The Chaplain

Chapter 4

The next morning the bones of the other leg – the right leg – are found not far from the original hole, and buried a bit deeper. It is becoming clear that the body didn’t have a conventional burial, the locations in which they have found the bones and artefacts suggests that the body was dumped in a shallow pit, perhaps just a depression in the ground, and covered over with earth. Some of the bones have what might have been animal marks on them, and this is consistent with the fact that they have been scattered over an area of several metres. The earth must have shifted and levelled over the years and they have gradually become buried a bit more, between one and two metres below the current ground level. 

The lower bones of the right leg, the tibia and fibula, are both broken into two pieces and Francis examines them closely. They have similar breaks about half way down, and although the edges of the breaks have softened over the years it is clear that in both the break was shortly before death – as with the skull there are no signs of the bone healing. Francis takes them carefully back to the chapel and lays them out on the table. He spends a few minutes moving the bones around trying out different positions. He moves an angled lamp into a better position so that he can see the bones clearly, and as he does he gasps involuntarily. As he places the four pieces of bone on the table into a natural position for someone lying on their back two things happen. First, he realises from the alignment that the two breaks might have happened at the same time, probably made by a single deliberate blow. The impact on the tibia was slightly greater, which suggests that the victim was standing, or more likely lying on his back when the blow was struck from the front. He tries the bones in different positions, imagining the effect of a blow from different angles. The man was probably lying on his back, perhaps being held down, his feet propped up on something; and he was stuck with considerable force across the shin with a heavy metal object – perhaps an iron bar. The fracture is right through both bones, and would have torn away the muscle and broken the skin. The man would have been in unspeakable agony. 

And as he has this realisation he can suddenly smell someone in the room with him, sour breath, beer, sweat, and rotting meat; all around him overpowering. He looks up and turns round, but there is no one there, just the open door leading into the chapel. He walks the few steps and looks in through the door. Candles are burning on the altar, the lights are on, a faint smell of incense is in the air. Someone has been in recently, but now the room is empty. He turns back into the vestry and looks around the small space at the table with the bones and artefacts they have found, the candlestick in front of him, two chairs and some narrow shelves on the wall. The sense of someone else in the room with him returns, more strongly this time. He can hear someone breathing, a soft breath, but rough, as if coming from tubercular lungs. Francis stops, and stands, his fists clenched at his sides, his palms damp, his heart racing. He wants to turn round but his legs don’t want to move. He shuts his eyes, but the sounds are immediately louder and he opens his eyes and forces himself to turn round. Still no one is there, and now the smell and the sounds have gone, there is no sense of anyone having been there. The scent of incense is still in the air. He realises he has been holding his breath and he breathes out slowly, and takes a step towards the table. And suddenly there is something round his chest, resting on his shoulders, a chain of office. He can hear voices now, coarse laughter, the sound of rain falling. His face is wet. His hands are behind his back, tight together, held by rope. The neck chain is heavy, the one that they have unearthed, and as he realises what it is, it moves and starts to tighten, as if someone has pulled it from behind so that it is now around his neck. In a moment the hands behind him holding the chain have crossed, pulling sharply apart tightening the chain like a garrotte. His sight crazes with coloured lights as pain builds in his neck. His mouth falls open, his head pounds and a scream tries to escape. He can hear more laughter, shouting, encouragement. Instinctively he tries to reach up with his hands, but although there is give in the rope it is heavy and he can’t move it. He chokes and tried to yell out. He can see red through his closed eyes and can hear his heart beat pounding in the arteries in his neck. He is shoved forward, pushed from behind, and he collapses to the ground. The pressure on his neck eases and rough hands turn him over. His feet are lifted, and something solid is pushed under them. His hands are trapped underneath him, but there is pressure on his shoulders and he can’t move. 

Then the scene shifts focus. Francis is watching from outside the scene; now he can clearly see on the wet turf the Chaplain lying on his back, being held firmly in place by two pairs of hands pushing heavily on his chest and shoulders; he can hear coarse voices in an unfamiliar dialect, shouting, laughter. The man has a blindfold across his eyes, but Francis can sense that it does not fully block out the light. The man can make out that outside it is dark, but lit up by a nearby fire. There is a gag, a rough cloth, stuffed into the man’s mouth and tied behind his head. His face is wet with tears and although it seems that Francis is watching from above, he can somehow taste blood and bile and the filth from the cloth in the man’s mouth. The sounds around him grow louder, the men talking, more harsh laughter, the whisper of breathing from the two men holding the man down while a third stands over him. The man on the ground isn’t moving, he is conscious but numb, and Francis can sense his fear and pain. This lasts for perhaps just a few seconds, but Francis has no sense of time. And then suddenly he is the man again, lying on the ground. He sees movement above, and hears a thud as something smashes into his leg. It is hot from the fire, noise fills his head. And Francis screams from an explosion of pain.

‘Francis? Are you OK?’

He is lying again on his back in the vestry. The flagstones are hard beneath him and he shivers. His head is full of the memory only of blinding pain, but everything else is blank. 

‘Francis?’

He pushes himself up, twists onto his hands and knees, slowly, and looks up at Simon; but is unable to to bring the face into full focus, and he looks back down, closing his eyes. There is a sharp pain in his right leg. Did he fall? Did he bark it on something when he fell. His head is sore from where he hit it on the ground. 

‘Are you OK? You look…. you look terrible.’

Frances doesn’t move, just kneeling on the ground, his breath ragged. And then gradually he remembers the scene outside by the fire. He reaches his hand to his leg, still painful, there’ll be a  bruise. He wipes sweat off his face with the back of his hand. He kneels on the floor for several minutes longer, looking at the gaps between the flagstones, trying to make sense of it. Never has he experienced anything similar. There is nothing to suggest that there was anything or anyone in the vestry, and there are no marks on his neck to suggest that he was half strangled. He stands carefully, testing his weight on his leg. He winces, rubbing his shin, and as he makes himself relax the pain subsides a bit. This was much more than a dream; he can remember in vivid detail every moment. Either he has had a stroke or other internal brain trauma; or perhaps it is a psychic reaction of some kind to the skeleton. Neither thought is comfortable. Again he rubs his leg, and looks around the room. The neck chain is on a shelf where he left it. He picks it up hesitantly, but it is inanimate, metal, cold to the touch. 

Francis realises that Simon is watching him.

‘Simon, Hi.’ He looks at the bones where he left them on the table. 

‘What happened? You look… you fell. Did something happen?’

Francis pauses. ‘I’m not sure, I had this weird feeling, like a vision or something.’ He looks at the bones again. then he straightens up and runs his hand through his hair. ‘Just tired I think. I must have fainted, not sure why. I bashed my leg on something. I’ll be fine.’

Simon is about to say something, and then pauses, and turns away. ‘No worries. I’ll get us some coffee.’

‘That would be good.’

Simon returns about 15 minutes later with two coffees in disposable mugs to find Francis sitting in one of the pews in the chapel near the open door of the vestry. He is still pale, and he is gently  rubbing his leg. He is looking down at the kneeler in front of him and as Simon approaches he reaches forward and picks it off its hook, looking at the embroidered scene.

‘I thought I’d get proper coffees from the cafe – bit of a queue, sorry.’

‘Thanks.’ Francis reaches out his hand, glancing up as he does to reach the coffee cup, and then looks back at the kneeler. A priest is standing behind a stylised altar holding in one hand a goblet, and in the other a couple of stitches of yellow thread suggest a piece of bread. But Francis’s eyes are looking at the candlesticks on each side of the altar. The representation is crude, but they have a strong resemblance to the one that was found by the body, the one now on the shelf in the vestry.

‘Look at this, Our candlestick.’

Simon looks at it, smiles and nods. ‘Yes, just like it. Probably coincidence.’ He gestures back towards the vestry. ‘You’ve decided to change his pose.’

Francis frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The position of the body – the skeleton. He has been rearranged again.’

‘No I haven’t moved him. Let me see.’ He stands, steadies himself against the back of the pew, and walks through into the vestry. The skeleton, nearly complete now, is lying on the table. He had arranged the bones as before, as if the man were lying on his back, his hands at his sides, his legs straight out in front of him. Now his arm bones have been moved. The elbows are closer to the rib cage, and the lower arms rather than lying along the side of the body are now placed so that the hands are touching the lower spine, perhaps as if the hands were lying over where the belly would have been, the fingertips touching. Frances reaches out towards the bones and rearranges them, the hands along the man’s sides.  

‘That’s the second time. I don’t understand. No one has been here, and I was sorting them out earlier. Just you and me.’ 

He looks at Simon, who shakes his head. ‘No, I haven’t touched them.’

Frances smiles. ‘We need to be careful. Perhaps he is coming back to life.’

‘He isn’t going to like me then. I’m taking his head down to Canterbury tonight. I need to get it packed up.’