by Mary Burns
11
Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard
That God hath told the King a secret word.
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
Tuesday Later Afternoon
The day’s light was still quite strong as we trod once more the tidy pavements of Brampton. Lord Parke stayed so assiduously at my side that I had not a chance to exchange a private word with John, though I was longing to do so.
We arrived at Uncle Chaffee’s cottage within ten minutes, and frankly, it was after all a good thing that His Lordship accompanied us, as I really don’t think I would have found it on my own. Not that I would admit this aloud.
“Ah, yes,” I said, assertively. “This is just as I recall it when I last visited, five years ago.”
“I thought you said it was a cottage,” John said as we stopped at the front gate. “This is much more a smallish sort of mansion, I’d say.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s no mere thatched hut, I’ll grant you.” I looked at the well-trimmed front garden with its honeysuckle trellis and rose bushes in full bloom at the sides of the lawn. An arched trellis of ivy formed a gated entrance, from which stretched on either side a civilized stone fence some four feet high. The gate was merely latched, and opened easily to Lord Parke’s hand. The house itself was well-built, brick of diverse sizes and varying in colors from tan to light brown, balanced evenly with two bay windows on either side of the large front door, and six windows above on the second floor, some set into gabled fronts very attractively.
We were walking up the pavestones to the front door when it suddenly swung open, and out stepped a plumpish, middle-aged woman in a white cap and apron billowing over her black dress. Catching sight of Lord Parke, she immediately curtsied, and from her lips issued a stream of words in a strong though not unpleasant voice.
“Oh! My lord, I didn’t expect you this late in the day,” she said. “But I see you’ve found the poor dear Reverend’s friend little Violet—excuse me, Miss Paget, I mean—perhaps you remember me, dear? I had just begun service with the Reverend upon your last visit here, and your quite interesting mamma, so well I remember her.”
As we neared the door, she curtsied again, and espying John coming up behind me and Lord Parke, exclaimed, looking him up and down, “And here’s your friend with you, dear me, you must be Mr. Sargent, and what a tall young man you are! Well! Please, I beg you, do come into the house, I’ve just been putting tea together, hoping that after all, you would be coming, but not sure, you know.”
She ushered us in with all the good will in the world, and a great deal of solicitous chatter as well, a little like the famous Miss Bates so well-drawn by Miss Austen, whose works I frequently find lacking in drama but excellent in their detailed depictions of odd British characters, and the uncivil passions that stir the hearts of the genteel classes.
Upon walking into the marble-floored entranceway, I couldn’t help my eyes being drawn to the foot of the handsome oak staircase that rose from the center of the vestibule to the floors above. Mrs. Barnstable, quick on the mark, put her hand on my arm and spoke in a low voice.
“No, my dear, ‘tis not where he met his fate, not here,” she said, divining my thoughts, and gazing at me most kindly. “There’s another stair, a smaller one, that goes from the library up to his own chamber—he was that fond of being with his books and precious things at all hours of the day and night. There it was he took his fall.”
For all her volubility, I could see that the woman felt deeply the death of her employer, and she was filled with sympathy for me in my loss. I returned the pressure of her hand with my own, and nodded my thanks.
“Is it possible,” I said, “for us to see his library? I would very much like to do that.”
“Well, of course you would,” said Mrs. Barnstable, patting my hand. “I’m sure Reverend Chaffee would be delighted to have people admiring all the things he loved so much—” Here she broke off, and putting a handkerchief to her eyes, wiped away a few sudden tears. “And to think just last evening, he hadn’t let himself have a second helping of pudding, saying t’were better he’d have it for his luncheon today.” She sighed deeply, and brought herself up. “Well, may the good Lord bless and keep him, he’s in better company now.”
We were a somber party as she showed us to the library. Stopping only to instruct a quiet-looking maid to have tea ready in the drawing room shortly, Mrs. Barnstable led us to the back of the house. I was about to ask her how she knew of our arrival in town, then bethought myself that of course, she would have seen to the preparations for my and John’s arrival based on what Uncle Chaffee would have imparted to her. Again, the good lady seemed to read my mind, for without a moment’s space between my thought and her speech, she spoke as if answering me.
“Yes, indeed, the Reverend was so looking forward to your visit—and that of your young gentleman friend as well,” she said, nodding in John’s direction. “I had the guest rooms upstairs all made up on purpose, of course—” she broke off, and stopped short. “Will you be staying with us here, at the Cottage Perilous?” she said, with a quick look at Lord Parke. “I heard that you had been settled already at the Brampton Arms, but wasn’t sure, and it seems to me the poor dear Reverend would consider it a breach of hospitality on his part—poor dear man—if he couldn’t extend the shelter of his cottage to his nearest and dearest.”
His Lordship began to speak but I rode over his words with alacrity.
“Dear Mrs. Barnstable,” I said, internally marvelling at the speed with which the details of our arrival had spread. “Lord Parke has been most generous and kind in providing us with rooms in town, and I believe it may be best to return his generosity by staying there at least for tonight—but after that, I assure you that I would gladly avail myself of your excellent preparations—and I’m sure John feels the same—and remove ourselves to Cottage Perilous sometime tomorrow.”
Mrs. Barnstable looked highly gratified, and we continued on our way.
“Cottage Perilous?” John whispered it in my ear. “Did you know he called it that?”
I shook my head. “More Arthurian infatuation,” I whispered back.
The door to the library was open, but the draperies were closed, shrouding the room in dark and gloomy shadows. Mrs. Barnstable walked swiftly to the windows and pulled back the drapes, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to glow through the panes from the extensive ground behind the house, newly refreshed from recent rains, and sparkling in its verdure.
I looked around the library—it was extraordinarily neat and tidy, a perfect simulacrum of my dear departed friend—a place for everything, and everything in its place.
John broke the silence that had come upon us since we entered the room. He was standing near the housekeeper, and addressed her in sympathetic tones.
“How distressing it must have been for you,” he said. “I understand that you were the one who…discovered…” He paused, from delicacy certainly, and perhaps encouragement.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Barnstable. “I brought his breakfast in here, as I always do. As it was, I was much earlier coming than usual, up with the sun, you know, on these long days of summer. The Reverend was nearly always here, in his library, from very early in the morning, poring over his books and looking at his collections.” She waved a hand toward two curio cabinets, with many shelves of glass, and glass on the sides, to let in light so to view the items better. She took a tentative step toward the very steep iron and wood staircase that rose toward the high ceiling of the room, where a walkway depended about half-way up for another level of books and shelves of curiosities. She pointed to a corner at the top of the stairs.
“See there, there’s the door that opens directly to his bed chamber,” she said. It appeared to be open a few inches, I thought, but it could have been just the shadow of the doorway.
&nb
sp; “And then…” John gently urged her to go on. I was grateful to him for taking on this task; he had a much softer way of talking with people than I, and ladies in particular responded very openly to him.
“I walked to his table, and set down the tray,” she said, “thinking that he’d perhaps just stepped out to the garden for a moment, and then I turned toward the fireplace because I suddenly realized that, though the fire had been laid, the night before, it had not been lit, which was odd as it was a little chilly this morning, despite the summer’s heat during the day.”
She looked at us almost apologetically. “You see, the Reverend did not wish anyone to come into his library to light the fire in the mornings, especially in his absence—he was exceedingly fearful of some mismanagement of the fire that would cause a conflagration—he was so careful of his books and things. He always lighted his fire himself. Didn’t want another Naworth.” She colored slightly, and nodded her head at Lord Parke. “Begging your pardon, my lord.” I wondered at the significance of this remark, but felt it was not a good time to interrupt Mrs. Barnstable.
The housekeeper struggled to compose herself, and won the battle.
“And that’s when, you see, that I realized something was wrong, and as I stepped closer to the fireplace—it being on the wall across from the staircase—that’s when I saw him, lying on the floor, all crumpled and cold.” She applied her handkerchief once more to her eyes, and John murmured some comforting words only she could hear.
Moving closer to the stairs myself, I steeled myself for signs of blood or at least, disarray, but all was clean and neat. I found Lord Parke at my side, looking intently at the same scene.
“Where was he exactly?” I said, realizing I sounded abrupt, but frankly, not really caring if anyone took it amiss. Not only had I the excuse of being a grieving relation, in a sense, but I was keenly aware that certain questions needed to be asked right away—I wanted to know every detail while it was possibly still fresh in the housekeeper’s memory, seeing as how she’d clearly managed to destroy anything that might in any way—to a detecting mind—be called evidence.
Rousing herself to the task, Mrs. Barnstable gathered her thoughts. She pointed to the lower steps. “He lay with his head at the bottom, on the floor,” she said. “His shoulders, too, were on the floor, all at an awkward angle. His feet,” she said, pointing now a few steps upwards, “were farther up. He was face down, and his hands were…” She stopped to think, then continued firmly. “One hand and arm was under his body, and the other, his right arm, was flung out, over his head, as if he had reached out to save himself from falling.”
“How was he dressed?” I said. “Was he carrying anything—a candle or a lamp? Books?”
Mrs. Barnstable looked at me, exhaustion in her eyes. John noticed immediately and took her arm, leading her to sit on an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. He glanced up at me, almost I would say, in disapproval, but I narrowed my eyes at him and he nodded, ever so slightly.
“I shall get the girl to bring us some tea here, shall I?” said John, and waiting for no one’s assent, he turned and pulled the bell cord that hung next to the fireplace. I could not relax my vigilance, and so continued on my feet, drawing nearer the stairs to observe them more closely.
The maid appeared, tea was ordered, and we got back down to business once tea had been served. Mrs. Barnstable seemed much refreshed, and was very forthcoming with further detail.
“You may not be aware,” she said, looking down somewhat modestly, “but I am a well-qualified nurse, having served in my younger years with the justly famous Miss Florence Nightingale in the Crimea.” She clasped her hands in her ample lap. “We were taught to be very observant, as befits living in time of war, and near the front, as well for our own sakes as for the care of our patients.” She mused but a brief moment, perhaps lost in the past, then proceeded with her description. “I tell you this, you see, because it will make more sense to you that I knew, therefore, that he was dead without having to disturb his body—rigor mortis had already partly set in. I admit, however, that I was too stunned to make sense of what I saw at the time, what with the shock of it, and making haste to call for Delia to run for Dr. Langley, and Dr. Langley’s coming.” She shook her head at the memory. “It already seems so long ago, and yet it was just this morning.”
“At what time did you enter the room, and find the Reverend?” His Lordship asked this question, somewhat to my surprise, but as it had been on the tip of my own tongue, I allowed it—as the magistrates say.
“It was shortly after seven,” she said. She looked then at me. “Regarding your previous questions, Miss Paget, the Reverend was dressed in his nightshirt, but no cap, and he had his dressing gown on—as if he had perhaps gone up to his room, and got nearly ready to retire, but then decided to come again into the library.” She rose from her chair and walked over to me at the foot of the stairs.
“There,” she pointed to a faint darker spot on the floor. “His bedside candlestick lay there, with the wax spilled out—I cleaned it up as best I could,” she said, then looked at me, suddenly concerned. “I hope it was all right for me to do that?”
I pursed my lips and couldn’t answer.
“Of course, you could do nothing else,” said His Lordship, soothingly. I averted my face as I didn’t wish him to see my countenance.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Mrs. Barnstable. She resumed her narration.
“I didn’t notice anything else,” she said. “No books, no papers—just the Reverend.”
I blew out a short breath in frustration, and checked myself. What had I expected? Evidence of someone having pushed him down the stairs? A hand-written note apologizing for having been so clumsy as to fall and cause all this fuss? I shook my head at these nonsensical thoughts—I must be more fatigued than I had thought.
There didn’t seem much else to do. Mrs. Barnstable had turned away, and had moved closer to one of the glass display cabinets.
“Why, that’s odd,” she said, and bent to look more closely.
“What is odd?” I asked, my senses all alert.
“Why, come look—your Lordship, you’ll no doubt remember as well as I do,” she said, pointing to an upper shelf. “Something is missing.”
As we drew closer, I immediately discerned there was a larger space between the objects at the place where she pointed, as if indeed something had been removed. Mrs. Barnstable turned the handle and the curved side door swung open, allowing a closer look. Upon minute inspection, there was clearly a blank rectangular space around which a very slight amount of dust sat upon the surface of the glass.
“Do you recall what was situated there?” I said, addressing the housekeeper.
“No, Miss Paget, not other than that it was one of those popish relic things the Reverend was so fond of,” she said, though not disapprovingly.
I looked at His Lordship, who was standing right next to me. “Do you recall, Lord Parke?”
“Not with any certainty,” he replied after a moment. “I’d have to look at the rest of the things in the cabinet, to see if something would jog my memory.” He stepped back, looking worried.
“But undoubtedly it was one of the Reverend’s Glastonbury relic collection,” he said thoughtfully, “and equally undoubtedly, it is now missing.”
12
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
–Idylls of the King
9 May 1539
Glastonbury Abbey
Feast of St Pachomius
It was late in the evening on the day that Gwillem Moor came when the Abbot spoke again. He had slept a little, dozing in his chair, but mostly sat staring into the depths of the fire. When he spoke, Arthur felt it was the result of long and prayerful thought.
“Arthur Joseph, my son in Christ,” he said, “I have a quest fo
r thee, as great and holy as any that Arthur or Joseph undertook in holier times than ours.” Arthur felt a sacred fire kindle in his heart that flamed in his eyes, and he saw an answering flare in the Abbot’s old eyes.
The Abbot put a kindly hand on the boy’s shoulder, and pulled him downward to whisper in his ear.
“The Abbey is threatened, my son, as you know,” he said. “You must vow on the Holy Eucharist itself not to disclose what we will speak about here, or what you will do subsequently, until such time, if it come, either that the Abbey is safe and whole again—or gone to dust.”
“I so vow, on the eternal life of my soul,” Arthur said.
“May God bless and keep you in His heart,” said the Abbot. He continued in a low voice.
“Gwillem Moor is more than a harper, he is a true angelus, my son, a messenger,” he said. “With your help, he will undertake a journey to Cumberland—to your father and Canon John at Lanercost, if he still lives at the Priory, and Sir William—in order to provide a safe haven for some of the most precious and sacred objects in the possession of our Abbey.”
The boy looked up with wide, inquiring eyes at the Abbot. “But, my lord, Lanercost was dissolved more than a year ago—there’s no one there.” The older man shook his head.
“The parish church is still maintained by Lady Mabel’s chantry for old Sir Humphrey—the money’s still there for it. And Canon John is true—he’ll be able to help. The north is the safest place left in England.”
Arthur considered this. “Though I am but a novice,” he said, “there will be those who will notice I am gone. Perhaps it can be said that my father is ill, and I am needed at home?”
The Abbot nodded his head, and looked at Arthur solemnly. “It is very possible—nay, it is certain—that you will not be able to return to Glastonbury after this quest.” His face was inexpressibly sad. “There may be no Glastonbury to return to.” His eyes searched Arthur’s face. “Are you willing to undertake this task, my son?”