THE ECHO OF KING HENRY VIII

Otago Daily Times, Issue 27272, 24 December 1949, Page 5

THE ECHO OF KING HENRY VIII

Father Lowrie clasped his hands piously. “Well, yes and no,” he said. I frowned. “All right—yes,” he added. “ You mean that it is haunted? ” I said. v “ Well—er, yes.” “May I see the place?” I said.^* “Come, I’ll show you. I didn’t get your name, by the way.” “ Vincent. David Vincent.” Lowrie opened the front door of Priory House and led me down a gravel path. We turned off through a narrow lane and came to the east side of the priory. It looked Cistercian. Lowrie took a large, heavy key from his cloak and placed it in the lock. He turned the handle and we stepped inside the church. There was a lingering smell of old incense and the tang of old effigies. Quite a place to look at—ornate, solemn and intensely R.C. “ Let’s walk down the nave,” he said. I felt the place slowly asserting itself, gripping me in a medieval vice. “ What about the ghost? ” I said. “Eh?” “ You know, the echo of King Henry VIII,” I said. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Let’s go to the west door and I’ll explain.” We walked the length of the nave and arrived at the base of the tower with its west door. “Stand here at midnight,” he said. “ When? ” I said. “At midnight,” he said. “ Why midnight? ” I said. “You’ll see,” he said. “What happens?” I said. “ You’ll hear the echo of King Henry vra.” “ The echo? I said. “The echo,” he said. “ You mean the actual voice?” I said. “ I mean the echo,” he said enigmatically. “Well, the place certainly has an echo. Perhaps a royal monologue.” Father Lowrie was silent. “ What time is it? ” I said. “A quarter-past 7,” said Lowrie. “Ah, I’ll get back to the inn for supper and return about a quarter to 12. How’s that? ” “As you wish. I’ll give you the key and you can let yourself in.”

By Alfred Rldgway

“ Thanks," I said. We left the church. The walk back to the inn took me 20 minutes, and I had a cold salad and beer in the bar parlour. About 9 I went up to my room and opened the local gazetteer. I browsed through it idly; then sat smoking till ► a quarter-past 11, when I had a hot rum and set off.

There was a bright moon and a hoar frost, and the lane looked like something out of “A Christmas Carol.” At seven minutes to 12 I was fumbling with the key at the east door of the priory. I swung it slowly open and the hinges groaned. The noise sounded ominous.

Old Lowrie, I saw, had got a couple of candles burning at the high altar, and I stood inside, nice and still,, for a moment, tuning myself in. Then I walked slowly up the nave towards the tower, and my footsteps bounded back upon me from the walls. I thought of old Lowrie’s words: “The echo of King Henry VIII.” It seemed to me at this moment that something tangible, audible, was going to register. Something I couldn’t argue against: something I’d simply have to accept.

But what? I started thinking of direct voice phenomena and wondered if King Henry VIII had somehow registered . . . I checked the thought. The thing was growing absurd. Five minutes to 12. There was a light flapping sound in the tower, and I walked on, staring into the upper darkness. The flapping continued. Then stopped. Probably a bat. I committed sacrilege and started whistling. I was now right underneath tbe tower. Waiting, I watched one of the candles at the other end of the church suddenly flicker in a struggle for life. Then go out. I started walking down the nave towards the dead candle. It drew me psychologically. like an hypnotic power.

About halfway down; the nave I stopped. A sound—l don’t know what it was, but it came from behind me somewhere. It sounded like rotten teeth chewing nuts. Then it stopped. I looked at my watch. Just on 12. Something, I felt, was beginning. I walked slowly back towards the tower and waited.

Then the sound again. Louder and different. Like something grating. A chain, for instance. I committed sacrilege and lit a cigarette. I had to. The sound grew louder, assuming a low-pitched groan. It lasted some 15 seconds.

Then the priory clock struck 12. And the groaning stopped.

I don’t know what the hammer was striking, but it sounded awful. They were the 12 most plaintive clangs I ever heard. They echoed through the aisles in an ear-splitting howl. Then the place fell into an absolute silence, and nothing more happened. I waited five minutes, then bolted up and left.

Back at the inn I picked up the local gazetteer again. I looked up the paragraph on St. Mary’s Priory, and something caught my eye. “ The sole relic of King Henry’s vandalism here is the priory clock bell, which was smashed in the dissolution of the monasteries. The clock, which strikes only on 12, is unaltered from the sixteenth century.” I thought of those cracked peals—echoing the vandalism of a King.