《Murder in the Crypt》


 White Candles in the Crypt

    The dead body was remarkably clean. It lay on the floor, toes facing the altar. The head was at the bottom of the steps, where a faint shaft of light entered the crypt from above.


    The body was carefully positioned and appeared peaceful. It couldn¡¯t have been a deathly struggle, which meant no blood, no poison, no daggers, and therefore an unlikelihood of any vendettas or conspiracies. It looked more like the middle-aged monk had set himself down in the sacred place for a nap, not an end to his life.


    But the monk in question, Brother Michael, was no weak man. He would not collapse for no reason. He would not sneak a deadly venom into his own broth to end the suffering of a soul in an evil universe. Nor would he ever wish harm upon another human being or living creature, for harm''s sake. He lived by the word of God, and he did it for thirty years as best any Christ worshipper possibly could.


    A red flame flickered on the altar, where it burned without end. It was the only warmth one could find in the crypt during winter. Marble and stone required twelve hours of beaming sunshine to heat. Not even the abbey church above ground was warm to the touch during precious summer months. In winter, a monk would be wise to shrink behind their black habit and at least keep their hands wrapped up and their heads hooded with cowls.


    Brother Michael¡¯s body was cold, and his face paler than the painted columns of heavenly white that surrounded him. There was no life in his veins, not even a trickle of blood. The soul had departed in haste. It had stolen off, like a raven.


    There was no hope for a body in such a condition. Something very nasty had taken place. But of what rod Brother Michael had been struck, and by whom, was a mystery.


    Brother Benedict was newly professed in his vows of chastity to God. A young monk, he had been led in the ways of holy worship by Brother Michael. He was a kind of surrogate father, and had named young Benedict after the wondrous monastic pioneer, Saint Benedict of Nursia. Benedict secretly hoped he could be so wise as to predict his own death six days prior to it occurring and therefore spend a hundred and forty four hours in devoted prayer, counting his blessings before the very Judgement, as the Italian saint was said to have achieved; one among many practical miracles.


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    Benedict woke before dawn. Instinct alarmed him, and he had work to do. The first prayers of the day took place in the abbey at sunrise, and they would need to be prepared for. White candles in the crypt would have to be lit, day candles for the apse would burn before Christ in Majesty on the throne, and the tower bell ropes required much tugging on for the pealing of the Matins prayer call.


    Freezing air hung in the corridors of the cloisters and stung Benedict''s ears. The garth was bare of herbs except for a few old rosemary stalks. Benedict had considered pitching the abbot a business proposal: a glass roofing for the beds of earth, to keep the soil at a temperature for life, but knew in his mind it was an excessive thing to ask. A comfy board of cotton bedsheets and a hot bath once a week was pleasure enough for a monk, especially one living in the twelfth century After the Death of his Saviour.


    So many centuries later, Benedict thought, and yet so many lessons yet to be learnt. Benedict knew Christ was watching, and that the Father would not be content with the gross tonnage of sin still left in the world. What a rotten lot, Brother Michael always says; all we can do is wait, pray, and hope to be redeemed.


    Benedict crossed the nave of the abbey towards the south porch and unlocked a bolted door, which he swung open with surprising strength for such a stick figure as was hidden underneath his baggy religious garment. The first lance of day graced Benedict¡¯s countenance, and he looked up gratefully, a spirit of glee in the corner of his eye. Another day working for the house of God, another day of glorifying, another day of seeking the highest place in heaven.


    Whenever tiredness came terrifyingly upon Benedict, he reminded himself that there was no better life to lead. No alternative to God.


    Behind Benedict, a narrow stairway led down to the crypt. First, he plunged himself into almost total darkness, searching for burnt out candles, ones with reusable wicks. He was about to march in haste back across the abbey to the opulent sacristy, where priests¡¯ linen vestments of green and purple were hung like cloak ornaments, but stopped abruptly.


    A body lay asleep on its side. It was Brother Michael.


    Benedict stepped aside, allowing some light to pass over his dear elder Brother¡¯s face.


    And in an instant, Benedict was stricken with terror, and an uncontrollable trembling before something wicked and inexplicable overcame him.

 Denial in the Abbots Chamber

    There was no procedure for unexpected deaths in the rule-book of monastic life. If a Brother died, peacefully, in the house of God, he was of course buried with care in the unspoilt soil of the earth at the rear of the abbey. This part of land had been settling the dead six feet under for six hundred years, since religious members of the Saxon, Briton, Dane, Pict, and Celt races co-mingled in a cultural stew.


    No matter what the weather, for three long nights, two brothers would sit vigil over the recently-deceased¡¯s tomb and pray fervently for the angels of God to speed the departed soul on its way up to heaven. Those who practised this received confirmation in their prayers of the divine hand at work granting eternal rest.


    Benedict held Brother Michael¡¯s cold hand, as if imagining a miracle might suddenly occur. But it was a dead, slimy hand. It fell from his grasp. He trembled at the sight of a pale corpse, shrouded in a monk¡¯s habit.


    Benedict scraped his eyes, peeling away any dust from the night before, clearing the world of dreams from his vision, thus realising the horror of his new reality. Panic impaled his chest as he thought of how to tell the community. But, first, it was wise to seek the abbot¡¯s counsel. Only he could lead the brothers in righteousness through the earthly realm, and therefore towards salvation above.


    The abbot slept in his own chamber, a large room furnished with oak tables, golden chalices, treasure chests, and even a small oratory hidden in the alcove with hanging purple curtains half-opened onto a painted scene of Christ Hung on the Cross.


    Benedict wished to be responsible and report to the shepherd before alarming the entire flock.


    The abbot was up early reading his illuminated Bible. The knock came lightly on the wooden door of his chamber, so faint in fact that Benedict had to try twice more before the abbot was seriously enough inclined to rise from his studious morning stupor, hunched in divine lecture.


    Father Paul.


    Brother Benedict. Come in. What¡¯s the matter - seen a ghost? It wasn¡¯t Judas, I hope not - what have you seen?


    Benedict tripped over the Roman rug and caught his balance leaning against the table.


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    I do fear I have seen a ghost, abbot Father.


    Young Brother, I have known you to be superstitious on occasion, like that time you foretold those three ravens on the bell tower as of great significance resembling the three dead Kings of ancient times, and weeks later, two princes of the Holy Roman Empire are cast to the bottom of the Adriatic causing more than a mild stir across whole Christendom. But that was two, Brother, not three.


    Benedict nodded. He did have an inclination of a kind towards prophecy; the hero buried deep in his mind for safekeeping was of course the Venerable Bede. But his nerves now were in pieces, like the painful wreckage of an emotion held dear shattered.


    Benedict collapsed, his lower back colliding with a concave leg of mahogany.


    Father Paul, the ever unashamed and positively cast-in-mind abbot, did begin to appear a trifle concerned; his inward motions stirred.


    Rise to your feet, Brother. Get up.


    He¡¯s dead, Benedict mumbled. Father, Brother Michael is dead in the crypt, lifeless, deader than a corpse in the grave.


    Nonsense. Get up. The Devil¡¯s caught your tongue. Go and pray, God will set you right. Go and wake your Brothers. How many times must I keep telling you to get a good night''s sleep.


    Father Paul, Benedict wheezed. His arms and legs were shaking. He couldn¡¯t stand, and if he tried to, it was the weight of a moon pulling him down.


    I¡¯m sorry, Father. I don¡¯t know what happened. But you¡¯re real, aren¡¯t you? This isn¡¯t a Devil¡¯s bad dream.


    This is no time nor place for dreams, Benedict. Go and pray. God help you. God put a stronger mould around your spirit, and free your Guardian Angel from the chains of night. If you still tremble, then rest and I will peal the bells for you.


    Father?


    What?


    Help me and I will take you to see what I have seen.


    Father Paul impatiently hoisted Benedict up by the shoulder.


    Show me then what spirits lie in my sacred house, and pray this ghost comes in haste that divine office may not be delayed.


    The feeble Brother was dragged single-handedly by his superior''s knightly strength back through the cloisters towards the abbey church.

 If God be for us, who is against us?

    The abbot''s first reaction was timid. He lightly poked at Brother Michael''s side with a short, stubby finger, as if coming upon a dull but curious object.


    Bring me a candle, Brother.


    Benedict retrieved one from before the stone-carved shrine of a great benefactor, Father Thomas Jerome, once Bishop of York. He had requested a humble slab for his memorial, nothing tall and mighty like heathen moorland shrines.


    The tide of faith rises before such wisdom, as Jerome¡¯s epitaph reads: Si deus pro nobis, quis contra nos?


    The abbot glanced at the dead body with only a moment''s hesitation. A priest wastes no time preoccupied with a fear of dying. The vocation calls for being capable of expressing joy at even the darkest of times, especially through that unimaginable passage into the unknown. Death¡¯s door.


    The abbot whispered, I have seen stranger things more sinister than this.


    Benedict murmured, so afraid that his only distinguishable word was dead¡­


    The abbot replied, and drew himself back confidently, Certainly, Brother Michael is dead, passed on from the living. Find me a shroud to wrap him.


    A physician was sent for and arrived after Matins to drain the blood and inspect it for disease, whether a fever known or not known might spread like venom. The physician assured the community that Nature''s most vile damnation - a deadly infection some called the ¡®purple fever¡¯ - had not occurred, and that the death was indeed a mystery. The heart had simply stopped beating, starving the brain of life.


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    Benedict was so tired he fell asleep momentarily during compline, the last prayer of the day. He had promised not to tell the brethren, Father Paul wanted to keep the peace, a small lie would do no harm. Brother Michael went on a pilgrimage, he announced. In a sense it was true, though not of this earth and not with Durham as the destination.


    Benedict crossed himself as he passed the darkness of the cloister, then collapsed into bed. It felt like a fisherman¡¯s hook had been lodged inside his brain, and it was reeling him dormantly inwards to the land of dreams. And he longed to escape reality, for it now felt overtly haunted.


    The abbot had told his dear flock a lie. The monks¡¯ notes of sung prayer fell flat, as if the monastic spirit had departed them. They weakly observed the trinity, as if knotted in strings. And they went to bed with their heads bowed to the stone floor, shuffling from their misericords like nervous birds.


    Benedict woke after a frightening vision of doomsday. An army of cavalry in red charged down the hills and into the abbey grounds, slaughtering pilgrims at the gates and ransacking the house of God. The soldiers were black phantoms. Their leader was the size of an ogre with multiple, bejewelled arms and green skin. And the monster had been about to club Benedict when at last his anxious mind mercifully startled him awake and into fervent prayer.


    Jesus Christ have mercy on us. Free the world from its fear. Don¡¯t let terror reign. Don¡¯t ever give up on us, for so long as we have hope, there is faith. Who can be against faith, it is for thee?


    A night candle continued to glow in Benedict¡¯s cell. He leaned on his bedside and opened a Psalter in his palms randomly, as any hymn to God would do. He hummed the righteous words of David and read of the ancient Hebrew God promising salvation to His Chosen People. For it was the Hebrews who foretold and gave witness to Christ the Saviour.


    Benedict cupped his fingers together and shrank under the covers, pleading with God.


    Spare Brother Michael. Spare the brethren. Spare our burdens, dreaded wickedness of our frailty and sin. Spare us to become Holy.


    May I wake up tomorrow and think only of good works and the bright future of our Godly house. Bathe it in righteousness, O Lord.


    And save us from whatever evil encircles us. Let us be innocent as children. Innocent as the virgin¡¯s breast. Forever and ever.


    Amen.