The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Falconer stood in the centre of the cellar, irrationally imagining that Martin was always just behind him, moving every time Falconer turned. It was all he could do to stop himself spinning around continually. He remembered his proud boast to the prior, that once you had eliminated the impossible, then the improbable stood as the truth. But if the impossible was that Martin had somehow walked through solid walls, what was the improbable truth that remained?

He began to scan the cellar more carefully, lifting the lantern into all the corners. It was as he had originally observed – a space with a low, vaulted roof that had at some point been divided part way by a sturdy partition wall. This first chamber was rectangular, and the finely wrought walls were studded with niches that would do equally for bodies or provisions. The damp state of the cellar had probably called for such shelves, or whatever had been stored on the floor would have been rotten in a short time. As indeed had all the barrels that still remained, rotting and caved in, their contents long dispersed. Falconer could see that the only way out was up the flight of steps.

He paced back through the archway to the second chamber, noticing for the first time that there was a door hung in the opening. It had been pushed wide open, scribing an arc on the packed earth floor. The lantern was still in his hand, and he pulled the door closed behind him. He once again looked around, sensing that something was wrong. All he could see that was unusual was a scuffed-up mound of earth in the centre of the room. But even that was too shallow to be anything like a grave. He decided to ignore it as insignificant. He was aware of a swishing, gurgling sound, like running water, deep in the bowels of the priory. For a moment his head swam, and he felt a little sick. Maybe he had taken too many of the khat leaves that served to ease his megrim. He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. When he opened his eyes again, he was disappointed not to see anything different. Then he realized what it was that was niggling at his brain. The room was perfectly square. But the partition wall behind him had looked to have been constructed halfway down the original cellar space. He looked around again.

The side walls were exactly the same as those in the outer chamber – smooth and well finished, if a little stained with green mould. Even the partition wall had been carefully constructed. But the fourth wall, now facing him, was different. It had been hastily constructed of a different material and even bulged slightly. The mortar was old and crumbly, and some of the stones were loose. For the room to be square, this wall must have cut off a section of the old cellar, and he wondered what might be behind it. He began to scrape at the mortar with his fingernails.

Suddenly he heard a deep, unearthly, indrawn breath behind him. And a massive force slammed into his back, crushing him against the crumbling wall. The lantern clattered to his feet, and the room was plunged into darkness. He spun sideways but was pitched forward by the weight of his attacker, and he ended up face down on the floor. Whatever it was attacking him was cold and clammy and smelled of wet clay. It pushed him down into the earth of the cellar floor, half-suffocating him. It sat on his back, a heavy, dead weight that prevented him from turning over and defending himself. He recoiled from the fetid breath that exhaled over his shoulder, assailing his nostrils. He had a fleeting glimpse of clay-covered features, horribly distorted as if squeezed imperfectly out of mud from the surrounding marshes. His panicking mind formed the image of a monster. A golem.

He fought back, managing to grasp one of the creature’s legs that straddled his back. But his grip was lost on the slippery mud, and he could no longer breathe as the golem’s hands closed on his throat. Abruptly he heard a thundering noise from somewhere above him. He felt his face pushed hard into the ground, and then the impossible weight was lifted from his back. For a while he lay gasping for breath, and then he managed to sit up. Once again he was alone. The thunderous noise returned, and he recognized it as someone hammering on the door of the cellar. Of course, he had the key and whoever it was could not get in. But someone – or something – had done so, almost killing him. Ignoring the hammering on the door, he picked himself up and addressed the conundrum one more time. And it came to him like one of the flashes of lightning that had riven the sky that night. Feeling strangely light-headed, he laughed at his own stupidity, and the riddle that Peter had drummed into his skull came back to him.

‘Now, what was it again?’ A tendril of fear drifted across his mind as he worried about his errant memory failing him. But he need not have been concerned, as the riddle stood out as clear as day. ‘“Look for geometric perfection, where the entrance numbers six, between eight and nine is the flaw. There is the three, and the name of God is creation.” Well, I know that geometric perfection can be exemplified by the cube. So…’

He stood in the centre of the room and slowly turned. A perfect cube – if you ignored the ribbing of the ceiling.

‘Now, let me remember some of the number symbolism Saphira recited to me from what she remembered of the Kabbalah. Three is water, six is…six is…’ It wouldn’t come. ‘Never mind for the moment. Eight is west, and nine is north. So the flaw is in the north-west corner.’

He held the lantern up to that corner of the room, but he could see no flaw other than the imperfect jointing of the crude wall that cut off the end of the room. Then he remembered.

‘Six is below, or depth.’

He crouched down and shed some light on the dark corner at his feet.

‘Aaaaah.’

There, close to the bottom of the side wall, was another niche. But this one was deeper than the others. Much deeper and stone-lined. Moreover, Falconer could hear the rush of water emanating from deep within it. Three is water. There was another way in and out of the cellar after all. He poked the lantern ahead of him and with a bit of effort squeezed his broad shoulders into the gap. He wished he was once again the slim young man who had sallied out as a mercenary soldier many years ago. But with a bit of wriggling he finally found himself head down in the entrance to a chilly tunnel that ran south. A thin strand of water lay along the bottom of the leat. It smelled stagnant and dank. Just beyond the edge of the light cast by his flickering lantern, he thought he detected movement. A sort of scuttling, and rustling accompanied it. Either rats or the golem, he was not sure which. Still, to prove what he was beginning to think about the comings and goings of the ill-fated trio of young novice monks, he knew what he had to do. He wormed his way back out of the tunnel entrance and sat on the floor of the room in which he was now sure the monks had met in secret. If he was to get down into the tunnel, it would have to be feet first, however. So he hoisted up the bottom of his dingy black robe and tucked it into the belt around his waist. Surveying his new boots, he contemplated the consequences of removing them and exposing his bare toes to the attentions of the rats in the tunnel. There was nothing for it but to take them off. He couldn’t ruin them, as he would not be able to afford another pair for years. His pale legs and feet thus exposed, he took a deep breath and slid down into the void. The water at the bottom was cold and turbid. The mud squeezed up between his toes, giving him the sensation of being sucked down. Fearful of attack in this vulnerable position, he made a quick, anxious twist of his torso and was inside the tunnel.

He had to crouch almost double, but he could stand, and would not have to crawl along its length. That was a relief at least. Holding the lantern before him, he made his way down a slight slope, his shoulders brushing the roof of the tunnel. Whatever hid in the dark ahead receded before his progress. Soon his back was aching, and he yearned to stand upright. But at least he had not encountered the golem again. The thought of struggling in such a confined space did not bear thinking about. He pressed on, aware of the water level rising around his ankles. Finally he could detect a greyish shape ahead of him. Nothing too distinct; simply a segment of darkness that was not as Stygian as the rest. It was the end of the tunnel, and he was glad. The water was lapping close to his thighs and running a little swifter here. Finally he was able to poke his head out and stand upright. Even the persistent drizzle washing over his face did not destroy his elation. He looked around and saw that he was in the open leat that ran under the reredorter. The dark bulk of the building rose to his left, and the water flowed swiftly down the leat towards the kitchen block and water mill to his right.