Mystery at All Hallows Barking
As Shaniyah McGill sipped her morning cup of coffee in her eighteenth-century-inspired living room, she looked out her bay window at the white sails of a boat gliding on the Atlantic and thought about the poor souls who had to fight rush-hour traffic to report to offices where they would spend their days laboring in tiny cubicles.
I'm a lucky one, she thought with a smile of satisfaction. No hectic schedule, no blaring alarm clock. I just get out of bed when I wake up, come downstairs in my bathrobe, have a leisurely breakfast and then, when I'm ready, I get out my laptop and begin work.
Her decision to give up her position as a history professor at Boston University and pursue a writing career had been a tough one to make, but fortunately it was one that paid off. While she was not writing historical fiction as she had once dreamed of doing, she was making a good living as a pay-for-hire writer of nonfiction books.
Not everyone can be a Philippa Gregory or a Ken Follett, she reasoned. In fact, I'd be delighted to become the next David McCullough or Antonia Fraser.
What differentiated Shaniyah's work from that of most historical writers was that her books did not focus on a specific event or a famous historical figure. The centerpiece of each of her works was a well-known building. Her first book, Independence Hall, dealt not only with the world-shaping events that took place inside the cradle of American liberty but also with the architecture and interior design of the building itself. People who have read her heavily illustrated, detailed volumes contend that they felt as though they had been given a personal guided tour of the iconic Philadelphia landmark.
Shaniyah followed up her debut book with Mount Vernon, Springwood, Hearst Castle and her most popular title to date, Monticello. She was currently working on her fifth book and expected to be finished by the end of the week. After turning the completed manuscript over to the editors, she planned on taking a week off to visit her family in Pennsylvania.
The Westminster chimes of her antique grandfather's clocked informed her that it was quarter to nine.
I'd better get to work, she thought conscientiously and quickly finished the last of her coffee.
As she was putting the empty cup in the dishwasher, she heard her cell phone ring.
"Hello," she said after ascertaining the call was from her publisher, Dalton Iverson.
"How's the new book coming?" he asked.
"Great. I hope to upload the finished file on Friday."
"Wonderful. I've got a new assignment for you."
"So soon?"
"Don't worry. It can wait until you return from Pennsylvania. I just want to give you time to pack and make arrangements for someone to watch your cat. I do hope your passport is valid."
"Passport? Am I going to Canada?"
"No. London."
Shaniyah's mind reeled with excitement. She had always wanted to visit England but never had the opportunity to do so.
"What am I going to write about while I'm there? Please say it's Westminster Abbey!"
"No, but it is a church."
"St. Paul's?"
"No. All Hallows Barking."
"I've never heard of it," she said, clearly disappointed.
"Not many people in America have," Dalton explained. "I think our readers will be fascinated by its history. I'd tell you more about it now, but I have a meeting in five minutes. Gillian will take care of your travel arrangements and make all the necessary reservations. Keep me posted on your progress. Have a good trip."
* * *
Four weeks later Shaniyah McGill was walking through Heathrow Airport with two pieces of luggage and a carryon, looking for the driver who was to take her to her hotel. Thankfully, she did not have long to wait.
"Your hotel is in the Hammersmith section of London," the man informed her as he drove along the M4.
"Is that anywhere near the Tower of London?" she asked hopefully.
"It's about a fifteen minute drive by taxi, but if you take the tube, you can get there for a fraction of the price. A bus would be cheaper yet, but it'll take even longer."
"I suppose I could get used to taking the subway," she said, referring to the underground train in New York vernacular.
"Your hotel is well situated for that. The Hammersmith station is just around the block. All you need do is hop on the District line, and it'll take you to Tower Hill."
As the driver skillfully navigated through the traffic, Shaniyah fought off the desire to curl up on the back seat and take a nap. Although it was midmorning in London, she was still functioning on Eastern Standard Time.
I should have slept on the plane, she chastised herself.
Instead, she had taken advantage of the free meals, snacks and in-flight movies the airline offered. Now, having stayed awake all night, she was exhausted. As soon as her room became available, she took a hot shower, curled up on the bed and promptly fell asleep. She woke up once, late in the evening, had a light supper and then went back to bed. The following morning she awoke at six, refreshed and fully recharged. Hungry, she dressed quickly and headed for the dining room.
So this is a traditional English breakfast? she thought as she stared at the tables full of delicious foods from cold cereals and porridge to pancakes and crepes, from bacon and sausage to fried tomatoes and baked beans. After eating all this food, maybe I should skip mass transit altogether and walk all the way to Tower Hill.
Once she was comfortably full, she retrieved her jacket from her hotel room and headed for the underground station. Shaniyah took her visitor Oyster card out of her wallet, passed it over the yellow card reader and with little difficulty found the platform of the District line. Less than half an hour later, after a short walk from the Tower Hill station, she was standing in front of the church.
This is it? she asked herself, having expected something much grander. It's a far cry from Westminster Abbey.
"Hello," a man who looked to be in his late thirties called to her from the steps of church. "You must be Shaniyah McGill."
"Yes, I am," the writer replied.
"I've been expecting you. My name is Godric Bolton. I'll be showing you around the place, providing you with historical background and answering any questions you might have. Normally, the church offers free guided tours from two to four on weekdays during the warmer months; however, the guides provide visitors with only highlights of the church's history. Since you're writing a book about All Hallows, I'm prepared to provide you with much more in-depth information. Shall we begin?"
"By all means," Shaniyah replied, taking a notebook and pen out of her purse.
"Handwritten notes?" Godric asked with obvious amusement. "That's rather low tech, isn't it?"
"Yes, but much more reliable. I don't have to worry about running out of batteries or equipment malfunctions. Worst case scenario: I run out of ink. So I always have several pens and pencils on me."
"All Hallows by the Tower," Bolton began, "is the oldest church in London. It was founded in 675 AD by the Abbey of Barking. That's three hundred years before construction began on the Tower of London."
"Is that why the church is also referred to as All Hallows Barking?"
"Yes. At the west end of the nave there is an arch that dates back to the Saxons. Also, in 1926, second century Roman pavement was discovered beneath the crypt."
As Godric went into greater dealer about the architecture of the building, Shaniyah furiously scribbled notes with her pen, using a combination of longhand words and shorthand symbols.
"The church suffered extensive damage in 1650 when barrels of gunpowder stored in the churchyard exploded. The church was later repaired in 1658."
"That was 1650 and 1658?"
"Yes. In 1666 the Great Fire of London started in Pudding Lane, only a few hundred yards from this spot. The conflagration destroyed much of central London including St. Paul's Cathedral. All Hallows survived through the efforts of Admiral Penn, William Penn's father, who, along with his friend Samuel Pepys, watched London burn from the tower of the church."
"William Penn?" Shaniyah asked with surprise. "It's a small world, as my mother always says. I was born and raised in Pennsylvania."
"Then you might be interested in learning that William Penn was baptized in this church and educated in the old schoolroom."
"I'll be sure to include that bit of trivia in my book."
"Your American readers might also want to know that John Quincy Adams was married in All Hallows in 1797. The registries of both Penn's baptism and Adams's marriage are on display in our museum."
"Hold on a second," she told her guide. "I want to get this all down."
When she finally stopped writing, Dalton continued.
"Unfortunately, All Hallows didn't fare as well during the Second World War. The church was gutted by German bombers during the Blitz. Only the tower and the walls remained. In 1955 it underwent extensive reconstruction, and was rededicated in 1957."
At that point the outer church door opened and a parishioner stepped inside the vestibule.
"I think we should conclude our tour for today," Godric announced. "I wouldn't want to interfere with the operations of the church."
"No, nor would I," Shaniyah concurred. "I think I've got enough information for now to begin working. Besides, I've never been to London. I'd like to do a little sightseeing while I'm here."
As he led her out the back door, the guide asked where she planned to go next.
"Since I'm right in the neighborhood, I thought I'd tour the Tower of London."
"I'm sure you'll find it fascinating. I'll see you tomorrow then."
As Shaniyah walked along Byward Street, looking at the HMS Belfast on the Thames, she had the unsettling feeling that someone was watching her. Several times she glanced over her shoulder, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. By the time she got in line to purchase an admission ticket to the Tower, the sensation had intensified.
What's wrong with me? I'm behaving like a child, she thought when she found no evidence of a stalker. I've walked the streets of some of the worst neighborhoods in New York, Boston and Philadelphia and never felt this uncomfortable.
But it was a feeling she could not shake. Despite being engrossed by the yeoman warder's tour, she could not dispel the lingering suspicion that she was being followed. In fact, it was not until she was back in her hotel room, behind a locked door, that her peace of mind was restored.
* * *
Another English breakfast! I swear my pants are already a little tighter on me.
While Shaniyah sipped a glass of apple juice, her eyes scanned the people sitting in the tables around her. Many were tourists, traveling with their families or with tour groups. Some were in London on business. Nearly everyone was texting on their phones, reading newspapers or books or was deep in conversation with others at their table. No one seemed to be aware of Shaniyah's presence.
Why can't I get over this annoying feeling that someone is watching me?
As on the previous day, after finishing her breakfast, the writer headed around the block to the Hammersmith underground station. This time, however, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps echoing her own. She quickly turned around; no one was there.
I've got to stop this!
Godric Bolton was waiting for her when she arrived at the church.
"Did you enjoy your visit to the Tower yesterday?" he asked.
"Yes, I did. Very much. No offense, but I wish my assignment had been to write a book on the Tower of London rather than on All Hallows."
"Why is that?"
"Because it has such a colorful history."
"Ah, yes. Executions, torture, imprisonment, Richard III and the disappearance of the princes."
"Exactly!" Shaniyah said with a laugh.
"You do realize that most of the executions took place not inside the Tower walls but outside on the hill?" Godric asked.
"Yes. I also know the important people such as Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard and Lady Jane Grey were beheaded on Tower Green itself—inside the walls. I assume mostly commoners were executed on Tower Hill."
"Not true. Only the nobility and wealthy people were beheaded since it was considered the least painful form of execution at the time. Commoners were hanged at Tyburn. Possibly the earliest execution here, that of Simon Sudbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was in 1381. The first scaffold was erected during the reign of Edward IV. Both Sir Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell lost their heads on Tower Hill during the reign of Henry VIII."
Shaniyah was feverishly jotting down names and dates in her notebook.
"After the executions, the victims' heads were put on pikes and displayed on London Bridge or one of the four towers of Aldgate. Meanwhile, the bodies were often brought here to All Hallows to be cared for and for temporary burial. Sir Thomas More's headless body was later exhumed and reinterred at the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula inside the Tower of London."
"And his head?"
"His daughter was able to rescue it before it was thrown into the Thames. It's believed it is buried with her remains."
"How awful! I can't imagine how that poor woman must have reacted to having seen her father's head being treated so disrespectfully," Shaniyah said with a shudder.
"Given its macabre history, it's no wonder some people claim All Hallows is haunted."
"By Sir Thomas More?"
"Take your pick. There have been more than a hundred executions on Tower Hill. It might be the spirit of Guildford Dudley, Lady Jane Grey's young husband; George Boleyn, Queen Anne's Brother; Thomas Cromwell; Robert Devereux, the Early of Essex ...."
"All of whom met their end at Tower Hill?"
"And they were but a few."
Once again, upon hearing the outside door open, Godric suggested they end their tour for the day.
"Sure," Shaniyah agreed. "That gives me plenty of time to see Westminster Abbey. I assume I can just take the underground there?"
"Yes. Either the District or the Circle line will put you right in front of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster."
Shaniyah said goodbye and headed in the direction of the Tower Hill station. She was never much of a walker, but she enjoyed the view of the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London set against the more modern skyline of London.
This is a beautiful city, she thought. If I had to live anywhere outside the United States, it would be here in London. If only ....
If only she had not felt invisible eyes peering at her, watching every step she took, every move she made.
* * *
The next morning Shaniyah McGill walked into the hotel's busy dining room where the usual tourists and businesspeople were enjoying the breakfast buffet. Determined to conquer her apparently groundless fear of being stalked, she put some eggs, sausage and potatoes on a plate, sat down at a table and ate, forcing herself to look down at her food and not scan the faces of the other diners.
I'm being foolish. No one is looking at me, she told herself, over and over as though reciting a mantra.
When she got to All Hallows by the Tower, she half-expected to find Godric Bolton outside waiting for her. Today, there was no sign of him, however. She walked up to the door and went inside.
"Good morning," a middle-aged woman in a conservative pants suit called. "Can I help you?"
"Hello. I'm looking for Godric Bolton."
"I'm sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."
"I'm Shaniyah McGill. I'm an author from Boston, writing a book on All Hallows."
"Yes, Miss McGill," the woman said with a welcoming smile. "Your publisher made arrangements for us to assist you. I was wondering when you were going to arrive. Oh, I'm sorry. Let me introduce myself. I'm the church secretary, Rose Duckett."
"I was here yesterday and the day before," Shaniyah explained. "Both times I met with Mr. Bolton, who has given me an in-depth history of All Hallows."
Rose frowned.
"I don't know who you spoke with, but I assure you he is not connected with this church in any way."
Shaniyah's complexion paled as she remembered the first time she felt someone's eyes following her. It had been immediately after her first meeting with Godric as she walked down Byward Street toward the Tower of London.
"It must have been him all along," she said sotto voce.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. I'm not feeling well," the writer said, trembling with fear.
"Forgive me, but you don't look well either."
"It must be something I ate for breakfast. I think I'll go back to my hotel and get some rest."
"Would you like me to drive you?" the secretary offered.
"No, thank you. I'll take the subway. I'll be fine."
As she headed back to the underground station, Shaniyah not only looked for Godric Bolton's face in everyone she passed, but she also turned around with regularity to see if he was following her.
I have to get out of the city, she thought. Even if only for a little while.
Once in the crowded station, she retrieved her pocket-sized travel guide out of her handbag. She skimmed through the pages and found an advertisement for Hampton Court Palace.
I can get out of the city and see Henry VIII's Great Hall, as well.
Taking the District to the Northern line, she got off at Waterloo station. From there it was a thirty-five minute train ride to East Molesey, Surrey. During the short journey, she chastised herself for what she considered a serious lack of judgment.
How could I have known Godric Bolton wasn't affiliated with the church? she thought in her own defence. He was standing outside it when we met. He not only knew my name, but he also knew I was in England to write a book on All Hallows.
Many questions went through her mind, but there was one she refused to ask herself for fear of learning the answer. What was the reason for his deception?
* * *
Shaniyah's inner turmoil turned to anger as she walked down hallways that bore witness to five centuries of British history.
How dare he ruin what for me should be the trip of a lifetime! I ought to be marveling at what remains of Henry VIII's magnificent palace, not obsessing about Godric Bolton.
Why was she so frightened of him all of a sudden, she wondered. She had spent several hours alone with him in the church, and he had made no attempts to harm her. He had done nothing, in fact, except provide her with useful information for her book. As she crossed over from the Tudor section of Hampton Court to the more modern Baroque reconstructed palace of William III, she began to come to terms with her dilemma.
Maybe it's the American in me that automatically suspects a person must have ulterior motives for being helpful.
Just as she began to feel as though the weight of fear had finally been lifted off her shoulders, Shaniyah turned around and saw a middle-aged man intently scrutinizing her face.
"Forgive me," he apologized. "I didn't mean to stare, but your resemblance to the portrait is astonishing."
"What portrait is that?"
"One of the paintings in the gallery outside William's royal apartments. It's just beyond the chapel. Why don't you go see for yourself?"
Shaniyah retraced her steps and headed back to the gallery. Among the paintings known as "Windsor Beauties," painted in the seventeenth century by Peter Lely, was a smaller, older portrait that predated the others by several decades. When the American writer looked at the English courtier's facial features, it was as though she were gazing into a mirror.
"Excuse me," she called to one of the palace guides. "I'd like some information about this portrait."
"What's that doing here?" the guide remarked with surprise. "That's not one of Lely's paintings. It's one that dates to the Stuarts."
"Do you know who the subject is?"
"Yes, of course. That's Lady Cecily Wyeth. She and her husband, Lord Francis Wyeth, were prominent members of Charles I's court. They were loyal to him to the very end."
"And when the king was beheaded?"
"They were both arrested, tried and sentenced to die. Lord Wyeth was beheaded on Tower Hill but his wife managed to escape. She fled to France, where she later wed a wealthy aristocrat. It's been said that in order to escape the guillotine during the Reign of Terror, her descendents fled France and settled in America."
The guide then looked from Shaniyah's face to the portrait and back again.
"Is it possible Lady Cecily was your ancestor?" he asked.
"Not that I'm aware of."
"You might want to find out. The resemblance is uncanny."
* * *
When Shaniyah returned to London, it was already late in the evening. It occurred to her that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. She stopped at a pub and ordered fish and chips—she felt obligated to do so; she was in England, after all.
And at some point before I return to America, she thought as she waited for her meal, I'm going to have to have a proper tea as well!
It was almost ten o'clock when she emerged from the Hammersmith station. As she made her way back to her hotel, she noticed the street was unusually dark and deserted for that hour.
I'm perfectly safe, she told herself. My hotel is right around the corner.
Suddenly, the streetlamps and the lights in the surrounding buildings went out as though the city were experiencing a complete power blackout. Shaniyah came to an immediate stop and reached into her handbag for her iPhone. Behind her, she clearly heard the sound of footsteps.
It's nothing to be frightened of, she thought with mounting desperation.
She removed the cell phone from her purse and selected the flashlight app. Then she shined the light on the ground in front of her. In its beam she saw a pair of men's boots and muscular calves covered in colorful hose. As she tilted the phone upward, she saw the man's knee-length breeches. Above them were a doublet and frilled linen shirt.
The man is probably an actor or a tour guide, wearing a seventeenth century costume, she reasoned. He might even be one of the cast at the Globe Theater.
But as the iPhone completed its upward journey, Shaniyah experienced the ultimate horror. There was no head on the man's shoulders!
The terrified woman shrieked until her throat burned with pain. Strong arms suddenly grabbed her from behind. She turned and thought at first it was another headless specter. But when the man spoke to her in a muffled voice, she realized he was wearing a black hood over his head. Summoning all her courage, she reached up and pulled the mask off.
"Godric!" she cried with astonishment that swiftly turned to anger. "What the hell is going on here? Why did you lie to me and pretend you worked for All Hallows? And why have you been following me?"
"He hasn't been following you, my dear. I have."
Shaniyah turned at the sound of another male voice and noticed it came from the decapitated head that the phantom carried in his left arm.
Am I being punked? she wondered. Am I on some British reality show similar to America's Candid Camera?
"I have been keeping an eye on you since you first visited All Hallows Barking," the head continued. "I vowed to protect you from the man you know as Godric Bolton."
"Why? What reason does he have to hurt me?"
"It's nothing personal, I assure you," Godric explained, tightening his grip on Shaniyah's arms. "It's my job. I was an executioner by trade."
"And he believes that you," the head concluded, "cheated him out of his recompense."
"It's not about the money," Godric argued. "I was not like many of the others in my profession. I couldn't be bribed. I had a spotless record—until you escaped justice."
"You fool! You know that this isn't Lady Cecily Wyeth. That she is just an innocent descendent. She's not even English, for Christ's sake! She's an American. Why should she pay for an ancestor's actions that took place almost four centuries ago?"
"Because, Lord Francis, when your wife escaped her execution, I made a vow to God that before I went to my final rest, I would bring her to justice. While she has been in her grave all these years, I have been in purgatory, waiting for some way to fulfill my vow. Finally, she has returned to England, to Tower Hill where you were executed and where she ought to have been beheaded as well."
In the light from her cell phone app, Shaniyah McGill saw a glimpse of steel. Godric Bolton had an executioner's axe attached to his belt.
"Please don't kill me!" she cried, pleading for mercy.
"I have to. If I don't, I'll never rest in peace."
"The vow you took was a voluntary one," the head of Lord Francis Wyeth said. "Surely God is not holding you to it. My dear wife is long dead."
A look of uncertainty appeared on Godric's face.
"You bear a grudge from the distant past," Lord Francis continued. "The world has long since moved on. There are no more cavaliers and roundheads. Oliver Cromwell is as dead as Charles I. Furthermore, there are no more executions in England. The Tower of London is a tourist attraction."
"I'm well aware of that. I have witnessed all the changes that took place in London since your execution. I have seen bombs falling out of the air and buildings climbing to the skies. Trains and automobiles have taken the place of horses and carriages. The England I knew and loved is long gone, but I remain, cursed by my own words."
Sadness brought tears to the executioner's eyes.
"Do you think I'm bound to this earth by choice?" he cried. "I had a wife and children that I loved. Don't you think my soul wants to join theirs?"
"Then break your foolish vow and forswear your quest for justice. There is no earthly reckoning. Death settles all scores and wipes all slates clean."
Shaniyah felt Godric's grip loosen as he realized the logic of Lord Wyeth's argument. She pulled away from him before he could change his mind.
"You do look like your ancestor," the executioner declared. "'Twould be a pity for such a pretty head to be put on a pike on London Bridge."
It was the last thing Godric said before he faded away and his soul went on to his long-awaited eternal slumber.
"He won't be bothering you anymore," Lord Wyeth promised.
"I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to. Your being alive is thanks enough. My dearest wife, Lady Cecily, had just learned she was with child when we were arrested. If she hadn't been, she would have gladly died with me on Tower Hill. But I convinced her to escape for the sake of our unborn child."
"That's why she went to France?"
"Yes, and you are a direct descendent of that child she carried."
"And of yours and Lady Cecily's."
The decapitated head smiled, and its eyes looked at those of the American one last time before the lights of London burned brightly and Shaniyah McGill returned to the twenty-first century.
* * *
Shaniyah's book All Hallows by the Tower not only received critical acclaim but also outsold all her previous works.
In the midst of planning her wedding, the newly engaged writer got a telephone call from her editor.
"I hope your passport is still valid," Dalton Iverson said.
"It had better be. I plan on going to Barcelona for my honeymoon."
"Good. I was thinking your next book ought to be about the Palace of Versailles."
"Let me think about it, okay?"
Dalton was taken aback. He had naturally assumed the writer would jump at the prospect of an all-expense-paid trip to France.
"What's to think about? It's Paris."
Paris, indeed! Shaniyah thought with a shiver, remembering her encounter with Godric Bolton. Ground Zero of the French Revolution. The last thing I want is to encounter another executioner bent on sending me to the guillotine in place of an ancestor who escaped Robespierre's bloody Reign of Terror!
Although All Hallows by the Tower is an actual church and its history as presented in this story is based on fact, the characters and plot are purely fictional.
Salem loves fish, but he can take or leave the chips.
