Song of a Dark Angel

'Continue!'
    Soon the chapel was full of white dust. The floor was covered with fragments and shards of brick as Ranulf pounded like a man possessed. However, it was onerous work; Ranulf rested on the mallet, sweat running down his face.
    'Whoever did this,' he coughed, 'did it in a hurry.' He pointed to the wall. 'Two lines of soft brick covered by a white plaster and painted to blend in with the rest of the chapel.'
    He grinned mischievously at the now stricken prioress and continued with gusto. Corbett, covering his mouth and nose, watched the hole grow, a yard from the floor and about two foot across. At last Ranulf stopped. They all had to walk away coughing and spluttering, allowing the dust to settle. Dame Cecily took one look at the damaged wall and sat down groaning. Corbett went to the altar, took two candles, lit them and gave one to Ranulf.
    'Now, let's see what secrets are here.'
    They entered the recess, Corbett held the candle up as Ranulf squeezed behind him. The anchorite's hole was cleverly constructed, actually built within the walls of the chapel. Corbett had seen similar recesses at both Westminster Abbey and St Paul's Cathedral. This one was about six feet high and just over two yards broad.
    'Where we came in,' Ranulf murmured, 'was the door. Somewhere about here should be the squint hole.'
    Corbett lowered his candle and gasped. He crouched and pushed his candle closer. A skeleton lay sprawled in the corner, the bones yellowing. At first Corbett thought fragments of flesh were clinging to them but, as he crawled closer, realized they were only tattered cloth and a battered leather belt. Corbett grabbed Ranulf's candle and put it on the floor. A small dagger, the blade broken, lay glinting in the dust next to the skeleton. Corbett raised his candle. Alan of the Marsh (for Corbett knew it was he) had apparently attempted to dig his way through the wall – a pathetic attempt, as the broken dagger proved. On the wall, above the skeleton, was a crude drawing very similar to the one Corbett had seen in the Hermitage. The clerk stared round carefully; there were no other remains and the small, shabby purse attached to the belt was empty.
    'God have mercy!' Corbett whispered. 'God have mercy on the poor bastard!'
    He crawled out after Ranulf and handed the candles to the prioress.
    'It's Alan of the Marsh,' he announced. 'Or, at least, his skeleton.'
    The venerable lady had suffered enough shocks for one morning and, if Corbett hadn't caught her, she would have fainted to the floor. He gently assisted her across the sanctuary and into one of the stalls.
    'What can I do?' she murmured. 'What can I do? Sir Hugh, what happened there?'
    'What I suspect happened,' Corbett answered, sitting in the stall next to her, 'is that Alan of the Marsh fled here and sought sanctuary, hiding in the anchorite hole. He made his pact with the then prioress, handing over the cup and promising to keep silent about the smuggling activities of this house.'
    'Was he walled in alive?' Dame Cecily interrupted.
    Corbett noticed the trickle of sweat running down from beneath her coif.
    'The walls are thick enough to drown any groans or cries,' Corbett explained. 'However, Alan was first drugged, probably with some sleeping potion or poisoned drink. Once he was unconscious, both the doorway and the squint hole were blocked and sealed.' Corbett shrugged. 'The prioress then had the anchorite hole bricked over. It was probably done at night, in a few hours, and the poor man was forgotten.'
    'But surely someone would have noticed?'
    Corbett shook his head. 'When I first came here you told me the building work was not finished until 1220. There would have been scaffolding and builders around. Just imagine. Alan of the Marsh is put there late one afternoon. The prioress brings him some food and drugged wine. She locks the door and immediately orders it to be bricked up. No one but she knows there's someone inside. Many, many hours later, Alan of the Marsh regains consciousness. He makes a pathetic attempt to escape.' Corbett stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary. 'I am not saying it happened like that. But I think it's the nearest we'll get to the truth!'
    Dame Cecily rose and grasped Corbett's hand. 'Sir Hugh, for the love of God, there are long chests, boxes in the sacristy. Could you remove the skeleton? Please! I, we are not responsible for that poor man's death. I'll have prayers offered for the repose of his soul. I'll make