Devil Water (49 page)

Father Brown returned to his seat without comment. “What is ‘The Lament’?” he said.

Mrs. Selby put down her knitting, clasped her scrawny hands, and, looking worshipfully at the portrait, began to sing in a reedy voice that yet had a true folk quality of feeling and pathos.

“Fareweel to bonny Dilston Hall
My father’s ancient seat,
None o’ my own s’all bide there now
Which gars my heart to greet.
Fareweel each loving well-known face
I always held so dear, My people now mun thole it alone
‘Tis more than I can bear.

“No more along the banks of Tyne
I’ll rove in autumn gray;
No more I’ll hear at early dawn
The lavrocks wake the day.
Wi’ me the Radeliffe’s name s’all end
An’ seek the silent tomb,
An’ many a kinsman, many a friend
Wi’ me has met their doom.

“And fare thou weel, my lady wife,
Ill, ill thou counselest me!
I wish my ears had been stricken deaf
Ere I heeded thy false folly.
So when the head that wears the crown
S’all be laid low like mine
Some honest hearts may then lament
Darntwatter’s fallen line.”

Mrs. Selby’s voice quavered off, she wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron, and said, “Niver a day goes by I divven’t sing it fur him, it gi’es me comfort.”

The priest grunted. “It wouldn’t give
him
comfort, Mrs. Selby. It’s a very touching ballad, but I must request you never to sing it again.”

“Whyiver not?” she snapped, disgruntled by this unexpected response. She was accustomed to praise from the village, praise and tears; indeed, her ballad was known and admired as far away as Hexham. .

“Because it is partly untrue,” said Father Brown sternly. “ ‘Tis most unfair to Lady Derwentwater, who was not responsible for urging his lordship to go out in the ‘Fifteen. Also, you have no right to suggest that little John, the present Earl, will not come here to his own someday.”

“I knaw he
won’t,
then!” said Mrs. Selby, with spirit. “I ha’ the sight, an’ my dreams are niver wrong. As for her ladyship, I knaw how she wheedled an’ cozzened him to -- ”

“You know nothing of the sort!” cried the priest, and clamped his mouth shut on anger. This was the way legends started, founded on half truths, twisted interpretations, and witless obstinacy. Yet there was no more use in scolding Mrs. Selby than there would be in scolding Jackie.

“Lady Derwentwater is dead,” he said starkly. “I trust you may find some pity for her now.”

The woman drew back and crossed herself, a momentary expression of shock gave way to triumph. “ ‘Tis what I thought.“ she said nodding. “I
tould
ye sir, I saw a presence i’ the tower, an’ ye wouldna -- ”

Father Brown held up his hand decisively. “We’ll not discuss that. It is sufficient that you join us tomorrow morning at the Mass for the repose of her soul. Good night.”

The priest went back to the gatehouse, heavyhearted. He dreaded the coming day, he dreaded the future and the increasing difficulties of guiding all the souls who were under his care, beginning with Charles Radcliffe. He spent most of the night in prayer.

It was nine o’clock of the following evening before Father Brown thought it safe for Jenny and Charles to come over to the chapel. By that time the villagers -- having been given a holiday and two casks of ale by Busby -- had drunk themselves into slumber.

Jenny had spent a dismal day wandering about the great deserted Hall, forbidden to go out lest someone see her. Charles had not awakened until noon, and then he had a splitting headache and no wish for company -- even Jenny’s. He had, however, told her what was planned for the evening, and that he insisted upon her presence. Jenny felt a thrill of horror when she understood what her father meant. They were going to open Lord Derwentwater’s coffin. “Do I
have
to be there, Papa?” she pleaded. “I’ve never seen anyone dead.”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said inflexibly. “But you are a Radcliffe, and I can see no better way to impress on you the sacrifice one of us has made for the True Faith, and the True Cause, in neither of which you have apparently any belief.”

This was Charles at his grimmest, and Jenny dared not protest. She escaped to sit on the window seat of the empty drawing room and watch rain leak through the rattling panes. In her heart there was a spark of mutiny all but smothered under apprehension. I’ll not look at the horrid thing, Jenny thought. They can’t
make
me open my eyes, and no dead body could convince me of
anything.
Nevertheless, she could not stop picturing what the corpse would be like, and by the time they gathered in the locked chapel she was much afraid.

“Sit down,” said Charles, indicating a hassock. She obeyed. The altar candles were lit, they cast flickering shadows over the three men gathered in the chapel --her father, the priest, and Alec. The latter had a crowbar, and other tools in a basket. The priest murmured something to the altar, then turning, said to Alec, “Are you certain we’re safe?”

“Aye, sir. Busby’s keeping an eye on the village, yet they’re all muzzy, an’ wouldn’t come near here at night anyhow.” Alec spoke confidently though he was uneasy, not only from the gruesome task which awaited them, but from wonder whether anyone suspected the story he had told them to explain his appearance at Dilston. He said he’d left Mr. Radcliffe’s employ, not being able to stick life in foreign parts, and had a fancy to see his homeland. After the first surprise, nobody had questioned him very much, except Bunting, the weaver, who had shown a stubborn hostile curiosity and disbelief.

“Well, we’d best begin,” said Father Brown in a low voice. He stood aside while Charles and Alec began to prize up the flat stones which covered the Radcliffe vault. Jenny sat petrified on her hassock, while sweat beaded her forehead. The priest suddenly became aware of her fear and put his hand on her shoulder. “ ‘Tis hard, my child,” he said softly. “Many a thing in life is hard . . .” His voice trailed off as he watched the two men, who worked in silence. The chapel floor gradually opened. Then the priest took a candle and peered down into the vault. “ ‘Tis that one,” he said in a hushed tone to Charles, “between your father and grandfather. I’ll help you raise it.”

The three men hoisted the coffin up and laid it on the altar step. “Holy Blessed Virgin,” whispered the priest. “It looks as fresh as the day I saw it lowered in here near eight years ago.”

At this Jenny could not help a frightened glance at the great casket covered with crimson velvet. She saw the brass inscription plate and the gilt knobs twinkling.

Her fear increased as she noticed the expression of her father’s face. “Open it,” he said in a thick strange voice. “Let me see my brother!”

“Have you her ladyship’s box ready?” asked the priest.

Charles made a sign of assent. Alec murmured a Pater Noster, gritted his teeth, and set to work with his tools. Except for the noises he made there was utter silence in the chapel while the rain spattered on the roof. Nobody saw the door handle turn softly, several times, as though someone pushed against the lock. Nobody saw a face appear and press itself against one of the south windows.

Jenny shrank tight into herself when Alec raised the coffin lid, her heart pounded, the image of the three men wavered and dimmed as she saw them lean over the coffin. She swayed and her mouth went dry as wool. Alec’s trembling cry revived her.

“Blessed Mother!” cried Alec. “‘Tis a miracle!” He fell to his knees on the altar steps.

Charles and the priest stood motionless, gazing into the coffin, then the priest made the sign of the cross, and said to Jenny, “Come here, my child. Of
this
you need not be afraid!”

Jenny rose and slowly obeyed the command, she came to stand beside her father, whose hands were clenched on the casket’s edge.

She looked down at what seemed to be a very pale young man, fast asleep. A young man in a full blond periwig, his small delicate hands crossed on his breast. Around his neck there was a broad linen band, faintly spotted with rusty blood. The lips were lifted in a gentle and yet enigmatic smile, the whole ivory-colored face with its closed eyes gave an impression of peace and exaltation. There was no sign of decay. On the contrary, it seemed to Jenny that she smelled a faint spicy scent like cloves, like gillyflowers.

She felt her father move beside her, saw him reach out and place a silver box on the shrouded chest above the quiet crossed hands. She heard her father whisper something about a sacred vow, and, “I swear it again by Almighty God and Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Then he pulled himself upright and leaning over kissed his brother on the forehead.

The priest stood transfixed, tears running slowly down his cheeks.

So bemused were they all, that a crash behind them of splintering glass seemed no more real than a distant clap of thunder. For a second even the shrill eruption of a man’s voice could not rouse them from the other-worldly quiet.

Then the priest turned as a man came stamping down the aisle, shouting, “By God -- Bunting was right when he sent for me! It
is
Charles Radcliffe! And the girl. You’ll not diddle me again as you did at Blanchland!”

It was Patten, brandishing a pistol, his hand bleeding from the shattered window glass, through which he’d forced himself.

Alec jumped up and reached for the crowbar. Jenny could not move, while Charles stretched out his arms as though he would shield the coffin. The priest stepped forward. “What does this brawling mean?” he said. “Brawling in my church!”

The Allendale vicar gave him a furious look, then stopped dead as he reached the edge of the open vault. He recoiled, and recovered instantly. “Oh, I saw you -- you Jesuit,” he cried, “through the window, up to some tomfoolery. Was that to be your new hiding place, Radcliffe?” He pointed to the vault, and laughed. “There’ll be no more hiding for you! I’ve six bailiffs outside, stout Hexham men, Bunting too, soon as I shoot this pistol, they’ll be here --”

“No!” said the priest in a tone so commanding that the chapel rang with it. “Even you, I think, would not defile the House of God! Approach and see what lies before the altar!” He motioned the others to stand aside.

Patten blanched as he saw the crimson velvet coffin, he tried to turn away from the priest’s steady, commanding gaze but he could not. He grasped his pistol tight, and warily came forward step by step. He mounted to the coffin and looked inside. He gave a gasp and turned violently as though to run. His legs would not obey. He looked again into the coffin, and his mean little face crumpled. The priest, scarcely breathing, thought he saw a light reflected upward onto it.

Patten stared down for a minute, then made a harsh noise in his throat. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said to the corpse. “I loved you well, despite --” He threw his arm across his eyes, and backed off until he reached the chancel wall, where he stood shaking.

The priest closed the coffin lid. “Aye --” he said on a long drawn breath. “And now, Robert Patten, will you still fire off your pistol?”

After a silent moment the man shook his head. “There shall be no more deaths through me,” he whispered as the priest bent to hear.  Let him go! Let Charles Radcliffe go! Tell them, Mr. Brown tell them out there that I made a mistake, that they may return to Hexham.”

As the priest unlocked the door and went out to the waiting bailiffs, Patten sank onto the stone floor, and buried his head in his arms.

Charles, Jenny, and Alec left Dilston as soon as there was light. They went back south the way they had come, along the Devil Water, where the same sorrow, the same sense of doom pervaded Jenny, though now she knew the reason. She had learned about suffering since she passed this way before, she had learned about fear and death. Her thoughts went again and again to the pathos and grandeur of that motionless figure she had seen in the coffin. She knew that Alec considered they had witnessed two miracles, the extraordinary preservation of the body and the complete change in Patten. It might be so, she had no means of judging. She knew too that her father had hoped for another miracle, that of her own conversion. This had not happened. She felt awe, pity, wonder. She now understood why her father felt as he did. But in her innermost heart something still resisted, and her heart was sad and tired.

They passed through Blanchland and did not stop, they crossed again the high Durham fells, and for Jenny the bliss was drained out of them. She sniffed the heather and the moors, she heard the curlews cry, while only pain gathered in answer -- pain and the memory of a day on other moors near Tosson.

Mile after mile the subdued trio plodded on. It was not until the country changed completely, became gently green and rolling, that their spirits lifted.

On Saturday, September 28, Michaelmas Eve, they entered the village of Welwyn in Hertfordshire, and found a little fair in progress. The church porch was heaped with sheaves of grain, and apples; there were gaily painted booths set up beside the churchyard; in the lot across from it, a noisy cockfight was in progress; a troop of Morris dancers cavorted up and down the High Street, knee-bells tinkling, ribbons fluttering, and the clumsy hobbyhorse uttering realistic neighs. Best of all to Jenny, there was music -- a fiddler, a guitarist, and a man with a triangle who bawled out a very ribald song about a lusty young smith “with a
jingle
bang,
jingle
bang,
jingle
hi-ho!”

The village was celebrating its harvest festival. From the Swan Inn opposite the church there floated a delectable odor of Michaelmas geese a-roasting.

Charles and Jenny, forced to pull up anyhow to let the dancers pass, looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “Very well, poppet” said Charles, as eager as she for a bit of gaiety, “we’ll stay here tonight. ‘Tis a goodish ride into London tomorrow, but no matter! I’ll buy you a fairing,” he added indicating the little booths. “What would you like?”

“A bunch of blue ribbons,” she said laughing.

“To tie up your bonny gold hair? You shall have them -- as token of the gewgaws I’ll buy you when I can.”

She sobered. They had not spoken of her future since the strange foolish night at Dilston, yet their imminent separation had begun to hang heavy over both of them. They found rooms at the Swan, left Alec to tend the horses, and sauntered out to the booths. Charles bought her sky-blue ribbons, which she tied in bows at her temples with such a distractingly pretty result that Charles hurried her out of the crowd of leering, desirous yokels into the inn parlor.