The Legend of the Black Monk Read online

  The Legend of the Black Monk

  Nigel Cubbage

  Published by Librario Publishing Ltd

  www.librario.com

  Formatted for eBook

  by

  North Highland Publishing Ltd

  www.northhighlandpublishing.com

  © Nigel Cubbage 2012

  The Author has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This book or any part of it may not be reproduced without permission from the author.

  ‘To my family playing on Elephant beach’

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1948

  The Present Day

  Chapter 1 A Cry for Help

  Chapter 2 Trial by Trailer

  Chapter 3 Five Muskets Farm

  Chapter 4 The Message

  Chapter 5 The Monk

  Chapter 6 The Intruders

  Chapter 7 The Gates of Hades

  Chapter 8 Sky’s the Limit

  Chapter 9 A Tale of Two Tapes

  Chapter 10 The Voice from Beyond the Grave

  Chapter 11 Rock and Roll

  Chapter 12 Monks and Habits

  Chapter 13 The Crew of The Mary Jane

  Chapter 14 Guppy

  Chapter 15 The Horns of Lucifer

  Chapter 16 The Wreck

  Chapter 17 The Man in the Wheelchair

  Chapter 18 Inspector Morse

  Chapter 19 Daedalus

  Chapter 20 Hot Pursuit

  Chapter 21 Checked Out

  Chapter 22 Through the Arched Window

  Chapter 23 Pointers and Signals

  Chapter 24 Coded Messages

  Chapter 25 The Napoleonic Answer

  Chapter 26 A Corpse of Mistaken Identity

  Chapter 27 When did you last see your Grandfather?

  Chapter 28 An Encounter

  Chapter 29 Babbling

  Chapter 30 From Beyond the Grave

  Chapter 31 Wrong Guy

  Chapter 32 More Tea, Vicar?

  Chapter 33 Emily

  Chapter 34 What’s in the Box?

  Chapter 35 It’s a Knock-out

  Chapter 36 The Morning Tide

  Chapter 37 Here comes the Cavalry

  Chapter 38 The Bones of a Story

  Chapter 39 Through the Rectangular Window

  Chapter 40 For Whom the Bell Tolls

  Chapter 41 The Richness of His Life

  Chapter 42 Last Respects

  Author’s Note

  The north Cornish coast is a special place for my family. Many of the locations used in this story are based on real places, some renamed, others not. Elephant beach is a nickname, a favourite beach, magical and mystical that helped inspire this story. Those who know it are fortunate but let it remain our secret, that its peace and beauty may not be spoiled.

  May you love it as we do.

  1948

  Powerful waves crashed against the rocks in a relentless roar of foam, wind and spray. The Horns of Lucifer – small, craggy, uninhabited islands a short distance off the coast of Cornwall – were a graveyard for ships and mariners. More than thirty vessels had come to grief over the centuries, smashed against the razor-like rocks that lurked just below the surface, their crews lost forever to the deep.

  It was now the turn of a little launch to struggle perilously against these treacherous waters. In the wheelhouse its pilot was fighting desperately to avoid wrecking the vessel on the jagged talons that ringed the base of the huge bulk of rock known as the Claw.

  Spray whipped against the boat, covering the windscreen for a few seconds until the wipers managed to clear it again. With a powerful pull on the wheel, he cranked the throttle wide open and gritted his teeth. Swerving violently, its engine roaring, the craft lurched towards the rocks. It seemed impossible to avoid smashing the small wooden vessel to smithereens but somehow he managed to ride the tow and steer the boat through a narrow cleft between the giant talons. The inexorable pull of the tide sucked the boat through into a tiny sheltered bay.

  Now the sudden calm of the water was startling and the pilot had to throttle back hard as the boat leapt forward. He slowed and brought the boat alongside a low rocky shelf. Flipping a couple of fenders over the side to protect the craft from damage, he looped a rope around a rock and tied her up, before slipping ashore.

  The man seemed to know exactly where he was going. He clambered up the rocks and into the opening of a cave into the cliff. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a long flashlight. The powerful beam lit the way into a deep cavern, casting mysterious, dancing shadows on the walls.

  A while later, the man re-emerged, a rope now tied around his waist and all his effort and strength directed to dragging a battered-looking casket. Its weight caused him to pause at the opening of the cave to wipe sweat from his face before sinking to the floor to catch his breath. He looked up at the now darkening sky and checked his watch.

  With a short sigh and puff of his cheeks he was on his feet again and gripping on the rope. Now he had to guide its movement from above, using all his strength to pay out the rope slowly enough so that the heavy chest did not slide out of control into the water.

  It was slow, painful progress but eventually he succeeded in manoeuvring the chest over the side and into the stern of the boat.

  He jumped in after it and began to examine it closely. It was sealed and airtight. He was unable to open it, due to a padlock which held firm against his efforts to wrench it open.

  He muttered, shaking his head. ‘I’ll have to take a look on dry land.’

  Moments later, he was guiding the small boat back through the narrow gap between the Claw’s talons and throttled hard to take her clear of the surging waves and back into the calmer water. He paused and leaned back to wipe his brow again, closing his eyes.

  Gathering himself once more, he steered the boat a short distance from the rocks, using an instrument to take up position very carefully before he threw his anchor over the side.

  He was shocked to his senses by the sudden crack of a rifle shot and turned sharply around to see another boat only a few yards away.

  On its deck stood the man who had fired the shot, rifle still raised to his shoulder and pointing directly at him. He was clad in a monk’s brown cassock.

  ‘That was a warning,’ shouted the monk in a cold, clipped voice. ‘The next one will not miss. Hands up.’

  ‘You!’ hissed the first man, clenching and unclenching his fists, scowling. He slowly raised his arms, narrowing his eyes at the monk who now brought his boat alongside, the rifle still trained on him. ‘Tie this on,’ said the monk, throwing him a rope.

  He made the rope fast, stepping backwards as the monk came aboard, still aiming his rifle at him and stopping next to the chest. He glanced quickly at it before resuming an icy stare.

  ‘Most interesting. Open it, please.’

  He bent down and gripped the edge of the casket.

  Without warning, he grasped it and heaved it overboard. With a splash it disappeared. The monk’s eyes blazed with anger.

  ‘What are you? … That was rather foolish, mein Kapitan…’

  The Present Day

  Cutting from The North Cornwall News, 25 September

  The Ghost of the Black Monk?

  Glorious legends of the dark deeds of pirates colour the history of Cornwall. None were more daring than the Black Monk of Morwenna. The cassock-clad buccaneer lived an amazing double life as holy man and one of seventeenth century England’s most audacious pirates – until his demise, dangling at the end of the hangman’s rope.

  So does his spirit now walk again in the village ?

  Undoubtedly, reckons Bonnie Clampett of
Morwenna’s Harbour Café, who swears she encountered the ghoulish apparition in the woods near the Smugglers’ Chapel.

  ‘He was in the graveyard, this ghastly spectre with rasping breath. He stared right at me, only I couldn’t see his face ‘cos of his hood. I near passed out, I did’.

  Today, the Cistercian brothers of the monastery at St Morwenna wear brown, and remain an enigmatic and secretive body, seeking little contact with the world. The black habit was discarded long ago by the friars, eager to sever ties with their notorious predecessor.

  But it is the black habit Mrs Clampett has no doubts she saw.

  ‘His Falcon is back too,’ adds Reverend Hendricks of the Smugglers’ Chapel, referring to a formidable bird of prey which was the constant companion of the Monk.

  ‘The last three nights he has appeared on the family tombstone.’

  Local St Morwenna historian Grendell Baverstock connects the reappearance of the villain to the impending funeral of local World War Two hero Admiral Bertram Dewhurst-Hobb, whose family crypt in the Chapel has been opened in preparation.

  ‘It is possible that the disturbance of the crypt has awakened the spirit of our old friend the Black Monk, whose sweetheart, legend has it, haunts the Chapel,’ he says.

  ‘I am sure the Admiral would have been thrilled.’

  Chapter 1

  A Cry for Help

  In a deserted old manor house, high up on a windswept cliff, a torch beam swept around a darkened room. Silhouetted against the silvery moonlight, a hooded figure pulled closed the French windows through which they had just entered, shutting out the sound of a gate creaking in the wind blowing off the sea. The figure moved soundlessly around the room, the torch beam flitting restlessly until it fell upon an old bureau desk. The torch was laid down momentarily, the beam shining on a mirror on the wall. In the ghostly pale light, the cassock of a monk came into focus, leaning over the desk. The hood hung forward, shrouding the face from view.

  A bony, gnarled hand emerged from a long sleeve to grip the desk handle, and pulled.

  It was not locked and sprang open with a clunk. The monk breathed in a mix of musty odours as he pulled down the slatted shutter, picked up the torch and shone it inside. Hurriedly, he began to go through small drawers and compartments, stuffed with charts, papers and maps. Opening a drawer, he picked out something small and held it up. The torch illuminated a small, gold badge on which was inlaid the chilling and unmistakeable Nazi swastika. He let out a long slow breath, turning the badge over in his hands.

  The torch-beam found a framed photograph above the desk. It showed a long black submarine carrying the wartime Nazi German flag, with five uniformed men lined up at attention on deck. The man seized the frame and took it off the wall. He studied it for a long time. Underneath the picture were some words which he read aloud.

  ‘All these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall awaken again.’

  He looked out of the window down at a rocky cove below the cliffs. A short distance out to sea, lit up by the moonlight, was the long grey shape of a submarine.

  He crouched down to open the bottom drawer and swept his torch over the contents. Immediately he let out a low grunt of satisfaction. He grabbed a pile of papers inside a battered old file and set them down on the desk top. Holding the torch steady, he leafed quickly through them. After just a few seconds he nodded, closed the file again and stuffed this inside his cassock. He had found what he was looking for.

  * * *

  The moon slipped momentarily behind clouds racing across the cold winter sky. Darkness. A roar of hooves thundering along the road. The snarl of a coachman, the crack of a whip. Magnificent, powerful, terrifying black horses, snorting, eyes wide and flaring, heads jerking, each fighting the reins.

  A black carriage without crest or marking, the driver’s scarf covering all but his eyes, rushing along a windswept beach at the sea’s edge. Inside the window a face – a woman – imploring, beseeching, clawing at the glass. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this? For pity’s sake! For pity’s sake!’

  Rebecca McOwan woke from her dream with a horrified gasp.

  * * *

  Later the same morning, in the hallway of number 17 Seven Dials, a short walk from the Charing Cross Road in London’s West End, Rebecca picked up a letter which had just fallen onto the mat through the letter box. It was addressed to her but she did not recognise the handwriting. The postmark was North Cornwall. Rebecca was fairly sure she did not know anyone in Cornwall, at least, not until now.

  Five Muskets Farm, Lonely Lane, Morbed, Cornwall

  Tel: Morbed 5252

  Dear Rebecca,

  It will be something of a surprise to receive a letter from me but I need your help, knowing of your reputation as a detective and student of the supernatural.

  Well there is a mysterious situation down here.

  Coming here may put you in danger but I need somebody I can count on. Please excuse the subterfuge but I am afraid I can tell you no more until you arrive. I enclose a newspaper cutting and a link to a website to whet your appetite. Should you be intrigued, please be present at platform 2 of Paddington Station at 8.45 next Monday morning.

  We will need somebody good with boats, so if you know of someone trustworthy, please bring them along. You will be met at the station by a member of your travelling party who will have your tickets.

  Please telephone to confirm your intentions. I have told my mother that I have invited some school friends down for the holiday.

  Yours sincerely

  Rupert Dewhurst-Hobb

  Rebecca ran her hand through her long black curls. She was dumbfounded but also intrigued. Rupert Dewhurst-Hobb was possibly the nerdiest boy in her school and she was very surprised to receive his letter. She shook her head. He certainly did not write like a normal person.

  ‘Excuse the subterfuge … please be present at … telephone to confirm your intentions...’

  Rebecca took the letter up to her room and sat down at the computer. She logged on to the website to which Rupert referred. Under a heading ‘Cornish myths and legends’, up came a picture of a hooded monk all in black, with a page of gothic script and dramatic images of pirates and galleons. She scrolled down and was about to start reading when her mother called from downstairs. Swiftly, she printed out the page, pocketed it and switched off the computer.

  Rebecca was intrigued. Rupert’s invitation was quite out of the blue. Their respective groups of friends at school were very different. She knew that his family came originally from the West Country, from where he was evidently writing, but knew little else.

  He was short and skinny, with a thick mop of dark, curly hair, despised exercise and sport, had few close friends and came top in practically every class. Among her friends, this merited immediate classification as a nerd. Rupert had been off school for a few days. It had not occurred to her to wonder why.

  The potential damage to her street cred was an important factor in considering whether to go. Friends would be agog to learn she had gone away for half-term to stay with a boy from her class, particularly should they learn it was Rupert Dewhurst-Hobb. Tongues would wag, speculation would be rife. Rebecca’s friends were ruthless where gossip was concerned. However, Cornwall was sufficiently far from home to make the possibility of being discovered unlikely. She was also certain Rupert would agree about the need for secrecy.

  * * *

  ‘Did you say Rupert?’

  ‘Rupert Dewhurst-Hobb.’

  ‘Roopie Doopie Double-Doughnut! Only an Englishman would dare have a name like that.’

  ‘Dewhurst-Hobb. It’s just a name. Don’t judge the book by the cover. Imagine if I’d allowed my first impression of you to stand. Things might have been rather different.’

  ‘Why? … What was your first impression of me?’

  ‘Never mind! Look, can you get down here next week, or not?’

  ‘So happens, I c
an. Half term, your uncle has no work for me, so I’m free.

  I’ll check out the trains. First time to the land of the Sassenachs! I’ll pack my claymore for the invasion.’

  ‘And your passport.’

  ‘Eh? Do I need –’

  With that, Rebecca McOwan clicked the call-ended button and the line to north-west Scotland went dead. She smiled, imagining Drew’s bemused face at the other end.

  To answer Rupert’s request for somebody with boat skills, Rebecca’s thoughts had turned immediately to her friends the Campbells in the Scottish Highlands, who lived and breathed boats. Having Drew on the trip would provide a further smokescreen as far as her friends were concerned. There had been great speculation about the mystery ‘Highlander’, when the tales of her escapades during the summer had spread.

  Should the situation with Rupert be discovered, she could work this to her advantage, although it would always be her preference to keep her private life private.

  Rebecca sat back, ran a hand through her long dark hair and looked out of the window at the damp October evening. Traffic grumbled by in the street outside in a sea of headlights and exhaust fumes, as people battled the notorious London rush hour. Rebecca could hear the tip-tap of fingers on a keyboard in the study next door, where her mother was writing emails for one of the societies and organisations for which she worked. Her father was away on a business trip to Rome. He had called earlier, from a table outside a small restaurant in a beautiful piazza where he was enjoying some late autumn sunshine and a glass of wine. They were all envious.

  Rebecca was used to looking after herself, since her parents were often busy with their work. Her brother Alistair had started university that autumn in London but was still living at home, so there was usually somebody else about. Rebecca had always been independent and was happy to be left to her own devices. She enjoyed her own company.