House of Shadows (15 page)

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.

Calmed, he returned to surveying his environment.
This first, oblong area had green mould growing in the dampness, though he could tell that the walls themselves were finely wrought. There were few remains of what had once been stored here. As he looked cautiously around at the shattered ribs of old barrels, Falconer became aware of a rustling sound beyond the archway leading to the second section. He cautiously paced across the earth floor, wary of rats.

Reaching the archway, he poked the lantern into the second chamber and saw two forms huddled in the furthest corner. As the flickering light played on them, one moaned and held up a hand over his eyes. The other person lay quite still under his companion. They were both dressed in the black habit of the Cluniac monks, though both robes were spattered with the reddish mud common to the surrounding marshy land. The monk who had responded to the light of Falconer's lantern turned a pasty face towards him and reached out a hand in supplication. It was a hand bathed in the blackish colour of congealed blood.

‘Help me.'

It was just a whisper, but no less heart-wrenching to Falconer for that. The blood-covered monk was not much more than a boy, with a thin, drawn face. Falconer looked beyond him at his companion. This one was past any earthly help, his tonsured skull a mess of blood, shards of bone and grey matter. Falconer hesitated a moment, thinking of Saphira Le Veske and her search for her son. Then he framed the inevitable question.

‘Martin…Menahem…is that you?'

The boy frowned and stared fearfully into Falconer's eyes. It was then that William noticed splashes of blood on the boy's face too.

‘How do you know my name? My real name?'

William breathed a sigh of relief on behalf of Saphira. Her son was alive, and the body had to be that of the
other missing monk, Eudo. The problem was that Martin had been found in a locked room, crouched over the body with no one else present. And Falconer saw, lying close by Martin's feet, the stave from an old barrel spattered with Eudo's blood and brains. Martin had to be the killer.

Falconer looked down once again at the body of Brother Eudo. The splashes of blood and brain that spread in nauseous pools on the earthen floor radiated from where his head lay. There could be no question of him having been killed elsewhere and brought here to be hidden. The deed had been committed here, and Martin had been found behind a locked door. How could he be innocent? How could another man have been the murderer, only to spirit himself away through the solid and subterranean walls?

‘Menahem. We must be quick. Tell me, did you do this?'

A strangled moan escaped the boy's throat.

‘No. Yes. It is all my fault. They wanted to know about the golem and the mystery of God's creation. I led them to this.'

The golem. That was the name Saphira had used when telling Falconer of her husband's dabbling in emulating God as creator. But he worried that Martin's reply had been confused. He tried again to pin him down to the truth.

‘But did you kill Eudo?'

A sharp intake of breath from behind him made Falconer turn. Standing in the archway was the grim figure of John de Chartres. The prior was surveying the scene illuminated by the lantern and drawing the obvious conclusions from what he was observing. There was a strange look of satisfaction in his eyes, as if what he saw solved a problem for him. Falconer would have thought it made life even more difficult for the prior,
but apparently not. While Falconer's brain still raced, de Chartres commanded Brothers Thomas and Michael, who hovered behind him, to remove Eudo's body. They shuffled reluctantly into the confined space and lifted the body at each end, flinching at the sight of the blood and brains. They might have expected Martin to try to flee, but he merely slumped to the earthen floor, stained with his friend's blood.

‘This is what comes of introducing a viper into our midst.'

The prior's comment was bitter and yet also truculent, full of hatred for Jews and their supposed evil ways. Falconer pursed his lips, refraining for the moment from forming a sharp reply. If there was anything to be done for Martin, he would need the acquiescence of the prior. To make of him an enemy would not be productive at this juncture. Besides, if by some miracle the murderer was someone other than the young Jew, it would have to be someone in the priory. John de Chartres himself could not be ruled out.

The prior touched Falconer's arm, starting him from his reverie.

‘I shall go ahead and arrange for the body of Eudo to be laid in the side chapel. Will you stay on guard outside after Brother Thomas has locked the door? The boy can stay in here until we decide what is to be done.'

Falconer nodded, not intending to stay the other side of the door for long. If he could have the key, he could question Martin more successfully. And it would give him more time to examine the cellar more carefully for some clue to the conundrum facing him. He wondered where Saphira was now, and whether she knew her son was accused as a murderer. He left Martin in the inner room and walked out to the outer room
with the prior. Following the body, they both climbed the steps. Once outside the cellar, Falconer offered to lock the door.

‘Let me take the key, Brother Michael. You appear to have your hands full.'

The cellarer grimaced at the thought of handing over any of his keys. But as he still had hold of Eudo's legs it was an easy matter for Falconer to hook the large ring holding the keys from his belt. The cellarer grunted, struggling to maintain his hold on the body.

‘It's the—'

‘Large rusty one. Yes, I noticed.'

While the two monks hefted the body on to one of a pile of hurdles stacked in the corner, Falconer locked the door and then detached the key from the ring. By the time Brother Michael had trotted back to retrieve his precious keys, one key was tucked safely in Falconer's pouch. Having followed the monks across the floor of the storage area, Falconer stood quietly under the south-western end of the covered cloister. He watched as the sombre procession of prior and pallbearers, carrying their comrade's body on the makeshift bier, wended its slow way around the colonnaded cloister walk and into the priory church by way of the side door. When the candlelit procession had disappeared, he glanced up at the sky. A thin sliver of the moon was beginning to reappear in the cloudy sky. The heavy rain had stopped, but an intermittent drizzle still swept across the marshes, and in the distance shards of lightning continued to illuminate the land. Far away, thunder rumbled across the broad expanse of the seething River Thames.

‘Saphira.' He called out the woman's name quietly, hoping she might simply be in the shadows. There was no response, and he tried again, a little louder this time. ‘Saphira.'

Maybe she had thought the body on the bier was that of her son and had followed the procession towards the church. Whatever the case, Falconer had no more time to waste. He quickly made his way back to the cellar door. Using the purloined key, he let himself into the lower cellar, locking the door behind him. Descending the steps, he called out so as not to startle the boy.

‘Martin.'

There was silence. He called out again as he got to the bottom of the steps.

‘Menahem. I am a friend. I know your mother, Saphira.'

Even the mention of his mother's name failed to rouse the boy, and Falconer began to get worried. Had he been gone long enough for Martin to harm himself? He prayed not, and walked over to the inner room. It was empty. Bewildered, Falconer's initial thought was that Martin had secreted himself in the outer room, hoping to outflank the Regent Master. Maybe Martin thought he would leave the cellar door unlocked, and he could make his escape. William quickly turned back on himself and held the light up in the outer room. There were the same few rotten barrels he remembered from his first cursory examination, but nowhere for a person to hide. To make doubly sure, Falconer poked the lantern into each of the large niches recessed into the walls. Nothing. Martin had simply disappeared.

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.