The Piper (15 page)

… the crypt at St Leonard’s Church in Hythe, a place where I know for a fact the prisoners of war were billeted at one point. Any casual visitor to the crypt can hardly fail to notice a dated inscription chiselled into the wall in French, some kind of quotation, people have suggested, though I tend to think of it more as a curse. The infamous Sheldon Curse, perhaps?

Peter read the next paragraph, something he had missed before.

I urge readers to visit the church themselves and take a cold hard look at the contents of the crypt. And pay particular attention to the date beside the inscription, something that I believe was inscribed on the captain’s final night on this earth. I’m absolutely sure that you will reach the same inevitable and chilling conclusion as me.

Peter frowned, slipped the book back into his knapsack, glanced at the closed door of the pub and decided that it could be some time before Adam emerged from there. So he started walking further up the hill. He hesitated for only a moment at the heavy wooden doors of the church, gazing back down the street to reassure himself that there was still no sign of Adam. Then he went inside.

He found himself standing in the dark, echoey interior, looking straight ahead to the nave, which was dominated by three huge stained-glass windows and a high, vaulted ceiling. He gazed around, wondering which way to go.

‘Can I help you?’ A vicar had come out of a doorway to his right, a plump, middle-aged fellow dressed in a tweed jacket with the white dog collar showing at the top of his black shirt. He had neatly brushed grey hair and blue eyes that twinkled behind wire-framed spectacles.

‘I was … looking for something,’ said Peter awkwardly. ‘Something I … er… read about.’

The vicar’s smile faded a little. ‘I think I can guess what that would be,’ he said. ‘It’s why a lot of people visit the church these days. Sadly, not enough of them seem to be coming in order to pray.’ He smiled to show that he was only joking. ‘I’m the Reverend Latimer, the parish priest here at St Leonard’s. May I enquire where you read about this … something?’

‘In a book,’ said Peter. ‘A … history book.’

Reverend Latimer sighed. ‘This wouldn’t, by any chance, be Professor Lowell’s book, would it?’

Peter nodded. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Oh yes, I know him,’ said Reverend Latimer, but he didn’t sound particularly pleased about it. ‘When the professor approached me to say that he was writing a history of the Marsh and that he wanted to include a chapter about the church, I was of course delighted. And I did everything I could to help him with his research.’ He scowled. ‘Then the book was published and I read it.’ He made a face as though he suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘A lot of people around here read it. It got this sleepy little community into a fair old tizzy, I’m afraid. I must say, I’m surprised that a young lad like you should have seen it.’

‘The professor gave me a copy,’ said Peter.

‘Did he now?’ Reverend Latimer looked as though he disapproved. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? I think the good professor is a bit of a self-publicist in his spare time. He … didn’t take money off you, did he?’

‘No. He wanted to warn me. You see, I’m … I’m staying at Sheldon Grange.’

‘Ah.’ The reverend looked perturbed by this news. ‘Well, I’m not going to say that I believe any of the fanciful claims the professor makes in his so-called history, but … I can see how it might trouble somebody who happens to be staying there. You’re a relative of the Sheldons, I suppose?’

‘No, sir. I’m an evacuee. From London.’

‘Hmm. Of course, I did hear that several of you had been sent out here. It was all organised by the Quakers, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Must be difficult for you, leaving home and all that. You can only have been here a short time?’

‘A week.’

‘And I expect you’re missing your family terribly.’

Peter nodded. ‘Yes, sir. It’s not just me. There’s my little sister, Daisy. It’s her I’m most worried about.’

The reverend nodded. He seemed to think for a few moments before he replied. ‘I can appreciate that the stories you’ve heard about the Grange’s history may have unsettled you. But … I’m sorry, what was your name …?’

‘Peter, sir.’

‘Well, Peter, at times of duress, it’s easy, isn’t it, to let your imagination run away with you? The point I wish to make is that things that seem strange and forbidding to us when we glimpse them in the dark can easily be explained in the cold light of day.’

Peter didn’t have anything to say to this. He was thinking of something that he couldn’t explain, that bleached white face staring up at him from the cold depths of the lake only an hour or so earlier – and in broad daylight. He considered mentioning the incident to the priest, but knew instantly that he would be disbelieved. So he tried something less likely to be challenged.

‘We hear music, sir. At night.’

‘Music?’ The reverend raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, our Mr Simmons does practise on the organ late some nights and people have occasionally complained about the volume. It’s amazing how sound can carry across these flat lands.’

Peter shook his head. ‘It’s a flute, sir. Or a … fladgy…’ He didn’t quite know how to say the word. ‘A French pipe.’

The reverend studied Peter for a moment. ‘A term that I believe is mentioned in the professor’s book. Do you not think, Peter, that his account has set your mind working in a certain direction, and that—’

‘It can’t be that, sir,’ interrupted Peter. ‘You see, I only read the book this afternoon, but I’ve heard the music several times over the week. And I saw…’

‘You saw what?’

It was in Peter’s mind to describe what he’d witnessed the previous night, the pale-faced girls, lurching and swaying around the garden in time to that unearthly music, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to put that into words either. It had also occurred to him that Adam might very well have emerged from the pub by now and be marching around outside, looking for Peter and cursing his bad luck for having the thankless task of minding the boy for a day. So he simply looked enquiringly around the nave and said, ‘The crypt?’

The reverend looked uneasy at this but he bowed his head and turned away. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘I’m far from happy about your reasons for wanting to see it, but it’s open to public view, so who am I to talk you out of it?’ He glanced over his shoulder as he walked. ‘We call it the crypt but that’s not strictly accurate. It should really be called a charnel house or an ossuary.’

They came to a small arched doorway in one wall and sure enough, beside it there was a little wooden sign that read,
To the crypt
. The priest reached out and flicked a switch on the wall.

‘You have electricity,’ observed Peter, and then thought how stupid that sounded. ‘They still use paraffin lamps at the Grange. And battery wireless.’

The reverend nodded. ‘I dare say it’ll be some time before they manage to run cables out to that wilderness,’ he said. ‘We’ve only just had this system installed. It’s helped enormously. With the old gas lamps we had, some visitors tended to let their imaginations get the better of them.’ He swung open the wooden door, revealing a set of stone steps leading down. ‘Now, follow me and please don’t be nervous.’

This last remark puzzled Peter, but he said nothing. He followed Reverend Latimer through the doorway and down the steps. It was only a short distance but it was like stepping into another world. They reached level ground and went through a second doorway and into a long, gloomily lit corridor with a doorway at each end. At first, Peter wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. He was aware of what appeared to be a long, spiky off-white hedge, running along one side of the wall ahead of him. Then his gaze focused and he couldn’t stop himself from drawing in his breath.

Bones
. He was looking at bones. Not just a few, but hundreds, probably thousands of them. They were piled to head height all along the left-hand side of the corridor ahead of him, with a narrow channel between it and the right-hand wall. They were mostly arm or leg bones, Peter guessed, but with several skulls piled decoratively on top. A sign warned people not to touch them, though Peter couldn’t imagine that anyone would actually
want
to.

‘Are they real?’ he heard himself asking, and his own voice sounded strange to his ears, halting and full of dread.

‘Oh yes,’ said the reverend, leading the way along the narrow corridor. ‘Young people like yourself seem to be fond of figures, so I’ll just tell you that there are eight thousand thigh bones down here and over two thousand skulls.’ He reached the end of the bone wall and led Peter around a corner. At the end of a shorter stretch of corridor, there were two huge arch-shaped alcoves set into the walls, on either side of a third arch, the upper half of which was a latticed window, through which a harsh light spilled. Each alcove had rows of wooden shelves running across it and each shelf was neatly stacked with human skulls, their blank eye sockets staring sightlessly out at the two people standing in front of them.

‘Golly,’ said Peter. He couldn’t think of anything else to say right now.

There was a long, deep silence then, as he and the reverend stood there, looking up at the serried ranks of death. Finally, Peter had to ask a question: ‘Who were they?’

Reverend Latimer frowned. ‘Nobody’s really sure,’ he admitted. ‘Oh, there are all kinds of theories. Some say that they’re the remains of foreign soldiers who died in a great battle. Others think they might be victims of the Black Death, though that’s unlikely because most remains were buried in quicklime to prevent the plague from spreading.’ He gazed up at the skulls as though seeking inspiration. ‘The likeliest explanation is that they’re just the bones of local people, dug up from the graveyard when the church was extended in the thirteenth century. The local authorities wanted to keep them on consecrated ground, but had to make room in the graveyard for new bodies. So they raised the floor of the chancel and had this corridor built beneath it to house the bones. Over the years, I suppose the collection has been … added to.’

‘You mean that … if you die around here, they stick your bones in this place?’ cried Peter.

The reverend stared at him for a moment and then smiled. ‘Oh, not any more,’ he insisted. ‘No, these date back a long way. Some people think they may even go back to Roman times.’

Gazing up at the skulls, something else occurred to Peter, something that Professor Lowell had hinted at in the book, but hadn’t actually said.

I’m absolutely sure that like me, you will reach the same inevitable and chilling conclusion.

The thought struck him like an open hand across the face.

‘They’re
here
, aren’t they?’ he gasped. ‘The French prisoners of war? Their bones could be hidden anywhere amongst this lot.’

The reverend snorted. ‘It’s a theory,’ he admitted. ‘Some would say a crackpot theory. And it’s certainly what Professor Lowell was hinting at in that book of his. Of course, it’s all speculation. And there’d be no way of finding out whether there’s any truth in it.’

‘So … you don’t think it’s true?’

The reverend sighed. ‘Somebody who believes in a thing can write about it in a way that makes it all seem very feasible,’ he admitted. ‘But it doesn’t necessarily make it the truth.’

‘That’s pretty much what Adam said.’

‘Adam?’

‘Oh, just somebody who works at the Grange.’ The mention of Adam brought Peter’s mind back to his reason for coming in here. ‘What about the inscription?’ he asked. ‘The one the professor mentions.’

Reverend Latimer frowned. ‘Oh
that
,’ he said. ‘Here.’ He led Peter closer to the wall between the alcoves and pointed out some words that were cut into the stone, just under the window.

Peter reached out a hand and traced them with his fingertips, noting how exquisitely carved they were, the letters deeply incised, ornate and graceful. It must have taken ages to chisel them into the hard stone. But he could see at a glance that it wasn’t written in English.

‘It’s really here,’ he murmured.

‘Oh yes,’ agreed the reverend. ‘A genuine piece of historic graffiti, that. Professor Lowell noticed it when he first visited the crypt. I didn’t realise that he would attach quite so much importance to it … or that he would suggest that this ‘J. M.’ could be the Micheaux character.’

‘Well, it all seems to fit,’ said Peter. ‘The date’s right, the initials are the same … and it’s in French, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But that’s really no great surprise. There were quite a few French prisoners of war housed in this area around that time. And the church records do mention that some of them were imprisoned down here for a couple of nights when the regular jail became flooded. But that isn’t proof, Peter. Who’s to say that it’s not somebody else with those initials?’

Peter looked at Reverend Latimer. ‘It sounds to me as though you don’t
want
to believe it,’ he said.

The reverend looked uncomfortable. ‘A lot of people got very upset by the professor’s theories,’ he said. ‘You must remember, many of the families he mentioned still have descendants living around here. I’m sure no reputable publisher would have agreed to put out the book, but as I understand it he paid for the publishing himself. What they call a vanity project. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to have sold in great numbers anywhere beyond the Marsh.’ He glared at Peter. ‘Can you imagine how it would feel? Somebody suggesting that your ancestors took part in a … murder? Little wonder the professor is now about as popular as the bubonic plague.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s had threats, you know. The windows of his house smashed, warnings to leave if he knows what’s good for him. His housekeeper walked out and I know he’s been unable to get a replacement. And some people have been less than charitable towards me. They’ve said that if I hadn’t helped him with his research in the first place, the book would never have seen the light of day. But how could I have known what he was going to write?’