Unholy Relics and Other Uncanny Tales

AN ABBOT’S MAGIC

It was not by chance that my colleague Alan Granville and myself chose the rolling east Leicestershire uplands for our home and the scene of our historical researches. The region has an air all its own, and a wide, spacious charm that grows upon the dweller in its midst; and we love it best, not in jaunty spring or drowsy summer, but in the mellow autumn, when the distant coppices of its hunting-country are a kaleidoscope of tones and colours. Its ancient hilltop earthworks are then realms of mist and mystery and silence, and the wild legends of the district seem to come to life.

In imagination we can see once again the ghastly skeleton of Robin-a-Tiptoe, hanged poacher of old time, dangling from the boughs on the crest that bears his name, his feet tapping out a danse macabre on the Tilton-Billesdon lane; we ride again under the moon with the unquiet spirits of Eustace de Folville and his gang, hasting to murder the Justiciar in Kirby Fields when the third Edward was King; and we wonder if we shall chance to meet, in the streets of superstitious Tilton itself, the ghostly form of Giant Johan Digby, mighty swordsman in the wars of the Roses, or hear in one of its old houses the eerie rappings of his descendant Sir Everard of Gunpowder Plot . . . but enough, lest this become a catalogue of folklore.

Well, late in September last year, after a glorious spell of Indian summer, we could see that the weather showed signs of breaking up, so Granville proposed that we lay aside our books and pens for a day, and get out into our beloved rolling hills.

Readily assenting, I suggested that we might “kill two birds with one stone” by inspecting a mound known locally as Monk’s Grave, on which I had just had an inquiry from the Ordnance Survey, near the wild hamlet which I will call Hamilton.

“Rather interesting, that,” remarked Alan, as I was looking up the mound on the six-inch map while our ex-service manservant packed up provisions for the day. “Obviously it has nothing to do with monks: it looks like a prehistoric burial-mound, and if it is, local folk-memory has preserved the fact by tacking on this name, with a little confusion due to Hungerby having been a grange of Leicester Abbey.”

Deciding on our cycles in preference to the car, we made leisurely progress over a countryside of wide vistas, fox-coverts, and teeming history, and duly inspected our mound, which proved to be definitely a ditched round-barrow of the type associated with Bronze Age burials.

“We ought to get the Archæological Society to dig it,” I exclaimed, “and there should be no trouble about a permit, if it’s on Captain Mason’s Hamilton land—I know him fairly well, and he takes a keen interest in antiquities.”

“Ah, yes,” said Alan, “I recall reading about his wife being killed in the hunting-field a few years ago—a queer business, that. She was the third wife of an owner of Hamilton to be killed the same way, within a few years. In each case, the rider struck her head on a low bough between here and the Hall—looks as if there was a hoodoo spot somewhere round here!”

“Well, as we are so near,” I suggested, “what about calling and approaching Mason about digging the mound?”

“Good idea!”, my colleague assented, adding that we might at the same time ask permission to inspect the chapel which, we knew, remained intact from the days of the monastic grange, but which neither of us had ever seen.

We were soon at Hamilton Hall, which (save for a few dependent cottages) stands in splendid isolation on a little-used road that meanders, with many field-gates, across open country hardly changed since the days of the Anglian raiders.

Captain Mason was fortunately at home, and saw us at once.

“Why, Mr. Wayne,” he said, taking my hand, “I remember our meeting last at the Archæological Society. I’m very glad you’ve at last come to see my old Grange!”

Apologising for the chance visit, I introduced my colleague, of whom our host only knew by repute. Over a welcome drink in the delightful medieval stone hall dating from abbey times, we readily secured permission to investigate the “Monk’s Grave” mound, and were thus able at once to make our request to view the ancient monastic chapel.

This also was at once forthcoming, for the Captain, though he had only purchased the property on retirement from the sea a year before, was as proud of it as if his family had been rooted there for centuries.

“Most unfortunately, I won’t be able to go round with you,” he said, glancing at his wrist-watch, “because I have some trouble on about repairs at a distant farm, and simply must meet my bailiff there at 10 o’clock—and it’s now a quarter to ten; but here is the key of the chapel itself. Go just where you like, and if you want anything, just ask Henry, the butler.”

He rang for that functionary, instructed him to give us any assistance needed, and departed with haste but courtesy, enjoining me to drop him a line if we, as experts, found anything of striking interest, and remarking that he hoped we would find the chapel in a better state than he did on taking over—it had been disgracefully ill-used as a barn and farm-implement store, and he had just started to get the interior straightened up, we gathered.

Henry, grave, dignified, and elderly, plodded back to the hall after seeing his master off in his car, and stood respectfully awaiting any orders.

“Do you wish me to accompany you to the chapel, gentlemen?” he asked, with a discreet little cough, “because if not, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, and will take no offence; there is something about that building, sir” (turning to me) “which makes me shiver whenever I go near it!”

We could see that Henry was genuinely disturbed, and exchanged glances.

I smiled reassuringly at the old servant, and replied: “Why, certainly, if you feel like that, Henry—some people do find these old places a bit creepy, I suppose. No, I don’t think there is anything we need—unless it’s a torch, but perhaps the chapel is light enough inside?”

“Yes, sir, very definitely,” replied Henry, with what struck me as rather unnecessary emphasis.

“That, sir,” he added, going to the window and pointing across the quadrangle, “is the chapel, and you can see the door between the buttresses on the right.”

We thanked him, and made our way across the courtyard, I carrying the ponderous medieval key; and we were both struck by the likeness of the building to the library range in Mob Quad at Merton—and like it, our chapel dated from the dawn of the fourteenth century.

A little gem of its type, the structure soon claimed our antiquarian interest, and we thanked Fortune that it had escaped the sacrilegious hands of Henry VIII. The door yielded readily to its key, giving evidence of a lock now oiled and cared for; and inside it was evident that the new owner would soon repair the ravages of past neglect, for already the floor, covered (to our great joy) with 14th century encaustic tiles, was swept and garnished, and in one corner was a small heap of mortar and the weird impedimenta of masons.

The door was towards the western end of the south wall—the building formed the northern wing of the square, as in a cloister, and the sunlight coming in through its windows on this side showed up its simple beauty to great advantage. Looking to our right, we nearly shouted for joy (for antiquaries do on occasion exhibit almost human emotions!) to find the sanctuary, at the east end, possessing intact its medieval stone altar.

There are all too few of these pre-Reformation altars surviving, so we made our way straight to it, and found to our further joy that the consecration-crosses were still visible.

Alan was bending down on the south side, endeavouring to discover, from the style of the stone pillar supports, the possible date of the structure, when he suddenly straightened up with an exclamation of surprise.

“Just look here a moment,” he said. “Have you ever seen this on an altar before?”

I bent down, following his pointing finger, which was directed at a design incised, in the manner of mason’s marks, on the stone pilaster. I made it out to be the ancient magical pentacle, flanked on either side by the pre-Christian disc-and-crescent symbol representing the sun and moon.

“Extraordinary!” I exclaimed. “What’s the idea? It looks as if some learned Augustinian canon, marooned at this wild country grange, had gone in for alchemy.”

“However,” I added, as the sun suddenly appeared to go behind clouds, for the building became unaccountably dim, “let us come back to this later, and inspect the rest of the chapel while there’s any light left—I think a storm is brewing.”

Alan remarked that there had not been a cloud in the sky when we entered the place ten minutes before; and we strolled down the body of the chapel.

Before we reached the west end, however, a curious sound made us both look sharply round—the sound of suppressed sobbing, or rather blubbering, close at hand. We could hardly believe our eyes, for there, on the spot where we had just been standing, were the figures of a small boy in a black cassock, weeping, and a tall priest in Mass vestments who bent over him and held his hand. No one could possibly have got into the building without our seeing them, for we had been walking towards the one and only door.

My colleague moved as if to go back to the altar and challenge the intruders, but I laid a hand on his arm, motioned him to silence, and drew him into the obscurity of the south-west corner: for the place had suddenly become icy-cold, and there had come over it the atmosphere, indefinable but very real, that I have learned from long experience to associate with manifestations of thought-forms from beyond the grave.

Then a subtle change came over the scene. The sanctuary grew lighter and lighter, but it was a strange, roseate illumination not of this earth, not produced by any burst of sun from without. By it, we could now see for the first time the face of the priest, who straightened up. It was an evil, aquiline face, with sunken eyes and a tight-lipped mouth, which now creased in an unholy smile full of avarice. His whole form looked as substantial as that of Alan or myself; but that of the boy was curiously vague and shadowy, as if thrown on a screen.

The priest place his hands on the shoulders of the lad, who had now ceased to whimper, placed him facing the west, and took from beneath his vestments some kind of small box, the contents of which he seemed to be rubbing on the boy’s right thumb.

Then an extraordinary thing happened. The priest turned to the altar and opened his arms, as if in prayer. There was a blinding blue flash of light, and when he turned again to the west, he held in both hands a heavy volume, while on the altar itself there stood a chalice upside down, as in the Black Mass.

I shivered, wondering with horror if we were to look upon that supreme blasphemy of the Satanists; but I could hardly believe my ears when, instead of a travesty of the missal, the priestly figure began to chant, in a fine baritone voice:

Uriel, Uriel, invoco te angelus monetæ subductæ, conjuro te creatura terræ thesauri in nomine Adonai![2] . . . .

The voice sank to a mere muttering; a strange phosphorescent blue light shone about the head of the boy. The priest dropped the book on the floor—I realised with a kind of stunned surprise that it made no sound. He seized the boy’s right hand, peering at it eagerly. Then suddenly, his harsh face creased into a grin of evil triumph, and he let out an insane, cackling yell of laughter that shook the whole place.

Everything swam about me at that unholy sound; I went dizzy and clutched at the wall; and when I recovered my normal senses, I found that Alan, his back slumped against the rough stonework, had fainted. Of boy and priest there was no trace to be seen. We were alone in the chapel.

My colleague soon came round, and, dazed and shaken, I got him outside, where the healthy sunshine beamed in a cloudless sky.

“I’m afraid I made a bit of a fool of myself, old man,” he said apologetically, “but tell me—just what in hell was that?”

“A more accurate question,” I replied gravely, “would be ‘what from Hell was it’!—I don’t know, but we shall have to find out. All I can tell you at the moment is that the ghost, or thought-form, of the priest was indulging in an ancient ritual to discover stolen money; he was chanting from the magical work known as De Verbo Mirifico, and using the boy’s thumb-nail for a kind of crystal-gazing. The angel Uriel was supposed to preside over divinations for lost money.”

“Well,” said Alan, “I beg to sympathise with Henry the butler, whose dislike of the place I now thoroughly share. I wonder if he has really seen anything there?”

“If he has,” I opined, “I somehow don’t think he would admit it; and judging by his type, I think it wisest not to upset the old fellow by saying anything about it. As for telling his master, we had better leave that till we’ve done a little research.”

As I spoke, somewhere at the back of my mind there was floating a vague idea that there was some record in print about this place, across which I must have run in the course of my historical record work; but I could not place it. When I communicated this nebulous notion to Alan, he suggested that on our return home we should get into touch with our invaluable old friend Father Manson, the most likely source of any information of this kind.

Returning the key to Henry with thanks and a substantial tip, we cycled back to our manor-house in a rather subdued frame of mind, and I managed to catch the village post with a note to Father Manson explaining briefly what we had seen and asking if he could cast any light on it.

The worthy priest himself appeared “by return of post,” arriving next evening on his malodorous and noisy motor-cycle.

“Well, well,” he said, when comfortably settled in our study with a large glass of whisky and soda, before him. “You two do seem to run into things: I think, this time, I have found you the explanation.

“First,” he went on, “have either of you ever examined Bishop Alnwick’s Register in the Lincoln records?”

We had not, and said so.

Remarking that it was as yet unpublished, Father Manson dived into the recesses of his cassock and fished out a bundle of notes, which he consulted.

“This is very remarkable,” he said, “because when, in December 1440 the bishop made his Visitation of Leicester Abbey, the canons brought before him their own abbot, William Sadyngton, on a charge of witchcraft, alchemy and divination, as well as immorality at a nunnery. “Here is the deposition of one of the canons:—

“Abbot Sadyngton,” the Father went on, “was a bad lot. He was insolent to the bishop, refused to produce his credentials, and was the subject of complaint by every canon in the house. A little over a year after this scandal, he was deposed. By the way, in the abbey’s library catalogue, which is in the Bodleian, he figures as the donor of ten books; only one was on theology; the rest concerned alchemy and medicine.”

“He was not the only medieval abbot to be charged with witchcraft: two centuries before, a worthless abbot of Selby was accused of using a wizard to find the corpse of his brother, drowned in the river Ouse.”

Alan Granville, who had been sitting with his chin cupped in his hands, gazing earnestly at the opposite wall, suddenly appeared to wake up.

“What did you say was the date of Sadyntyon’s magical performance?” he asked.

“The Eve or Vigil of St. Matthew the Apostle,” quoted Father Manson, “which, for the benefit of you couple of heathen, was September 20.”

“Hm! Yesterday was September the twentieth, too,” said Alan, crossing the room and tearing the sheet off the calendar.

“Well, well!” ruminated Father Manson, reloading his pipe and casting a meaning glance at the decanter “there are ‘more things in heaven and earth’ . . . after all, you know.”