Percy St. John and the Chronicle of Secrets Read online

  While Percy was with the Abbot, I found myself thinking how frightening it had been to see Percy in a trance and then the old man who looked like an angry God. Now, I dared not tell anyone what I’d seen on the tower, lest they should declare Percy possessed by Satan. I also still feared they might think me insane. As I walked along the dark passage to my cell in the Dorter, with those thoughts dancing in my head, I heard a low growl — like the snarl of a wolf.

  I stopped to look behind me, and it was then I heard it for the first time — the faint sound of a chorus*, chanting an evil-sounding hymn. It grew louder and louder as I hurried to my cell, but when I threw myself on my cot and covered my head with my pillow, it stopped.

  3

  The horror of his meeting with Father Abbot and then Prior Oswald left Percy feeling as if he’d just escaped from a monster. The words “Return that book!” echoed in his mind all night and even as he came into the Refectory the next morning for breakfast. His face looked to me even more dismal, and I saw too that the other monks were casting secret glances at him, just as they had done earlier, at Lauds (5:00-6:00 a.m.). The thick fog of suspicion had fallen over Brother Percy, and there was no defending against it. Prior Oswald had spread the news of Percy’s “crime” among the brothers. I could not remember such whispering and disturbance in the abbey — not since three years earlier when old Brother Valerian, the gatekeeper, had confronted a snarling demon, roaming about the forecourt in the small hours of a December morning. At the time, I had doubted Brother Valerian’s story, but now I was not so sure.

  When Percy took his place at a table, none of the other monks took a seat beside him, or even near his place. I decided to show my disdain for their behaviour. I moved immediately to sit directly across from Brother Percy. I smiled at him too, so everyone could see.

  When the Abbot and Prior had arrived and were seated, the brothers who serve meals came with our bowls and cups, and the brother charged with reading the Scripture at that meal commenced his reading. There is no talking permitted at mealtime, except by the reader, and so afterward I followed Percy to the nearby Locutory, where speaking is permitted at some times of the day.

  “Brother Percy, the monks are saying the Abbot summoned you because you surely took the missing book. When I passed your cell earlier Prior Oswald and Brother Jean-Baptiste were in there — searching it,” I whispered.

  “Yes, I figured everyone would know by now. Well, I have nothing to do with the missing book. No one has even bothered to tell me what book I am supposed to have stolen. What is this book, exactly? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because you were not permitted to know of it. Only those who have been a monk for ten years are permitted to know of it, and only the most senior monks are permitted to see it.”

  “What is it? What’s it called?”

  “It has no name that I ever knew, and so the monks call it merely the Cronica mysteria.”

  “The Chronicle of Secrets? What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen it myself... at least not that I know. I might have dusted it when I’ve cleaned the Scholarium. Oh no... maybe I wasn’t permitted even to tell you the name of the thing.”

  “Listen, Gabriel,” said Percy, taking my forearm. “You seem to want to help me, and I’m dashed grateful for that, but if you wish to help, you mustn’t hold back. I can’t get myself out of this mess if I don’t know everything about the crime I’m accused of committing. I must find that book... to clear my good name.”

  “But you don’t have a good name, Percy. In fact, your name is — ”

  “Yes, well, putting all that aside, I’ve got to have that book to stay out of prison.”

  When Percy said the word prison, a look came in his eyes that I’d not seen before. Percy was frightened.

  “Yes, I guess you’re right there. And I do wish to help because I do not believe you are guilty, Brother Percy. Even though you are a troubled soul because of your past thievery. Still....”

  “Let’s have it, Gabriel. No holding back,” he insisted, frowning. “What do the monks say about that book?”

  “The book is a manuscript of the twelfth century, in the time of our beloved Saint Hilda, as Father Abbot said. It’s said to have been brought here, from Ireland, by Saint Hilda herself. That’s why it’s so revered. It was the property of our saint.” I crossed myself.

  “I see. What’s this book, precisely then? What does it say?”

  “I have no idea. No one has ever told me.”

  “But, what do the brother monks say it’s about?”

  “It’s in the title. It is said to convey secret knowledge. Frightening secrets, Percy. Only one as saintly as our dear Hilda would dare to read it, they say.”

  “What frightful secrets?”

  “I don’t know. Just secrets, I guess. Frightful secrets, they say, and that’s enough to keep me away from the thing. If I ever come face-to-face with it, I will surely close my eyes and pray.” I crossed myself again.

  Percy frowned and shot me a disappointed glance. He fell silent, too. It was a thick kind of silence, like the gruel that’s served in our Refectory. Then he said, “Very well... but one thing is clear now.”

  “What?” I asked, thinking that almost nothing was clear to me.

  “If I don’t find that book, I’m in serious trouble. Big trouble. A peaceful year in this abbey was my last chance. If I don’t clear myself, the people who sent me here — the French mainly — will lock me away somewhere and forget about me.” Then he repeated, mainly to himself — “and forget about me.”

  That left me to wonder why exactly Percy had been sent to our monastery, and who were those French people he was talking about?

  Chapter Three

  Wherein Mr. Tandy Dreams

  New York City. Four Months Earlier

  Christmas Eve, 1910

  1

  Does it matter... what I have to do to get it? No, ‘course not. I’ll kill and worse, right enough. Getting it’s everything to me... everything... the end of my dreams. The making of m’fortune.

  How much’ll that be, in the end, eh? Riches beyond m’wildest dreams, I’ll wager. Him that wants it’ll pay a king’s ransom to get it, they say. Aye, a king’s ransom.

  2

  And so Mr. Tandy dreamed of riches, as the wheels of his hansom cab clattered over wet cobbles, rolling through foggy, dimly-lit backstreets, past warehouses, and shabby shops, near the old Brooklyn Docks. Mr. Tandy — a short, chubby man, with a large, crumpled nose and pink face — smiled. After a life of danger, cheating, and murder, his heart soared on one thought. He was on his way to meet the man who would make him rich — very rich.

  The cab drew up at a corner where a gaslight bathed its surroundings for only a few yards, and beyond, there was only the misty darkness.

  “Wait for me. I’ll only be a bit,” said Tandy, as he stepped to the curb and tossed a coin to the cabby. The driver nodded, his eyes darting nervously from side to side, afraid to wait alone in such a place. Tandy turned and disappeared into the darkness of a narrow alley, past dustbins and scattered trash, moving toward a dim light at the distant end. A sudden wind whipped through the alley, stirring a flutter of old newspapers and debris. Deeper into the alley, the stink of garbage, decaying rodents, and cat urine filled Tandy’s nostrils. He retched, then put his scarf to his nose as he knocked twice on the filthy door beneath the light. The door cracked an inch. An angry, gravelly voice demanded, “What?”

  “I’m here to see him. I was told he’s expecting me,” said Tandy, forcing a smile.

  A pair of small, birdlike eyes peered through a slightly larger crack. The door creaked open, into a long, dim passageway, with peeling yellow paint on the walls.

  “That way,” said a short, fat man with bushy eyebrows, nodding down the passage. “Down there to the door at the end. Knock once. Just once, mind ye. He don’t like no more.”

  Tandy smiled nervously and did as he was told.
At the door, his knock brought a clear, commanding reply. “Enter!”

  3

  The door opened into a large, ornate room — a study or library of sorts, richly decorated with polished woodwork, fine drapery of red damask brocade, and mahogany furnishings. Bookshelves, filled with volumes bound in fine leather, lined two walls, while on a table in the middle of the room there lay several large books that were clearly very old. The room was lit by a single lamp resting on a large desk. And behind the desk, his face hidden in shadows, sat the man himself, his long, pale, skeletal hands folded comfortably across his stomach.

  “Ah, Mr. Tandy. How very nice you’ve come.”

  Tandy extended a hand, but the man in the shadows ignored it. Mr. Tandy drew it back, a little embarrassed.

  “You needn’t come farther into the room,” said the man, his voice weak. “I can see you well enough where you are.”

  “As you say, sir,” said Tandy, standing to attention. There followed a long, unnatural silence. In that silence, Tandy could hear only the labored breathing of the man in the shadows, and somehow, the gurgling unnerved him.

  “I was instructed to come,” Tandy finally decided to say. “But I do not know your proper name, sir.”

  The man gave a faint laugh. “Bloodworth, Mr. Tandy. Cidolfus Bloodworth, and so pleased to finally meet you.” There was a sweetness in the voice that somehow disturbed Mr. Tandy. Disturbed and frightened him.

  Just then, the man in the chair erupted in coughing — the deep, rasping, guttural hacking of failing lungs. The fit lasted a minute or more. When it subsided, Mr. Bloodworth leaned back, resting his head on the back of his chair, as if exhausted. Tandy waited awkwardly for him to continue.

  As Mr. Bloodworth started to speak again there came from an adjacent room a loud scream, then shouting, followed by anguished pleading. A man, begging for his life.

  Bloodworth gave a quick, sidelong glance at a door to his right, then turned to Tandy, a wolfish smile on his thin lips.

  “A bit of business we are... er... we are finalizing tonight. Another matter entirely, you see.”

  Tandy swallowed hard and nodded his understanding, then waited for Bloodworth to continue.

  “Then you are ready to undertake this task I have for you, eh? You’re prepared to travel, and you know precisely what you are to do?” he asked, his voice even weaker.

  “Yes, sir. Your man instructed me. He told me you’d give the final nod and instructions this evening, and then I’d be off.”

  “Yes, well... you come highly recommended, Mr. Tandy. You should do nicely for what I have in mind, though it’s a mission of a special... dare I say, a unique kind.” He coughed a little, then spit into his handkerchief.

  “Yes, I could tell that from my briefing, sir, but there remains the matter of — ”

  “Ah, yes — you wish to know about your pay, eh? Oh yes, you must be rewarded for success, if you get it for me. Oh yes.” Mr. Bloodworth chuckled.

  “And that is — ?” Tandy pressed.

  Taking a thick envelope from the desk drawer, Bloodworth tossed it on the desk, in arm’s reach of Tandy.

  “Take it and count it if you wish. It’s a third of what’s coming.”

  Tandy did as he was told, thumbing through the banknotes. Then he smiled.

  “Notice your tickets are in there as well. You’ll get the rest....”

  Bloodworth paused to cough, though not as violently as before, and then continued. “...You’ll get the rest when you deliver the goods. A word of caution, however.”

  “Sir?”

  “You must get it! You must!” he repeated, slamming the fist that held the handkerchief on the desk. Then, he fell into another fit of coughing and wheezing. Tandy stood by calmly until Mr. Bloodworth had regained his composure. “Don’t fail me, I beg you. It’s as much as your life if you fail me, Mr. Tandy. I am not a man to accept failure, you see.”

  Tandy swallowed hard yet again but then smiled. “No fear, sir. I’ll not fail you... or m’self,” he said, sliding the envelope into his coat’s inside pocket.

  “Good. Very good. Now go, and see you get it.”

  Tandy turned and departed. As he closed the door and walked up the dingy passage toward the fat man, violent coughing erupted from behind him.

  Chapter Four

  Wherein We Meet the Angry Girl

  Monastery of St. Ambrose, 3 April 1911

  1

  The day after he was accused, Percy and I took up one of our usual duties, mopping and cleaning in the Guest House, where the abbey’s pilgrims reside. As usual, the Guest House was full, mainly of those seeking a cure. St. Hilda was herself lame and was said to have a special love and pity for those like her, who suffer from deformities. She had worked miracles for many who’d come as pilgrims, they said, even for those with illnesses thought to be incurable. The Easter season always seemed to bring even more pilgrims, who filled our Guest House as well as the hostels and inns in the village of Chaumont.

  The weeks after the Day of Ashes were always especially solemn in our abbey, as the brothers offered extra prayers for the pilgrims. The atmosphere of the place seemed to grow somber and even grim, as we awaited the day of the dreadful Crucifixion.

  Percy and I stayed busy most days, caring for the needs of the many guests. Those pilgrims, like all strangers, interested me. I found myself wondering often about their lives and where they’d come from. Some came as families, with a sick person in search of a cure. Others were what we called faith pilgrims — those making a gesture of faith, but not seeking a cure. Some were on a long journey between holy places, stopping to pay homage to St. Hilda on their way. How wonderful, I dreamed, it must be to make a pilgrimage.

  The family of Monsieur François Dugard — the well-known Paris antiquarian — were our most distinguished pilgrims. Madame Marie-Claire Dugard and her husband had come seeking a cure for their daughter, Elizabeth — a lame girl who walked with a crutch. Percy and I agreed that Mademoiselle Elizabeth was very pretty, what with her long blonde hair, large eyes, and rosy cheeks. I was more concerned than Percy that noticing such things might be sinful.

  The other cure seekers were English. Lady Dorothy Everson appeared to be about twenty-five years and pale. Her nurse, Mrs. Martha Downey and her aunt, Lady Jane Marbury, accompanied her everywhere, most often pushing her in a Bathchair. Lady Jane, a stout and frowning woman, demanded a great deal of service and complained often. It was whispered that the young woman was suffering a consumptive disease that would surely take her life.

  Among the faith pilgrims, there were all kinds. Mr. Hugo Westerman was said to be a very rich English man of business, and he seemed so. He spoke often with Mr. Lucas Covington, an American who Prior Oswald referred to as ‘the millionaire.’ He too seemed to have no malady.

  An old German professor, Herr Doktor Helmut Eidenbuch and his two students, Herr Schmitt and Herr Becker, had traveled from Dresden. They puzzled us, because they did not seem to be devout Catholics, nor did they seem to be seeking a cure.

  Father Enrico Solari, who had come from Turin, seemed an odd person. Young, shabbily dressed, and sullen, no one knew if he was seeking a cure or not, but Percy and I agreed we did not much like him. He walked with a limp and a cane, so we assumed he wished to be cured, but strangely, he seldom attended the special prayers of those who did.

  2

  “Boy, come here,” commanded an angry voice from behind me. Percy and I looked at each other and then turned together to see that it was the French girl, Elizabeth, wearing a scowl on her face. This was the first time she’d said anything to either of us. Percy had said that she was ‘snooty’ — an English word meaning arrogant, he explained.

  “Oui,” said Percy, as the girl approached. Because we worked at the Guest House, Brother Percy and I had permission to speak to the pilgrims, if they spoke to us first.

  “This blanket you’ve given me is filthy,” she protested, glaring at Percy with a forceful eye. “L
ook here, at the cat hair on it. Do you use it for your cats and then share it with me?” she scolded.

  Percy looked closely at the blanket. “But, where are the hairs, Mademoiselle?” he asked, looking up. “I cannot see even one.”

  “There!” she pointed. “A half-blind imbecile could see it!”

  Percy looked up. “Yes... I see it now. But, it’s... it’s only one hair. Only one.”

  “What of it? It’s filthy. Take it back and bring me another,” she huffed. “And this time, try to find one that’s clean. You do know the meaning of clean, don’t you?” She stiffened her neck.

  Percy and I exchanged glances, and I knew I was about to witness one of Brother Percy’s painful efforts to retain his monastic humility. I shuddered a little to remember that Percy sometimes failed those tests, and so I closed my eyes and braced for the explosion.

  After a moment of silence, my mouth fell open just a little, when I heard Percy say, “Of course, Mademoiselle. I will return with another, clean blanket, in a moment.”

  “Good,” she said, with a smirk. “See that you return quickly.” She walked away, leaning on her crutch and dragging her foot a little as she walked. When she’d moved out of earshot, I said quietly, “Percy, I am staggered with admiration at your Christian forbearance. Even Timothy is praising you.”

  Then, looking after her, he said more to himself than to me, “That arrogant witch deserves a good spank — .” Not finishing, he turned quickly to me, a question on his face. “Timothy? Who’s Timothy?”

  I gasped to realize that, in my dumbfounded admiration for Percy, I’d let slip my deepest secret — something I’d not told anyone, and especially now a well-known sinner and former scoundrel such as Percy.