dress and pure woollen gown.

'And what happened then?'

'After a while there was no anchorite and Hunstanton became a lawless place.'

At least Dame Cecily had the courtesy to blush with embarrassment.

'The convent was designated a place of sanctuary. Fugitives could shelter here, within the chapel for forty days, after which they would have to give themselves up.' Dame Cecily drew in her breath and stared at the wall. 'There are rumours,' she murmured as if speaking to herself.

'Rumours about what?' Corbett asked.

'Ghosts. I have never liked this place.'

'Then let's exorcize these ghosts,' Corbett replied. 'Ranulf, go with the prioress. Bring back hammers and chisels and let's see what we can find. Oh, and Dame Cecily, let's keep this secret between ourselves. So, when you return, lock and bar the chapel.'

Dame Cecily waddled away, completely subdued, Ranulf walking beside her. Corbett went and stared up at the face of the Virgin; the baby she held stared serenely back with innocent eyes.

'Sweet Lord!' Corbett breathed. 'The sights you have to see.'

He took a taper from a small recess and lit a candle on the iron stand before the Virgin. Kneeling down, he prayed that he would finish this business and return safely to Maeve and Eleanor in London.

He sat back on his heels, revelling in the peace and serenity of the chapel. He started as the door was abruptly thrown open and Ranulf came swaggering back up the chapel, a leather bag clutched in his hand. Behind him, Dame Cecily locked and barred the chapel door and came hurrying up. Ranulf undid the bag. He brought out a long, wooden mallet with a great iron head. Corbett pointed to the plaster near the floor.

'Start there, Ranulf. I am sure you'll find a door.'

Ranulf pulled his sleeves up and set to with a relish. Corbett and the prioress walked away. Dame Cecily moaned softly as Ranulf swung the great mallet backwards and forwards against the wall in a cloud of dust and fragmenting plaster. Corbett, coughing and spluttering, told him to stop. Corbett examined the wall.

'We'll soon be through,' he commented. 'Continue!'

Soon the chapel was full of white dust. The floor was covered with fragments and shards of brick as Ranulf pounded like a man possessed. However, it was onerous work; Ranulf rested on the mallet, sweat running down his face.

'Whoever did this,' he coughed, 'did it in a hurry.' He pointed to the wall. 'Two lines of soft brick covered by a white plaster and painted to blend in with the rest of the chapel.'

He grinned mischievously at the now stricken prioress and continued with gusto. Corbett, covering his mouth and nose, watched the hole grow, a yard from the floor and about two foot across. At last Ranulf stopped. They all had to walk away coughing and spluttering, allowing the dust to settle. Dame Cecily took one look at the damaged wall and sat down groaning. Corbett went to the altar, took two candles, lit them and gave one to Ranulf.

'Now, let's see what secrets are here.'

They entered the recess, Corbett held the candle up as Ranulf squeezed behind him. The anchorite's hole was cleverly constructed, actually built within the walls of the chapel. Corbett had seen similar recesses at both Westminster Abbey and St Paul's Cathedral. This one was about six feet high and just over two yards broad.

'Where we came in,' Ranulf murmured, 'was the door. Somewhere about here should be the squint hole.'

Corbett lowered his candle and gasped. He crouched and pushed his candle closer. A skeleton lay sprawled in the corner, the bones yellowing. At first Corbett thought fragments of flesh were clinging to them but, as he crawled closer, realized they were only tattered cloth and a battered leather belt. Corbett grabbed Ranulf's candle and put it on the floor. A small dagger, the blade broken, lay glinting in the dust next to the skeleton. Corbett raised his candle. Alan of the Marsh (for Corbett knew it was he) had apparently attempted to dig his way through the wall – a pathetic attempt, as the broken dagger proved. On the wall, above the skeleton, was a crude drawing very similar to the one Corbett had seen in the Hermitage. The clerk stared round carefully; there were no other remains and the small, shabby purse attached to the belt was empty.

'God have mercy!' Corbett whispered. 'God have mercy on the poor bastard!'

He crawled out after Ranulf and handed the candles to the prioress.

'It's Alan of the Marsh,' he announced. 'Or, at least, his skeleton.'

The venerable lady had suffered enough shocks for one morning and, if Corbett hadn't caught her, she would have fainted to the floor. He gently assisted her across the sanctuary and into one of the stalls.

'What can I do?' she murmured. 'What can I do? Sir Hugh, what happened there?'

'What I suspect happened,' Corbett answered, sitting in the stall next to her, 'is that Alan of the Marsh fled here and sought sanctuary, hiding in the anchorite hole. He made his pact with the then prioress, handing over the cup and promising to keep silent about the smuggling activities of this house.'

'Was he walled in alive?' Dame Cecily interrupted.

Corbett noticed the trickle of sweat running down from beneath her coif.

'The walls are thick enough to drown any groans or cries,' Corbett explained. 'However, Alan was first drugged, probably with some sleeping potion or poisoned drink. Once he was unconscious, both the doorway and the squint hole were blocked and sealed.' Corbett shrugged. 'The prioress then had the anchorite hole bricked over. It was probably done at night, in a few hours, and the poor man was forgotten.'

'But surely someone would have noticed?'

Corbett shook his head. 'When I first came here you told me the building work was not finished until 1220. There would have been scaffolding and builders around. Just imagine. Alan of the Marsh is put there late one afternoon. The prioress brings him some food and drugged wine. She locks the door and immediately orders it to be bricked up. No one but she knows there's someone inside. Many, many hours later, Alan of the Marsh regains consciousness. He makes a pathetic attempt to escape.' Corbett stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary. 'I am not saying it happened like that. But I think it's the nearest we'll get to the truth!'

Dame Cecily rose and grasped Corbett's hand. 'Sir Hugh, for the love of God, there are long chests, boxes in the sacristy. Could you remove the skeleton? Please! I, we are not responsible for that poor man's death. I'll have prayers offered for the repose of his soul. I'll make reparation.'

Corbett saw that the prioress was so agitated she was on the verge of fainting again.

'One more question?' he asked.

She nodded.

'Does anyone else know the story of the fugitive?'

She shook her head. 'No one knows. The chronicle is kept hidden. Only the prioress is allowed to read it. As for the chalice' – she shrugged – 'it is now part of our treasure. No one comments on it.' She touched Corbett's wrist; her fingers felt cold as ice. 'But, please,' she murmured, 'get rid of that terrible thing!'