Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

‘Is the plantlife all dead?’ said Amy, seeing this. ‘I’m not very good on botany and stuff. Those trees look withered and there’s hardly any grass anywhere. But what I know about plants could be written on a plate of brawn.’

‘I don’t think the trees are actually dead,’ said Jan. ‘But they look a bit sick.’

‘I wonder if that’s because of the stuff they’ve been spraying, or if the Geranos did something peculiar to the plantlife?’

‘You’re getting into John Wyndham’s Triffid territory,’ said Jan, smiling.

‘I’ll remind you of that when the plants start walking towards us,’ Amy laughed.

The road was cracked and uneven, and in places had partially collapsed. Several times Jan reached automatically for Amy’s hand, helping her across a particularly bad bit of ground, and every time he did so he was strongly conscious of the feel of her smooth young skin against his palm.

‘It’s all really eerie, isn’t it?’ said Amy. ‘And you know the eeriest part of all?’

‘The fact that there’s hardly any colour anywhere,’ said Jan. ‘Everything’s grey-green, except for those odd specks of amber.’

‘ Yes . Did the Geranos do that to the village? Leach all the colour away.’

‘I should think it’s more likely the decontamination. I’m not very knowledgeable, but I have a feeling they’d use bleach or chlorine. The church is just along here, on the left. We can’t see it from here because the street curves round.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I looked at an old Ordnance Survey map.’ He glanced down at her and smiled. ‘Basic research, Amy.’

As they went on, the colourlessness Amy found so eerie seemed even more noticeable. Here and there were occasional splashes of ordinary brightness – mostly from odds and ends of machinery or litter left by the recent workmen or the police investigation, once or twice from some rogue patch of plantlife – but in the main Priors Bramley was shrouded in misty grey-green shadows, and Amy’s scarlet shirt was the only real note of colour.

‘This looks like the curve in the road,’ said Jan presently. ‘We should see the church at any minute.’

‘Clem said it had dry rot since anyone can remember,’ said Amy. ‘So it’ll probably be almost completely crumbled away.’

But it was not.

Part of the lich-gate had gone, but the frame was still in place and also the small shallow seat. Beyond this was a Saxon cross, black and stark, and behind the church itself were the skeletons of several ancient trees, the massive trunks intact, but the branches withered in the way most of the trees seemed to be. These are cedars, thought Jan. Probably several hundred years old. They’d have had massive spreading branches shading the church, sheltering the graves and keeping everywhere cool and dim.

At his side, Amy said softly, ‘It’s still decaying, isn’t it? Nowhere’s actually dead, but it’s all actively rotting. As if something diseased got into the marrow of the village – into the bricks and timbers and earth – all those years ago.’

But the ancient church of St Anselm, the church that for over a thousand years had clung to the ancient and rare tradition of Ambrosian plainchant, was still intact. Jan and Amy went warily up the path and peered through the low-arched doorway.

‘We meant to go inside, right?’ said Amy.

‘Yes.’

As they went towards the doorway Jan realized his heart was beating fast, which annoyed him. It’s a ruined old church, he thought, that’s all. There won’t be anything inside it. Anything of any value or interest will have rotted away or been looted and there’ll be nothing to find. The music will long have gone.

But it had not.

The instant Jan entered St Anselm’s its atmosphere fell about him like a leaden cloak and he had the strong feeling that for all its centuries of worship, there had been deep unhappiness here. A darkness, he thought, that’s what I’m sensing. A deep, lonely, despair.

The church was small, as he had expected, and very decayed. Parts of the roof had gone, but the thick stone walls were still standing and everywhere was cool and dim. The scents of damp and of dank plaster, and what Amy had called the tainted smell were very strong.

Rotting vegetation thrust up between the cracked stone floor, and some of the marble statues had fallen from their plinths and lay splintered in the aisle and apse. But the pews were still there, as if waiting for the worshippers who had once sat and kneeled in them, and the altar stood against tall windows, which were the traditional three-fold structure. Two of the windows were broken, and shards of glass clung to the framework, glistening like tiny icicles, but the central window was still in place.

Amy went forward to examine the altar, stepping warily through the debris, and Jan was walking towards a low archway to see what lay beyond it, when she called to him.

‘Jan – look at this.’

‘What have you found?’

‘I don’t know if it’s of any interest, but come and see.’ She was standing directly beneath the left altar window. Shards of glass lay everywhere, some of them quite large sections, still partly encased in thin lead strips. ‘Look.’ She pointed to a nearly oblong piece. The colours were faded almost to monochrome, but the picture was clear: a female figure in flowing draperies, seated at some kind of musical instrument.

‘St Cecilia, almost certainly,’ said Jan, studying it. ‘Patron saint of music.’

‘But look at the scroll thing over her head,’ said Amy. ‘It’s musical notation, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’ Jan went closer, heedless of the fact that the hem of his coat was trailing in the mud and dirt. ‘Have you got a tissue or a handkerchief or something? Thanks.’ He took the tissue and with infinite delicacy propped the piece of glass against the wall, then began to wipe the surface clean.

Amy offered him the rest of the tissue pack. ‘Can you read the music?’

‘Just about.’ He peered closer. ‘It’s only very brief, and it could be anything, of course—’

‘But it could be Ambrosian?’ said Amy, hopefully.

He smiled at her. ‘I’d have to compare it with known notation, but it might be from the Sanctus melodies.’

‘That’s good, is it?’

He smiled again, and went on studying the glass. ‘The chants of the Mass are divided into the Ordinary – fixed points in the service, which don’t change, and of which the Sanctus is a part – and the Proper where the texts change depending on the feast.’ He delved in his pocket for a notebook, and began to copy the notes. ‘It’s a very simple, but very beautiful chant,’ he said. ‘And if I could match this with the Sanctus notation it could be definite proof of St Anselm’s musical past. Can you get a couple of really clear shots of this?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Thanks.’ Jan straightened up, pocketing the notebook. ‘What a tragedy that this church was left to rot. The carvings are beautiful and the stained glass must have been exquisite.’

He returned to his exploration. Amy watched him for a moment, then concentrated on photographing the glass. She was pleased she had found it; Jan’s eyes had glowed with fervour.

She finished photographing the glass, then took several of the altar.

‘What you are doing?’ said Jan, turning round as Amy clambered over the pews. ‘Be careful – you could easily turn your ankle on those stones.’

‘There’s something shiny in that corner,’ said Amy. ‘Half under that window – there was a sort of glint when I took that last photo.’

‘If it’s the amber stuff again, don’t touch it.’

‘It’s not the amber stuff.’ She negotiated the pews with care. ‘Good job I’m wearing rubber soles. Damn, I can’t reach it. I probably shouldn’t say damn in a church.’