The Bell Tower Read online

  ‘He would,’ said Maeve Eynon, and she seemed to take a deep breath, and stand a little straighter, almost as if preparing to take a great weight.

  ‘I should think it’s more likely that the music didn’t survive demolition,’ said Nell.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maeve Eynon. ‘I should think so, too.’

  She began to walk back up the cliff path, and Nell found herself falling into step with her. She was slightly wary, but in the forefront of her mind was that she was talking to Theodora’s descendant, and that Maeve might know more about Theodora.

  The track widened out slightly and Nell glanced towards the cliff edge, wondering how close they were to the bell tower. As if noticing, Maeve Eynon said, ‘We could cut across that bit of hillside on the right to reach the house. There’s a footpath somebody created about thirty years ago. Something to do with the gypsies who camp on Musselwhite’s Meadow every summer.’ She pointed. ‘Or we could keep on this path which would take us past the old bell tower. It’s very much a local landmark and legend, and if you’re interested in local history …?’

  ‘I’d like to see the bell tower,’ said Nell, after a moment. She had already decided to remember an appointment that would take her back down to the village and preclude her from actually going inside Cliff House with this unknown woman, but she was curious about the bell tower. And there could be no harm in walking a little further.

  They went down the narrow path to the cliff ledge, and Maeve pointed. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Just below us.’

  Nell stared down at the tower, and Maeve Eynon said, softly, ‘It’s impressive, isn’t it? A good half of it’s submerged at every high tide, you know. We can get just a bit nearer if you like.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Oh yes, if you know the area and the tides,’ said Maeve. ‘The tide’s out at the moment, and the tower isn’t dangerous, providing you don’t get trapped in there. It’s very eerie, though. Children egg each other on to go up to it, and teenagers have ghost-hunts. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nell, remembering Beth’s teasing threat to come out here at midnight. A vampire tower, she had called it. A Twilight tower.

  ‘The local council keep putting up signs and fences, but they never last very long,’ said Maeve. She made a vague gesture at the cliff’s edge, and Nell saw for the first time that iron railings enclosed part of the ledge. ‘What vandals don’t destroy, the sea does. And if fences fall down, the council are always too busy or haven’t got the funds to replace them.’ She began to walk down the path towards the tower and, after a moment, Nell followed.

  The tower walls were stone; they were black and worn, and there were huge discoloured patches which was probably the sea’s constant lashing, but which made it look as if some inner disease had leaked its poison. As they reached the ledge itself, the tower loomed higher above them than Nell had expected. She looked up at the bell chamber. The thought of the massive silent bell – the dead bell Andrew had believed he heard that night – was chilling.

  ‘No one can get to the upper levels,’ said Maeve, following Nell’s gaze. ‘Part of the stairs have crumbled away, but nobody’s ever bothered to repair them – I don’t think anyone knows who the place belongs to any longer. The National Trust came to look at it years ago, but they said they couldn’t take it on because it’s on such a dangerous part of the cliff and it probably wouldn’t last much longer anyway. But no one wants to tear it down, because it’s a kind of landmark. A bit of Rede Abbas’s history.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Nell. She stared up at the tower, then rather unwillingly walked a few paces closer. It brought her into line with the side of the tower that faced the sea, and this time when she looked up, horror swept over her. Mist clung to the tower’s sides, but through the mists a face stared down from the ancient stones – a face that was ancient and blind, and terrible in its implacable stare …

  Nell gasped and took an involuntary step back, because the stone face was monstrous, menacing – a giantess’s face, forever gazing out to sea, blind and remote, and terrible.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What on earth is that?’ said Nell, pointing a bit shakily.

  ‘It’s the stone figure,’ said Maeve Eynon. ‘It’s carved into the side of the tower. It’s not really visible from the landside, so most people don’t see it unless they walk all round.’

  ‘It’s malevolent,’ said Nell, staring at the figure with repulsion, seeing through the sea mists that there was, indeed, a complete figure. ‘What – who – does it represent?’

  ‘No one knows. It is malevolent though, I agree with you. At high tide – the really high one, I mean – the figure is completely submerged. I’ve always found it a bit uncanny to imagine it staring into the under-sea world for hours every day.’

  Nell said, ‘It’s more than uncanny.’ She walked determinedly back to the tower’s inland side, and saw that Maeve had gone up to the tower’s door. It was small and black with age, and there were what looked like iron staves around the edges. Maeve reached out to the iron ring handle, and Nell said quickly, ‘Oh, please don’t open it.’

  ‘It’s stuck anyway. Oh no, wait, it’s yielding,’ she said, and Nell saw the handle turn around and door give way.

  She said, ‘I really have to be getting back.’

  ‘So do I. Although now we’re here— I haven’t been inside the bell tower since I was a child. I once did a school project about it – I wonder if it’s as spooky as I remember.’ She pushed the door wider and Nell winced at the screech of the old hinges. Maeve peered inside. ‘Oh, my goodness—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do come and look at this. Someone must have left it. How extraordinary.’

  ‘What have you found?’ Nell wanted nothing more than to get back to the village and The Swan, but common politeness forced her to walk up to the partly open door and look inside. A dank stench gusted into her face – dead fish and the dregs of the sea. She shuddered, and made to step back, but without warning small, hard hands thrust into her shoulders and pushed her forwards. She stumbled against the hard edge of the door, and let out a cry, at the same time trying to regain her balance. But a second push came, harder and more vicious this time, and Nell fell forward on the damp stone floor of the tower.

  There was a scrabble of sound, and the dreadful wizened creak of ancient hinges. The door of the tower was slammed and there was the sound of the handle being turned on the other side.

  The sunlight shut off and the dreadful rancid stench of the sea closed sickeningly around Nell.

  FIFTEEN

  At first Nell thought it was a mistake. She thought Maeve Eynon had tripped and grabbed at the door to stop herself falling, sending Nell tumbling forward, and then accidentally slamming the door.

  She scrambled up from the ground at once, but falling had made her slightly dizzy and the sudden shutting off of the light had disoriented her. She stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and gradually the door’s outline became visible. It was not so very dark after all; light trickled in from the stairs. Treading warily Nell went thankfully to the door. It had opened inwards – she remembered that clearly – but there would be a handle or a latch to turn the ring handle from this side and pull it inward.

  But there was not. Nell frowned, then thought it was too dark to see properly, and reached out to feel all round the door’s edge. The old wood was faintly damp and it felt repellent, but she forced herself to explore all round the edges. There was no handle. Nell tried again, examining the whole door, and this time her hands found an oblong plate on the left-hand side, with four – no, six – screws or nails. It was about the right place for a handle or a latch; the trouble was that there was no handle or latch there now. She felt for a spring within the plate that might release the handle, but there was nothing and she stepped back from the door, quelling panic. Maeve Eynon would open the door at any minute, of course, and in
an hour – probably less – Nell would be in her bedroom at The Swan, showering and shampooing away the disgusting smell of this place.

  But there was no sound from the door or from beyond it. Nell stood as close to it as she could, and shouted.

  ‘Miss Eynon? Maeve? I can’t get the door open. Let me out!’

  Nothing. She banged hard on the door, bruising her fists, and shouted again. ‘If this is a joke, it’s a very bad one. Open the door, for goodness’ sake!’

  Her words echoed dully in the enclosed space, but still there were no sounds from outside – no shouts of apology or reassurance from Maeve Eynon. It was almost starting to look as if this had not been an accident. Had the woman known the door could not be opened from inside? When she said, ‘Come and look at this’, had she been luring Nell into the tower so she could imprison her? There was certainly nothing of any interest to see in here – only the small stone room with the marks left by the sea. Scatterings of salt glistened faintly, and there were slimy ribbons of sea plants in places, and scatterings of shells that might once have enclosed tiny creatures.

  Maeve Eynon could not have shut Nell in here deliberately. They had only met that morning, and they had had the briefest, most casual conversation. Unless, of course, Maeve Eynon was mad. But this was so wild a theory that Nell discarded it immediately.

  There was no real need to panic. If Maeve did not open the door soon, all Nell had to do was phone for help. She delved into her shoulder bag for her phone, then paused. It seemed a bit extreme to call 999 for a stuck door, but she could not think who else to call, and she was beyond caring if she brought out the entire Dorset constabulary and the complete range of emergency services, providing she escaped from this noisome place. The phone’s screen lit, and she tapped out the number. It was slightly disconcerting to encounter silence, and Nell tapped the number again. This time the screen flashed a message, greenish in the uncertain light, but dreadfully legible. Nell stared at it in horrified disbelief. No signal.

  She walked all the way round the small chamber, holding the phone up in the hope of picking up a signal, trying the number over and over. Nothing. Only the infuriating impotency of those two words. No signal.

  It would be all right, though. She would get a signal eventually; she just had to keep trying. But she looked about her – at the thick walls of the bell tower which might well block a mobile signal permanently – and remembered that this was the very edge of England’s south coast, and that it was entirely possible that there was no mobile signal out here at all.

  All right, so what now? There would be a way out of this. She would laugh about it later – tonight, with Michael, certainly. She would make a good story of it for him. She looked across the small room to the worn stone steps that would lead up to the bell chamber. Even if she had to climb up those steps, all the way up to the tower’s top and yell for help through the openings, or throw stones at cliff walkers, she would get out. That would make an even better story to recount. I was up there with the bats in the belfry, she would say. There was also the point that she might get a signal up there.

  She crossed the room to the steps. Light was filtering down, and it was easier to see her way than she had expected. She tried to remember if there had been any windows nearer to the ground than the bell chamber, and could not. The stairs were steep and worn, and although bits of rotting rope hung from iron staves, she did not trust either the rope or the staves to be secure. But the light reminded her that it was broad daylight outside and the real world was not far away.

  She rounded another curve in the stair; above her was a slit-like window. Light slanted in and lay across the steps, but in that light Nell saw there was a massive chasm in front of her – a gaping well where the rest of the stairs had been. Maeve Eynon’s words came back to her with sickening clarity. ‘No one can get to the upper levels,’ she had said. ‘Part of the stairs have crumbled away.’

  The stairs finished just before the narrow window, but the phone signal might be accessible there. Nell went as high as she could and tried the phone again. Still nothing. She swore, and looked across at the window, and her heart leapt, because beyond the window was the massive stone figure. She had not realized she had climbed to that level, or that the stairs had spiralled her round to the seaward side of the tower. She stood for a moment, staring at the stone face, seeing how it gazed out to sea. It was submerged at high tide, Maeve had said. Then the sea must come up to this level. Nell looked at the stairs again, and this time saw the stains of salt and damp on the walls a little way above her.

  Maeve Eynon had said the tower was safe when the tide was out. But then she had added, ‘Providing you don’t get trapped in there, of course.’

  Nell was trapped. The tide was out at the moment – she could remember seeing the expanse of beach as she walked up the cliff path, with the thin glistening line of the sea, far away. But the sea would turn its course at some point, and storm across the beach. The tower’s ground-floor room and most of these stairs would be submerged. And Nell would not be able to get high enough to be above the water level.

  She remembered the tide table and unfolded it. There was just enough light to see the small print and, after poring over it for several minutes, she understood that the tide had been at its lowest point at around half past ten that morning. It was now coming up to eleven, which fitted with what Maeve Eynon had said about low tide. The next high tide was listed as five o’clock. That meant she had a good six hours, which made her feel better because she would certainly have got out before then. She would regard half past three as the deadline before she needed to actually panic.

  She switched off the phone to save the battery, and wondered whether to go back up the stairs and to see whether it was possible to get across the collapsed stairs and up to the bell chamber. It was then that a shudder of something reached her. At first she thought it was a sound, and then she thought it was a movement, and she looked eagerly towards the door, hoping it was the vibration of it being pushed inwards.

  But it was not. The sound – the sensation of sound – was coming from above her. From inside the tower. Nell stood very still. At first there was only silence and she thought she had imagined it; then it came again – a faint thrumming as if something had banged against a giant mass of bronze. The sound shivered through the tower, and Nell felt icy prickles of fear, because she knew instinctively what she was hearing. It was the ancient bell – the dead bell, silenced many years ago. Its bronze tongue had been taken out – the library’s exhibition had referred to it, and there had been several illustrations depicting the process. It had looked as if most of Rede Abbas had turned out to enjoy the excitement.

  But disabled the bell had been, and it was now regarded as a dead bell.

  Pray for me, for it will mean the dead bell has sounded, Theodora had written … The words formed in Nell’s mind, and she shuddered again with fear. The bell would not chime – it could not – because its tongue had been torn out. But something was happening to it. It was as if a faint echo of what it had been lay on the air – as if ghost chimes were sounding from some lost, dead fragment of the past …

  This was so wildly fantastical a notion that Nell swore aloud to drive the fantasies and the phantoms away, then found a relatively unscathed, moderately dry bit of stair to sit on, and began to think how she could get out of his place if Maeve Eynon did not come back.

  It would be academic, of course. Maeve would let her out.

  Once Maeve had slammed the door on this prying, meddling woman, this Nell West, she had no intention of letting her out.

  She stood outside the bell tower for a good ten minutes, to make sure Nell could not get the door open. It was unlikely in the extreme, because Maeve had twisted the ring handle all the way round, but she waited anyway. Aunt Eifa had brought her up to be thorough in everything she did. But she was sure it would be all right. Some years ago a couple of children had shut themselves in there, and had only been discovered
an hour before the sea had started to lap over the ledge. There had been a massive outcry, and the council had fitted a handle inside the door so that nothing of the kind could happen in the future.

  Maeve had seen Nell from her window. She often sat at one of the downstairs windows, looking out to make sure no one was creeping around and spying on her. When she saw the unknown woman she had been instantly alert, and she had put on her coat and boots and gone out. It would look like one of her frequent walks, and if she took the cliff path she would pass the woman and they could exchange a polite good morning. If she seemed harmless, Maeve would walk on.

  But within minutes it transpired that Nell West was not harmless at all. She was prying into the past – she knew about the song, even though she had not used its actual name, and she knew about Andrew. She had read things about him that Maeve had not – she had read part of a journal Maeve had not even known existed. It was an indication of the danger Aunt Eifa had feared all her life and had brought Maeve up to fear – the danger that had been edging closer since the reviving of the Revels. The Revels had revived the past – Rede Abbas’s history. Old records, old documents, were looked out and arranged into exhibitions. People talked about the past, about the monastery – both monasteries, in fact: Andrew’s and Sean Flannery’s.

  From all of that it would be only a step to the Eynon history – to the history of Cliff House and the history of the bell tower. Maeve could guard Cliff House from prying eyes, but she needed to guard the bell tower, too.

  When it began to be apparent that the Revels were catching fire and gaining momentum – that the past was waking and surfacing – Maeve knew she had to plan ahead. She thought for a while, then, on one of her walks, she took screwdrivers and a hammer with her. Years of dealing with the general maintenance of Cliff House meant she was quite capable of unscrewing the inside handle of the tower door – the handle so trustingly fitted by the council. She removed the handle from the steel plate, withdrawing its spline and leaving the steel plate in place. It was a simple enough job and no one saw her. But, once done, anyone exploring the tower might find themselves shut in. Better still, if Maeve kept a careful watch on the cliff path from her own windows, she could even follow any snoopers and slam the door on them herself. It would just be one more drowning tragedy, and there would be a new round of warning signs and fences. People would avoid the bell tower, and the past would stay sealed in its secrecy.