The Printer's Devil (6 page)

And must I needs also forgo the company of Catherine, the thought of whose fair form in naked-bed is now a continuing fever in my loins; but tis thanks to Roger that I breached her defences and have lain with her (in truth, and none of that bundling as they do in the country), and do believe that she is not opposed to this coupling: I hear my name on her lips and it is very sweet. Thus if I am to act as Roger’s ally I durst not forsake him when those who mean him ill are working their machinations.

Never did a day seem so long or go by so slow as did that day, nor did it come to its end having bestowed upon me any solution to the dilemma,
videlicet,
wherefore I should find Roger and what indeed I should do when that I did find him. I did believe that Kemp would as lief have Roger’s blood on his sword as not; but did not impute such an Intention to Master Pakeman.

When that we prentices were finally given leave to depart it was rising dark in the streets; I hied me first to the
Swan,
asking of the potboy and the serving-wench and the innkeeper whether that they had seen Roger Southwell, but they answered me nay; like-wise in the
George
and the
Saracen’s Head,
but it was at that inn that I remembered Roger had been likelier to be in the back rooms than drinking alone, for it is well known as a trugging-place. Though I had not the coin to pay those queans, nor did I desire to, being filled up with thoughts of Catherine; But then I had no choice but to go in for who should I see entering the inn but my master with Kemp and another man in a cloak.

I slipped through the door and found myself in a dark passage, stopping very still for I was blind, nor did any window relieve the blackness. I would fain have stilled the pounding of my heart, twas the second time that day I found myself creeping like unto a thief in places I should not have been. The noise from the Inn was

still to loud for me to hear other sounds to guide me, and I did not knowe at all what I should do.

I had come but a short way from the door by which I had entered, going sidewise in the darkness like I were a crab. Then did open that same door and through it came some man with a candle, closely followed by two more. I would not say I was surprised to recognise Master Pakeman; horror-struck would be the better word; but he was most surprised to see me, nor was there any place to hide.

The candle lit up his visage from beneath, giving him a most ghastly countenance, made more horrid by the fierce scowl on his features; and I’d liefer have heard him shout and rant than to hear him say in soft and threatening tones, What do you here, Fabian?

I heard then the thin whisper of a sword being drawn, and wondered for a mad instant an he intended to slay me, but twas only the puppy Kemp; I could not see the face of the third.

—Why Master, said I, no longer caring what he thought of me, what every man does here.

—Do you think on what your Father would say, he replied, for it will be my duty to inform him.

—I am but a man, I said, but he had turned his attention to another matter.

—Stay him here, Hawkin, he said, and to his other companion: Dost thou come with me. And it was plain that he knew whither to go for he led the other up the stairs.

Kemp stuck his own candle in a wall-sconce and waved his sword at me. I could spit you like a fowl and he none the wiser, quoth he.

—I think not, says I, reaching behind for mine own dagger, which is hid in the back of my clothes, staying out of range of the whelp’s blade.

—Pah, he says, what art thou, a petty prentice, and thrust at me; the which I dodged with ease, and spit in his eye; this time I hit in the gold. Whilst he was thus blinded I kicked him in his stones; he dropped his sword with a cry and I put my foot upon it and hit him hard in the face. I could have run him through myself and no man think badly of me for doing it since twas he who struck first and at a man unarmed; instead I picked up his own sword and put it to his throat, enjoying the shocked look in his eyes and feeling a strong stirring in my loins.

—Petty prentice, is it, says I, and laughed; and then I smelled the pungency of urine. Twas revenge enough; I took his candle and left him weeping like a woman in the dark, to see an I could tell where my master had gone to; nor did I expect him to remain my master for a great space of time thereafter. But I found him not, only an empty passage, and so knew there must be a back stair.

Out of a room then comes Roger Southwell fastening his clothes, and stopped amazed to see me with a sword in my hand.

—Fabian, he began.

But I stopped him, saying Soft. No time to waste, quoth I, and related my tale.

—But who could that be, the cloaked man, he asked when that I had done.

—I know not, I said, but they mean you ill, all three of them.

—Is’t murder in their hearts? asked Roger, but I think he asked the air and not myself; although Hawkin Kemp would have murdered me now had he the opportunity, the which I meant to insure that he did not.

—Thou didst well, Fabian, Roger said, seeming mildly surprised, as well he might, I fancy, I being neither hector nor bravo. Let us now hie down these stairs and drink some Ale, and he clapped me on the shoulder as he had done before. I reversed my grip on the sword so no man might think I was threatening any sort of brangle.

—How is’t with thee and thy Kitling? he asked me a while later.

And I replied, Tis well.

—Get thee to her, then, quoth he, I can look out for mine own self now: forewarned is forearmed. But I thank thee, Fabian; very much do I thank thee.

So although I still did doubt that he was in peril, I stood up to leave the inn.

In the street outside, the which was very dark, there being but a fingernail of a moon in the sky, a cloaked figure came up to me. For the space of one breath I did believe it to be Roger, for the cloak was like unto his own; but I knew that he could not have been there ere I was. And indeed the man was too little in height.

A hand plucked my arm, and a voice whispered my name, Master Stedman, and it was not the voice of a man. I looked at the hidden face, and a light from the window fell on it then, and I was stonished to recognize Ann Pakeman: dressed in boy’s clothes and very strange to behold.

—Help me, she rounded in my ear, I must see Roger, for I believe my Father means to have him murdered.

—Rest easy, Mistress Ann, says I, he is safe, he is warned.

—Is he within? she asked.

And I replied, Ay.

—I beseech you, do you bid him attend me here, she said.

—But you could go within doors yourself, said I, in that disguise.

At the which she smiled and said, Clothes maketh the man, but blushes make a woman; the which I thought was a clever conceit and very witty for a woman.

—Do you bide here, then, I said, and I will fetch him to you; and went back inside the inn.

I saw that Roger had finished his ale and was staring at the table; he did not observe me at first. Then he looked up; before he could speak I told him that Mistress Ann was without, dressed as a man.

—She must needs be in great anxiety for you, I said; he got to his feet and followed me to the door.

—Where then is she, he enquired, for we could not see her. I looked around and could perceive naught but a bottle of rags in the gutter.

—Mistress Ann, I called; then out of the shadows comes Master Pakeman, alone this time.

His eyes met mine own and he said, By now your comrade, the lecher, is dead; I turned my head to Roger behind me and was on the point of speaking, but Master Pakeman then looked down and beheld the bundle. He lifted his lanthorn and I saw that it was not old rags but a cadaver with a sack over the head and torso; it had been stabbed three or four times, and the blood on the sack was black in the dim light.

Roger pushed by me and spake: Master Pakeman.

I never saw such a look as that on my Master’s Features then, rage and doubt and wonder chasing each other across his visage.

—Then who is this, he demanded, in a whisper more horrid than a shout. I believe that I knew the dreadful answer before it did dawn upon either Roger or my Master; but it was Master Pakeman who knelt by the corpse and stripped aside the bloody sack to reveal,
horresco referens,
¹
the face of his daughter Ann.

¹¹
horrid to tell

—Ann, Ann, quoth he in broken tones, then to Roger in a voice of thunder, This is your doing.

—Mine? cried Roger, and in his voice grief as deep as the ocean-seas, a loss that echoed in the skies and made me shiver at its emptiness, for this was a man with a void within; I saw the tears running down his face. Why, you foolish old man, I loved her better than ever you did, to keep her mewed up and deny her even a little space of joy.

Master Pakeman buried his face in his hands, I that thought he too was weeping. And then the rain began, and washed away the blood and the tears both; And I slipped away, being not comfortable with such grief, to seek solace in my Catherine’s Arms, and in her bed, and in her body, and in
amabilis insania.
¹

4 : A Weariness of the Flesh

‘Fruits fall and love dies and time ranges;

Thou art fed with perpetual breath,

And alive after infinite changes,

And fresh from the kisses of death;

Of languors rekindled and rallied,

Of barren delights and unclean,

Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid And poisonous queen.

‘Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?

Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice;

Those lie where her foot on the floor is,

These crown and caress thee and chain,

O splendid and sterile Dolores,

Our Lady of Pain.’

Swinburne,
Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)

James Rendall inhabited a curious circular house on the outskirts of Fenstanton. Alan thought it might be a converted windmill, but avoided asking the bookseller on such brief acquaintance, especially as he had not quite liked the man. He could not help being beguiled by the house, however: a dwelling of barely ordered chaos, full of books and bears; the paintings on the walls indicated an eclecticism leaning more towards the Renaissance than any other period.

Rendall led them into a room more full of books than any other, but it was not these which first engaged Alan’s attention: it was a small, dark, old painting of a woman in a gown with a plain lace collar. Out of the picture and across the centuries she confronted them boldly, her red lips curled in a knowing and not entirely pleasant smile.

‘That’s Roger Southwell’s “Dark Lady”,’ their host remarked. ‘You know about her?’

Alan shook his head.

‘No-one knows who she was, or even who painted her portrait, though some people think Southwell painted it himself.’

‘She’s - sinister,’ said Kim, with distaste.

‘What’s this verse?’ enquired Alan. He thought the painting’s current frame was probably nineteenth-century; attached to its base was a small, tarnished plaque on which were inscribed verses he had to squint to read: ‘
While she, in her garden of poison,

Weaves subtly the music of death To call to the halls of her master

The lovers who bring her their breath.

‘Though nothing as salt or as sanguine As blood doth she drain from her court,

Yet that which she takes is as vital And must just as dearly be bought.’

‘Swinburne?’ Kim enquired, looking at Rendall, who shrugged, and, turning to one of the bookshelves, began to pull out volumes for them.

‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Would you like coffee?’

Two hours and several cups later, they were very little further advanced. Although they had found an account of the bells which once had jangled from the tower of Fenstanton Abbey, neither their inscriptions nor their ultimate fate - or fates - were forthcoming.

For some odd reason which neither Alan nor Kim could figure out - unless, as Kim suggested, it was simply the fact that seven was a number of some mystical significance - the tower had housed seven bells, not, as would be usual, an even number: one a fifteenth-century bell cast by one Jeoffrey Belyetere and the remainder in 1658 by a Thomas Chandler
‘whose Kin were thought to be bell Founders in Buckingham shire’.
The tower
‘fell down’
in 1699 according to one source, which also implied that the fall had not been spontaneous and opined that the bells had been removed some time prior to this.

Kim ran her hands through her cropped hair in exasperation.

‘This is driving me barmy,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we find out what
happened
to the bells? Oh, hold on, what’s this?’ referring to a tattered pamphlet which had just fallen out of the book she was holding. She unfolded it gingerly.

Meanly printed and not easily legible, it was entitled
‘An Account of the Worke of Removing the Bells from Rog. Southwell’s Tower ’, Printed by B.K. at his Shop mdcciii A.D.
The initials F.S. were written under the title in ink. Inside the single fold the spread was numbered
ii
on the left and
vii
on the right, but Kim’s nascent groan of frustration was never given voice, because page
vii
read:

‘...neuer Hath been Safe sith it was Built.

The Belyetyre Bell was took to the Foundrie at Whyte-chapple for Bell-Mettal being crackt; Being a most Antient Bell nam’d Gabreele.

The other Bells Bought and Pay’d For by Mr. Robt. Clark with the Exeptioun of the Trebble for the Church of Saint Cross in Wilt-shire; the Trebble no Farther than All-Saints-Church nearby.’

‘Alan!’ exclaimed Kim in a voice which cracked like a broken bell itself, so unlike her usual tone that the startled face she made brought a hoot of laughter from Alan. ‘All the time - look - one of the bells is in All Saints.’

Alan squinted at the crabby print and the line of illegible script at the foot of the page. ‘But what about the others?’

‘Easy to look up. St Cross isn’t a common dedication. Good thing it’s not St Mary’s, there are millions of them.’

‘Oh, don’t. Always assuming they are still there, I suppose. But let’s go and look at the treble first.’

‘How? It’s a redundant church. You can’t just go and ask the vicar, ’cause there ain’t one.’

‘Well, how do you get permission to ring there?’

‘Redundant Churches Commission, I should imagine.’

‘More delays,’ sighed Alan.

‘Not necessarily. What do you bet our reluctant host has got something on the church?’

‘Good thought.’

Kim hunted among the books for a few minutes, but the library was arranged on somewhat eccentric lines and they eventually had to admit defeat and ask Rendall. He found for them a privately printed booklet, the artwork for which had been produced on an elderly typewriter with a wayward lower-case
‘a’.

‘Eureka,’ said Alan. ‘Listen:
“the treble dates from 1658 and formerly hung in nearby Fenstanton ‘Abbey’ (despite its name, a secular building) prior to its collapse. It was the work of one Thomas Chandler and weighs two hundredweight exactly. The inscription reads:
Sum Rosa Pulsata Mondi Maria Vocata,
which is to say,
My name is Mary; for my tone I am known as the Rose of the World”.’

‘Well, that doesn’t help very much,’ grumbled Kim. ‘I suppose we’ll have to find the rest of the damned things now.’

‘Let’s just hope that the one that was melted down isn’t part of the riddle.’

‘Don’t you just bet it is, though?’

Alan nodded, grimacing, his attention turning once more to the dark portrait. Her eyes looked somehow not fixed in time - as if she knew things. Secrets. ‘That painting,’ he said.

‘She looks like a vampire,’ muttered Kim, who seemed unreasonably disquieted by the portrait. They both stared at it for a long moment. Kim was the first to look away: her gaze dropped to the table, and snagged on the yellowed pamphlet.

‘This may be a silly thought,’ she said, ‘but what if this
F.S.
stood for Fabian Stedman?’

‘That’s it!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Dammit, that’s the link.
That’s
why the name Roger Southwell rang bells. Of course! What a
twit!’

‘You going to let me in on this?’ demanded Kim.

‘Stedman knew Roger Southwell. It’s in my notes somewhere - you remember those pieces I wrote for Simon? About ringing in the seventeenth century? And old Matthew Boys and his opera?’

‘Well?’

‘That was when I found it. Southwell and Stedman.’

Kim opened the brittle pages again and peered closely at the line of script at the bottom of the page; she was unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of seventeenth-century handwriting, but managed to puzzle it out after a while. Unexpectedly, a shiver walked across her shoulders.

But what became of Roger Southwell,
it read.

It was late when Alan and Kim finally got home, having stopped to eat vile things at a horrible pub restaurant en route, but Alan could not shake the habit of study. Whatever compelling enthusiasm was sending him in search of Roger Southwell took him to his own bookshelves, from which he pulled out the little white book known to all campanologists by the name of its compiler,
Dove
(Alan liked the bilingual pun with the Italian for ‘where’). Within its pages are details of every ring of bells in the world, and like a map it exudes a strange magnetism.    
₂₈

The dedications of churches, from St Edmund King and Martyr and Saint Swithun to Saints Mary and Ethelfl^da, to those curious indigenous Cornish saints like St Gluvias, St Melina and St Hyderock (who on earth were they?); the more curious, to Alan’s mind, fact that some churches appear to have no dedications at all; the
‘ceramic bells’
(or, to be more precise, flower-pots) of Liss; and the odd snippets of interpolated information, from the expected
‘Anti-clockwise’
and sadly all too frequent
‘Unringable’
and
‘Derelict’,
to the intriguing
‘Ropes 1,2,3, and 4 fall in straight line on North side and 5 on opposite side’, ‘Round Tower ’,
and
‘Rungfrom middle aisle’.

In his enthusiasm, Alan had momentarily forgotten that the guide is set out, in the main, alphabetically by town or city; and so found himself forced to cross-reference from the index to nearly two hundred entries listed for Wiltshire. There was, to his relief, only one
‘St Cross’
dedication: the parish church of a town called Market Peverell.

Dressing-gowned, Kim yawned her way into Alan’s study. ‘Are you coming to bed, or what?’

‘I guess so,’ replied Alan. ‘I’ve found St Cross, anyway. Not that it helps much.’

‘We must have a Salisbury Guild report somewhere, from that outing. You never throw anything away.’ said Kim. ‘It’ll be in there.’

‘Hell, yes, I never thought of that.’

Diocesan Guild Annual Reports are useful booklets to ringers: where
Dove
gives bare bones, each of these little chap-books fleshes out the detail, giving the name and address of a contact, usually that individual known as a tower-captain, for each tower.

Alan spent the next half-hour looking for that years-old Salisbury Guild report, finding it eventually - in true
Purloined Letter
style - on the bookshelf next to Wilson’s
Change Ringing,
barely six inches away from
Dove
’s usual home. By this time he was too tired to keep his eyes open, so he fell into bed at last and slept, untroubled by dreams.

‘Kim,’ said Alan in the morning, when she came upstairs carrying two mugs of tea.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she interrupted, dumping the
Sunday Times
on his feet. It felt more like the
Encyclopedia Britannica.
‘“Kim, how’d you like a little trip to Wiltshire?”’

‘Kim, I know you don’t like treasure-hunts, but what if there’s real treasure at the end of this one?’

‘I just hope that strip-cartoon on the tomb is allegorical, then. By the way, Alan--’

‘Mm?’

‘Ring up the tower-captain first. You can’t just turn up on a complete stranger’s doorstep, however hospitable ringers are.’

‘I suppose so.’

Suddenly oddly reluctant, Alan picked up the Salisbury Report and leafed through it. He took a gulp of his tea, and nearly scalded himself; flicked through the colour supplement and read the book club inserts. At last he picked up the phone, glancing at Kim as he did so: she was engrossed in the book reviews.

After several rings, a woman’s voice answered with elderly precision: ‘Warminster 8699210.’

‘Hello, could I speak to Mr Joseph Baker, please?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice in an oddly strained way, ‘he’s been dead five years.’

‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry. Is that Mrs Baker?’    
₂₉

‘Yes. Can I help?’

‘I was wanting to get in touch with the tower captain at Market Peverell.’

‘That’s Will Osborn now. I’ll give you his number.’

‘Pen,’ Alan mouthed at Kim, who passed him one.

Will Osborn, when Alan managed to get hold of him, proved to be one of those relentlessly chatty people whose conversation resembles the famed Chinese water torture in that it never ceases. Alan explained about wanting to see, and possibly photograph, the bells; he did not say why.

‘I’m really fond of those bells, you know, Mr Bellman. That’s a good name for a ringer, isn’t it? I expect you’re fed up being told that, aren’t you? They go like a dream, it’s partly due to yours truly (I tell you without false modesty), I have to tell you, I spend hours in the belfry cosseting them, and they’re truly sweet now. Well, as to inscriptions, the top five all have some Latin or something written on ’ em, but I never was a classical scholar so I never took no note of it. You’ll find it a bit cramped in the belfry, I dunno whether you could take pictures, maybe if you had a special camera or something. Anyway we’re ringing a quarter this evening, like to get one of our youngsters through his first, so we left the bells up this morning; but you’re welcome to come and see them after the quarter. You won’t disturb the congregation if you come in through the vestry, I’ll get someone to let you in, ’cause we’ll be going to Evensong as usual. Service is at six, but of course you could come along before and have a gander at the church, or even a grab if you’d like; I don’t know whether you’re interested in church architecture at all but it’s a pretty little church, and some of the stained glass is a treat. Escaped old Cromwell and his vandals, you know. We’ve got a mediaeval rose window, even - every bit as good as York Minster, though it’s smaller of course. As you’re interested in history you might want to look at the peal-boards as well, there’s a couple of eighteenth-century ones in the ringing-chamber. Well now I mustn’t keep you, Mr Bellman. I’ll say goodbye, and hope to see you this evening.’