What Lies Beneath

Chapter 16

Jan half expected, the next morning, to regret his uncharacteristically hasty invitation, but as he drove to the library he found he was looking forward to Amy Haywood’s company.

He would not have been surprised to find she was not there, or that she had left some flimsy excuse, but she was waiting, wearing the jeans and scarlet shirt she had on last evening, with the jeans tucked into the tops of boots. She bounced out of the library and into the car, and although she was small and fine-boned she seemed to fill up the car with enthusiasm. She was not wearing anything as definite as sprayed-on perfume, but there was a faint, pleasing impression of clean hair and clean skin.

She had brought a large tote bag with notebooks and pens and a camera, which she said she was not sure how to work. ‘Oh, and I’ve brought the St Anselm’s photographs, as well. They’re quite old – somebody’s written “June 1930” on the back – so they’re a bit faded, but the detail’s quite good.’ She burrowed in the tote bag.

‘They’re clearer than I expected,’ said Jan, studying the photos.

‘Yes, and d’you see there and there on the front? Those strips of vertical stone – pilasters – are very Saxon. At least I think they are. I’ll have to look it up to be sure. They might be fake, of course. Victorian pastrycook.’

Priors Bramley, when they got to it, was more desolate than Jan had expected. As they left the car on a grass verge and walked towards the cluster of buildings, he experienced a wave of loneliness and a feeling of isolation so strong that he felt as if Priors Bramley’s past reached imploringly out to him. He did not believe in ghosts, but he did believe strong emotions could sometimes linger. God knew what agonies and fears had filled up this small pocket of land years ago. After all, this was a village whose residents had been forced to leave it before it was drenched in some lethal mix of poisons and then left to its own tainted remoteness.

A policeman on duty in the lane sketched a half-salute and seemed pleased at the small interruption to his day.

‘We wanted to take a look at the church,’ said Jan. ‘I was told that would be all right.’ He produced a small card, which he handed to the policeman, who glanced at it briefly, then stood up a bit straighter and said, ‘Quite all right, sir.’

‘Are the police still working at the manor?’ asked Amy.

‘Forensics are just finishing up. They’ve been searching the lodge, and the manor itself as well, of course.’

‘I suppose they’re trying to identify the body,’ said Amy.

‘Some hopes,’ said the policeman. ‘A tramp is most people’s guess. Oh, you’ll mind where you tread, won’t you?’ he added conscientiously. ‘Everywhere’s still sopping wet from the decontamination and it’s a bit muddy and slippery in places. I’m supposed to warn everyone about that.’

‘We’ll be careful,’ said Jan.

‘What on earth does your card say?’ demanded Amy as they walked away. ‘Because it certainly impressed the policeman.’

‘ “Doctor of Ancient Music Studies and Medieval Church History”,’ said Jan and Amy suddenly felt inadequate. Clearly he would be regarding her as one of his students. When he got back to Oxford and the nice wife he undoubtedly had, he would say casually to her, ‘I was latched onto by an eager young archaeology student while I was at Bramley. Durham, I think she’s at. If she’s ever in this area we’ll ask her for a meal.’

And the nice wife would nod and think, aha, another breathless young thing who fell in love with you, and say yes of course they would invite the Durham undergraduate to the house.

At this point Amy reminded herself that she had eschewed men for ever, and that from now on she was dedicating herself to her career and would most likely end up being a dessicated academic with no private life whatsoever and frumpy clothes.

At first it was not particularly disturbing to walk along the village street. The spraying was still drying out and there was a faint drip-drip of moisture from within some of the buildings. The ground was muddy, and despite the warm sunshine the air had a chill. Jan repressed a shiver.

Once Amy pointed to what looked like a faint glint of amber on the ground, like tiny specks of caramelized sugar. ‘And there’s a kind of sickly sulphurous taste in the air,’ she said. ‘Like bitterly cold metal, but with something very unwholesome just underneath.’

‘The Poisoned Village,’ said Jan, half to himself. Then, ‘But it’s more likely the chemicals from the decontamination that we can smell.’

‘It’s sad, though, whatever it is. It’s only fifty years since this village was lived in and there were ordinary people who had lives and friendships. And now it’s like a lost world.’

‘That shouldn’t worry you – you deal in lost worlds.’

‘But this is a world people still remember,’ she said. ‘My grandparents remember it – and Clem Poulter. Even the shop signs are still in place. You can read some of the lettering. That bow-fronted one was a bakery. It’s all spooky, isn’t it?’

‘Ghosts?’ said Jan lightly.

‘Well, not midnight groans and creaking coffins,’ said Amy. ‘And you needn’t laugh, because there are ghosts here, only I think they’re nice ordinary ghosts. All the people who used to shop, and scurry in and out of each other’s houses, and gossip about what Mrs Whatnot at number thirteen was up to with the milkman yesterday. Don’t look so quizzical, I do know it’s centuries since people got up to things with the milkman.’

‘And even longer than that since anyone cared,’ said Jan, irresistibly drawn into the world Amy’s word-pictures were painting, and preferring her cheerful homely ghosts to the lonely dispossessed shades he had sensed earlier.

‘They’d buy all kinds of things we’ve never even heard of from these shops,’ said Amy. ‘There wouldn’t be pizzas or sun-dried tomatoes or pasta, or vacuum packs of meat, would there?’

‘Indeed not. This one was a butcher’s shop, by the look of it,’ said Jan. ‘Scrag end of lamb, and brisket and brawn.’

‘It’s a lovely old place. I’ll get a shot of it, shall I? What was brawn, for pity’s sake? It sounds like a posh way of saying brown, or a make of hairdryer.’

‘Pressed meat made from a pig’s head.’

‘I knew it would be something utterly disgusting,’ said Amy gleefully.

‘Remember that next time you eat sushi or fried squid.’

The tainted smell, once they were further along the street, was not so noticeable, but the occasional amber glint still shone here and there, and the brooding silence pressed down on them. Clumps of vegetation, flattened and pallid, still clung to walls like boneless fingers, scrabbling for life.

‘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.’

‘There’s only the spooks to hear you.’

‘I’ll bet they’ve cursed a bit in their time. OK, I’ve got it.’ She held up a small oblong plaque.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s filthy,’ said Amy, screwing up her face in disgust. ‘Wait a bit, I’ll find another tissue. It’s crusted with disgusting mould, but there was that sheen of something in the camera flash. I thought it might be brass or even silver.’

She bent over, cleaning the oblong industriously, then gave a soft hoot of satisfaction. ‘Brilliant, it’s inscribed. I thought it looked as if it was.’

‘What does it say?’

‘I think it’s brass, like you see on church pews or pulpits. It says: “Donated by the Cadence family, 1920. ‘I have learned to look on the still, sad music of humanity.’ ” Wow.’ She scrambled back over the pews to show him. ‘The Cadences are the family who used to live at the manor,’ she said. ‘They were some kind of merchant bankers, I think, or one of those ultra-posh private banks for the super-rich. I only know about them because of helping at the library,’ she added, in case Jan thought she had any sympathies with plutocracy. She reached out to trace the engraved words with a fingertip. ‘I suppose it could have come off one of the pews, but I wonder why 1920 was significant? To commemorate someone who died in the First World War?’

‘They’d have named him in that case,’ said Jan.

‘True. D’you mind if I have a look to see if there’re any more of these? If so, I might liberate one for the library’s exhibition. I’ll leave this one where it is, though.’

She went back to the altar. The Cadence family were all long since dead, including the man with dark hair and sexy eyes in the photo dated Christmas 1910. It would be interesting to know who he was, though. The line about ‘the still, sad music of humanity’ was disturbing. It suggested some kind of lesson learned or some deep tragedy. Amy would look it up at the library.

Jan’s voice broke into this. ‘Amy, it’s half-past one. Are you hungry? How about I buy you lunch at the Red Lion as a thank you for helping me?’

‘That’s the kind of thanks I like,’ said Amy. ‘OK, we’ll leave the spooks to themselves.’