Sir Mervyn’s Tower

“Is that all?” asked the girls, as Monica finished her story and closed the book.

“Why, yes. It’s a fairly long tale, I think.”

“Not long enough. I want to know so much more about them,” said Irene.

“Is it perfectly and absolutely true?” enquired Cicely.

“Yes, it is quite true. It was Sir Roger Courtenay who began to build the Manor as it stands to-day. All the central portion was put up in his time, and the coats of arms over the porch are those of himself and his wife, Catharine Mowbray. Their tomb is in the church too that big carved monument in the side chapel. They had seven children five sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Sir Godfrey Courtenay, married a relation of Sir Thomas More. Her name is mentioned in one of the Pastón Letters.”

“Was it really in Haversleigh Church that Sir Mervyn climbed into the belfry and was killed?”

“Or did the writer make that up?”

“No, that is true too,” replied Monica. “The tower is still called ’Sir Mervyn’s Tower’, and it is said there is the stain of his blood on the great bell, and that nothing can ever take it off.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes, once. It’s only a patch of rust.”

“Was Sir Mervyn buried in the church too?”

“There’s no monument to him, and no record in the old church documents of his grave. I should think it was much more likely that his followers were allowed to carry him to his own estate near Appleford, and bury him in the church there. The story runs that his ghost haunts Haversleigh Tower and walks up the belfry stairs, but of course that’s nothing but superstition and nonsense.”

“Don’t you believe in ghosts?” asked Cicely, who was sometimes a little afraid of the dark passages at the Manor.

“No: when people are dead, I think if they were good they are either resting until the resurrection, or have something so much better and nobler to do in another world that they could not revisit this, any more than a butterfly could turn again into a chrysalis; and if they were bad, I am sure they would not be allowed to come back simply to terrify the living.”

“Quite right,” agreed Mildred. “In most of the stories one reads about ghosts, they never return for any useful purpose, only to make silly people run and scream.”

“There was one thing that didn’t seem perfectly clear in the story,” said Lindsay. “Was it really Roger who came to the Manor disguised as an old pedlar?”

“Evidently it was. He couldn’t trust anyone else to give the letter to Catharine, and he wanted to see for himself how Sir Mervyn was prepared to defend the Manor. There is still part of a ruin left of the old Franciscan Convent near Covebury, where Catharine took sanctuary. It’s not much though only a few pillars and a tumble-down wall.”

“Why didn’t she go to the Convent of St. Agatha at Torton? It was so much nearer to ride.”

“Because the nuns there wished to persuade her to take the veil, and she wanted to marry Roger.”

“Were they very angry with her?”

“How can I tell, Cicely? You must ask the writer of the romance; he has a better imagination than I have. I wonder if Miss Russell has come back yet? I’m going indoors to see. By the by, I want to ask a favour. I practise the organ every Wednesday evening at the church, and to-night Judson, the old clerk, will be too busy to blow for me as usual. Would anybody be charitable enough to volunteer? And would Miss Russell allow it, do you think?”

“I expect Miss Russell wouldn’t mind,” said Mildred. “I’d go with pleasure if I could, but I have an hour’s practising to do myself to-night, as well as preparation, and so have Irene and Mary.”

“Oh, Monica, could we blow the organ?” cried Lindsay. “Cicely and I have both finished our practising, and if we were to learn our French at once, before tea, I believe Miss Frazer could be persuaded to excuse us from prep. We’d simply love to come.”

“Thank you, Lindsay. I’ll ask Miss Russell. If she says ‘Yes’, will you meet me at the church at seven?”

Miss Russell was lenient enough to give the required permission, having ascertained that all lessons for next day were duly prepared; so Lindsay and Cicely, much envied by the rest of their class, betook themselves with zeal to try their ’prentice hands at the task of organ blowing. The church was open, and Monica was already waiting for them in the porch. She soon showed them how to work the bellows, and after telling them to stop and rest as soon as they were tired, seated herself at the keyboard and began her practice. Both the younger girls felt it a decidedly novel and interesting experience to be in the little space behind the pipes, working away at a long handle. As they took it in turns they were able to keep the organ going fairly steadily, and only once left Monica without wind in the middle of a piece. As a reward she allowed them to try the instrument before she locked it up, showing them the various stops and pedals, and how they were to be used.

“It’s much more difficult than the piano,” sighed Cicely, after a rather unsuccessful attempt, “and yet it’s simply grand to hear the lovely big notes sounding through the church. I should like to learn myself sometime when I’m older.”

“Saint Cecilia was the patroness of music, and is always represented playing the organ, so you might very well justify your name by following in her footsteps,” said Monica. “Now I simply must go, because my mother will be wanting me. I’ve been far longer than usual to-night.”

“It’s our fault, I’m afraid,” said Lindsay. “We kept making you pull out the stops.”

“No, you were dears to come. Perhaps Miss Russell will let you blow for me some other evening; then we’ll start earlier, and I shall have time to let you both try again.”

They had passed under the old yew trees of the churchyard and out through the lich-gate into the road, when Monica suddenly looked over her music and exclaimed:

“How stupid! I’ve left my little copy of Lux Benigna behind. It doesn’t really matter much, only I don’t care to get my pieces mixed up with the organist’s, and he will be there at a choir practice to-morrow.”

“Shall we go back?” suggested Cicely.

“No, I’m in too great a hurry. I want to get home at once.”

“Then we’ll fetch it for you,” said Lindsay.

“Oh, thanks so much! Will you take it to school, please, and give it to me to-morrow, so that I needn’t wait now? Good-bye!” and Monica hastened away as fast as possible in the direction of the cottage.

Lindsay and Cicely walked leisurely into the church again, and found the missing piece of music lying on a seat near the organ. They were returning down the aisle when Cicely said:

“Which is the tomb of Sir Roger Courtenay and Catharine Mowbray?”

“Monica said it was the one in the small side chapel,” replied Lindsay. “Shall we go and look at it?”

What an old monument it was! Four centuries had passed away since it was placed over those who slept beneath. The carving was chipped and the marble scratched; part of Sir Roger’s head was broken away, and one of poor Dame Catharine’s clasped hands; and the letters of the inscription were so worn and effaced that it was with difficulty the girls could make out even a few words.

“It’s in Latin, so we couldn’t have understood it in any case,” said Lindsay.

“How funny her costume is!” said Cicely. “She has a coif on her head, and very long sleeves; and he is in full armour. It makes them seem much more real people when we know their story.”

“Can you imagine them living at the Manor?”

“I can hardly believe there was ever a fight going on inside this church.”

“And people killing one another!”

“I suppose Sir Mervyn ran through this door up into the tower.”

“I wonder if the stain is still on the bell?” said Lindsay.

“The story was that nothing could ever take it off.”

“Shall we go up and see if it’s really there?”

“What! Up into the belfry?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Well, isn’t it getting too late, and a little dark?”

“Not yet.”

“All right, then,” assented Cicely, agreeing as usual with Lindsay’s proposal.

The small, nail-studded oak door leading to the tower stood open, and they could see that there was a winding staircase inside. There was nobody to forbid them to explore, and though they knew they were due back at the Manor they considered they might allow themselves a little latitude in the way of time. It was rather dark up the corkscrew stairs, though there was a slit every now and then in the wall to admit air and light. At the top they found themselves in a square room, where the clerk evidently pulled the bell on Sundays, for the rope was hanging within easy reach. The roof was made of enormous oak rafters, and through it ran a ladder reaching higher than they could see.

“That will be the way up to the bell,” said Lindsay.

“What a horrible place for Sir Mervyn to climb!” commented Cicely. “I can imagine him rushing up with a dagger in his hand, and the others swarming after him. I’m almost sorry they killed him. He was very brave, although he was so bad. You go first, Lindsay.”

Up and up they toiled, till they thought they should never reach the top.

“The bell’s hung very high,” panted Cicely.

“We’re nearly there now,” replied Lindsay.

The ladder ended in a rough platform which was built round the bell, probably to allow workmen to attend to it now and then in case it were not hanging safely. It looked a great mass of metal, so large and heavy that even the clapper must be an enormous weight.

“There’s a very queer mark on it here,” said Cicely, in rather an awed voice.

Lindsay walked round to the other side of the platform. There was a most curious stain running along a portion of the bottom of the bell a dull, irregular mark that might well have had its origin in some dark and dreadful deed. Cicely touched it cautiously, and then looked at her finger as if she expected to find the traces red on her hand.

“I think we’d better go down again,” she said, with a shiver.

“All right, only I want to look out of the window first. Oh, what a glorious view!”

There was indeed a splendid prospect to be seen from the old church tower a vista of village roofs, and tree tops, and fields, and winding high road, and distant woods and hills, all bathed in the beautiful, rosy light of sunset. It was so lovely that the girls stood for some time watching the sky turn from pink to crimson, and great bands of dappled clouds catch the reflection from the glow beneath. They quite forgot that supper would probably be over at the Manor, and that Miss Russell would be wondering why Monica had kept them so long, and wishing she had not allowed them to go without Miss Frazer or one of the monitresses to escort them back.

At last they tore themselves reluctantly away. It was much harder to come down the ladder than it had been to climb up. Cicely turned quite giddy, and they were both glad when they reached the square room where the bell rope was hanging. It was very dark on the winding staircase; they had to feel their steps most carefully, and keep a hand on the wall as they went. The church looked dim and gloomy as they found themselves once more in the nave. Cicely turned her back upon the monuments. She did not want to give even a glance in their direction just then. Perhaps Lindsay felt the same, for she also hurried quickly towards the door. To their utter amazement it was closed, shut tight and firm; and though they lifted the latch, and tugged and rattled and pulled with all their might, they could not open it. They stared at each other with blank, horror-stricken faces. They were locked up alone in the empty church!

“Let us call,” quavered Cicely.

“Perhaps someone may be in the churchyard. I can’t believe they’ve really left us shut up here. Somebody must be coming back,” said Lindsay.

She knew in her heart of hearts all the same that it was a forlorn hope. The old sexton had probably seen Monica walk through the village, and had come to lock the church as usual after her practice, quite unaware that anyone was exploring the belfry. By this time he would be at home again, with the keys in his pocket. The two girls shouted themselves hoarse, and kicked and beat against the door, but there was no reply except hollow echoes that resounded from the vaulted roof. The church was just out of earshot from either the village on one side or the rectory on the other, and it did not seem likely that anybody would happen to pass through the churchyard at that hour in the evening. No doubt they would soon be missed at the Manor, but Miss Russell would be sure to go first to Monica to enquire about their absence, and it might therefore be some little time before anyone came to look for them inside the church.

“What are we going to do?” asked Cicely.

“We must get out somehow,” replied Lindsay desperately. “Let us walk all round, and see if there is any window it would be possible to climb through.”

They went up the aisle, looking carefully at the windows; but all were equally impracticable, being built high up in the walls, and the only panes that opened were at the top.

“There may be a lower one in the vestry,” said Lindsay, after they had examined the side chapels and transepts. “Here’s the door, and fortunately it’s not locked.”

Again they were doomed to disappointment. The vestry was one of the oldest portions of the building, and the tiny diamond-paned casement was fully ten feet above their heads. Plainly it was useless to think of escape there.

“We’d better go back to the door,” said Cicely, “just in case anyone should be coming down the road, and might hear us.”

The light was rapidly growing dimmer and dimmer, the pillars cast long shadows, and the corners were already wrapt in darkness, through which here and there a figure on a monument stood out white against the gloomy background. Once more the girls thumped at the door and shouted, though they feared it would be of no avail.

“There’s only one thing left to be done, Cicely,” said Lindsay at last.

“And what’s that?”

“Go up into the belfry again and ring the bell. Everybody in the village would hear that, and Judson would come to see what was the matter.”

“Yes,” replied Cicely with some hesitation, “I suppose we must but ”

“But what?”

“We should have to walk up the belfry stairs.”

“Well?”

“Oh, Lindsay, Sir Mervyn! Suppose we were to meet him on the staircase? The village people say he walks!”

“And Monica said it was nothing but nonsense and superstition.”

Lindsay tried to sound brave, but she held Cicely’s arm tightly notwithstanding.

Poor Cicely felt “’twixt Scylla and Charybdis”. To toll the bell seemed their only chance of escape, and to do so they must certainly mount into the square room where the rope was hanging. On the one hand was the prospect of spending some time in a building which was rapidly growing darker and darker, and on the other, there was a quick dash up the winding staircase, which was the centre of all her nervous fears.

“We must do it,” urged Lindsay. “Come along! Let us go now, before you think about it any more.”

It was very dark when they went through the small door and began groping their way up the narrow steps. There was not room for both to walk abreast, so Lindsay went first and Cicely clung tightly on to her skirt behind, ready to turn and flee precipitately if she heard the slightest sound from above. The stairs seemed twice as long as when they had mounted them before, and far narrower and steeper.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Lindsay, when at last they found their feet on the flooring of the tower room. There was just light enough to faintly distinguish objects, and they were making straight for the bell rope when Cicely grasped Lindsay’s arm in a panic of fear.

“What’s that noise?” she whispered breathlessly.

“Where?”

“There! Up the ladder in the roof!”

Both girls listened, their hearts beating in great thumps. Cicely was not mistaken. There was a faint rustling, as if someone were moving softly about in the tower above. Too terrified even to run away, they stood with their eyes fixed on the open trapdoor that led up to the bell.

“He’s coming!” shrieked Cicely, as something large and white appeared silently through the aperture and glided down into the room. There was a sudden weird, uncanny cry, like a mournful, despairing wail, and a large pair of wings flapped through the open lattice that served for a window out into the thickness of the yew trees beyond.

“It’s an owl a big white owl! That’s your ghost, Cicely!” cried Lindsay, with intense relief.

“It’s gone, at any rate. Oh, what a fright it gave me! I thought it was Sir Mervyn himself.”

“I expect it sleeps up there during the day, and then goes out hunting at night for birds and mice. What a fearful screech it gave!”

“Let us go and ring the bell before we have any more scares.”

They dashed across the room and seized the rope. Surely since the day it was first hung the poor old bell had never been tolled with such frantic, hurried jerks. It was like an alarm of war or fire as the swift, short strokes went echoing from the tower. The girls pulled and pulled until they were both nearly exhausted.

“Somebody must have heard us by this time,” said Lindsay. “Let us go down into the church and wait by the door.”

“I don’t feel so afraid of Sir Mervyn now I know he’s only a white owl,” declared Cicely.

They stumbled down the stairs and across the dark nave, then stood waiting anxiously for some sign of coming relief. Was that a distant footstep? Yes; they heard the creaking of the lich-gate, the sound of voices, and the crunching of boots on the gravel path. They sprang at the door, knocking and shouting for help with all their might. In another moment the great key turned in the lock. It was Judson, the sexton, who stood outside, with quite a number of people from the cottages behind him. All the village had been roused by the tolling of the bell, and everyone expected to find either a gang of thieves at work or the building on fire, instead of only two frightened little schoolgirls from the Manor.

At that moment both Miss Russell and Monica came hurrying up, the latter reproaching herself keenly for not having seen her companions safely home, and the former very angry at their escapade. As Lindsay had supposed, they had been expected back more than an hour ago, but Miss Russell thought Monica must have had an unusually long practice. When their bedtime arrived, and still they were missing, the headmistress had grown uneasy, and started in search of them. She had gone first to the church and found the door locked (it must have been while they were in the vestry), so concluded that they had returned with Monica to the cottage. She had been seriously alarmed to find they were not there, and her anxiety was shared by the Courtenays; and both she and Monica were on the point of rousing the whole village to aid in discovering their whereabouts when the sudden clanging of the bell made them hasten to the church. The girls gave a brief account of their adventure in reply to the many enquiries of their rescuers.

“I thought I could have trusted you to return straight home,” said Miss Russell reproachfully. “No, Monica, it is not in any way your fault. Lindsay and Cicely knew perfectly well they had no right to linger behind, nor to enter the tower. I am disappointed in them, for I certainly should not have allowed them to go and blow the organ if I had believed there was the slightest opportunity for such behaviour. They have only themselves to blame, and I consider they thoroughly deserved the fright they have had.”