The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘Noises?’

‘It’s probably nothing, really. Eustace is getting on in years, and his hearing isn’t what it used to be, but…’

‘But what?’

‘Others claim to have heard strange noises too. But that was only after Brother Eustace mentioned it, and you know how hysterical people can get about ghosts and such. Personally, I don’t believe a word of it.’

Falconer was now getting confused and asked the monk what he was talking about. The skinny fellow waved his arms in embarrassment.

‘Oh, just old tales of the founding of the priory, and missing chaplains and disappearing ladies of noble birth. Old wives’ tales, if you ask me.’ He hesitated and gave Falconer a shifty look that suggested he was not as dismissive of the tales as he claimed. He leaned close to the Master and whispered in his ear. ‘Some say there are ghosts down in the lower cellar there.’

Suddenly a peremptory voice rang out down the vaulted chamber.

‘What are you doing there, Brother Thomas?’

The herbalist, looking abashed, scurried over to John de Chartres as he strode out of the darkness.

‘Just searching, as you commanded, prior. When I came back to the porch, you were no longer there, and I suddenly thought of the old cellar room. Then I couldn’t find the door, and-’

The prior cut off his minion’s meandering story abruptly. ‘It is not necessary to look in there. And I was not where you expected me because I had other business to attend to. Important business.’

Falconer stepped between the two monks. ‘Not necessary to look in this room? Why?’

The prior seemed calm, though Falconer thought he detected a fleeting look of alarm crossing his features. He took the Regent Master’s arm, as though trying to guide him away from the room in question.

‘It is a…storeroom that is rarely used and mostly kept locked.’

‘And in your search for the two missing monks, you didn’t look there?’

John de Chartres now looked more than a little uncomfortable.

‘As I said, it’s normally kept locked by the cellarer. There is nothing much stored in it, as it’s below ground level and it’s rather…’ He hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘It’s rather cold and damp. Uninviting, shall we say?’

‘Then let’s find the key to it and see if there’s a body down there.’

John de Chartres looked taken aback by Falconer’s suggestion, as if unwilling to divulge the secrets that this chilling chamber might house. But then he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. ‘Follow me, then. It is not convenient, however. We shall have to rouse the cellarer from his sleep.’

Falconer grimaced. ‘Murder is a very inconvenient matter, prior. And it needs a full investigation.’

The cellarer, an impossibly obese monk whose robe strained at the task of covering his stomach, had not taken too kindly at being aroused from his bed in the dormitory, though Falconer imagined the other monks sharing the communal sleeping area might have been glad of his awakening. His snores had been audible from the bottom of the night stairs leading up to the first floor of the dorter. They had first been met by the elderly monk called Ranulf, who slept by the entrance. It appeared he was a light sleeper and had been stationed close to the door by the prior to ensure that none of his fellows roamed in the night. He had led them to the cellarer’s bed. It had taken them much longer to waken Brother Michael than it had done Ranulf. Now, as the cellarer donned his heavy black robe, Falconer’s gaze drifted over the long room. The darkness of the sleeping quarters was profound, deepened by the total eclipse of the moon outside the window arches. Then he saw the faint light of a taper moving between the beds, and he followed the grey shape of someone slipping out through the furthest doorway. Knowing the layout of such places and that the latrine block lay in the reredorter to the south, he guessed that someone who had been disturbed by them had taken the opportunity to rise and take a piss.

That was another symptom of advancing years that Falconer himself had become only too aware of. It also reminded him of his unsuccessful attempt to find a specific for his memory problem and nudged his niggling megrim to the level of sharp pain. He popped another leaf into his mouth and chewed, waiting for the euphoria it would soon bring. By the time the little procession was wending its way down the staircase towards the storerooms of the priory, he felt a lift in his spirits. He thought of the Jewess, Saphira, and hoped she was still undiscovered in the cellarium building.

Waddling ahead, the cellarer led them inside his storage area and thence to the corner where Brother Thomas still stood. He moved a few boxes and revealed a heavy studded door that showed all the signs of little use. Cobwebs were draped across the top of the stone arch, and the metal of the lock was badly rusted. The cellarer complained as he fumbled for the right key among the bunch he held in his chubby fingers.

‘I don’t know why you should want this place unlocked. I have not used it in my time as cellarer, which amounts to some dozen years. I was told by my predecessor that the cellar – which is below ground – is useless for storage purposes. It’s cold and damp due to the level of the river and prone to flooding.’

The prior turned to Falconer and explained. ‘In the early days of this priory, the monks diverted the River Neckinger to serve the water mill. But the stream will find its own way still. Given that, and the fact that occasionally the Thames itself sometimes breaks through its embankment if the locals do not maintain it properly, we are prone to flooding here. This room is kept locked, as you can see, and there is no possibility that anyone can enter it without Brother Michael here knowing. We are wasting our time.’

It was then that they all heard a strange, muffled keening sound coming from the other side of the door. Brother Thomas and the cellarer gasped, and the colour drained from their faces. John de Chartres merely looked grim, then, dropping his gaze away from Falconer’s, he sighed.

‘Open the door,’ he ordered peremptorily.

The cellarer pushed the key into the lock, where it stuck until he forced it round. Together, he and Thomas pushed against the rusted hinges until the door opened. A wet, musty sort of darkness flowed out of the entrance. Falconer was the first to step forward.

‘Let me go first.’

No one objected, and Falconer took the lantern that the cellarer had been carrying from his trembling hand. Thrusting it forward, William could see a steep flight of steps running down between narrow walls. The keening sound had ceased, and all he could hear was the sound of water dripping somewhere in the chamber. He eased his way down the steps, which were only slightly worn in the centre, suggesting they had indeed been rarely used even though the chamber was quite old. At the bottom of the steps he felt rather than saw a floor of packed earth that muffled his footsteps as he walked on to it. Raising the lantern, he looked around him.

The cellar was rectangular, but at some point a wall had been erected partway down, creating two rooms. The space he could observe by the light of his lantern seemed more like a crypt than a cellar. Hollows were cut into the walls, each roughly the size of a human body, though none of them was occupied by anything other than spiders and their webs. He sensed the sepulchral gloominess closing in on him and, feeling dizzy momentarily, leaned his free hand against the wall. Under his palm, the stones were cold and clammy. In fact, the very air he was breathing was chill, yet at the same time it tasted of wet, heavy mud. For a while he felt as though he was suffocating, as if being buried alive. He sucked in one more breath of the thick, fetid air and held it down, steadying his thumping heart.