The Spoils of Avalon

by Mary Burns

  I could hardly see her without fresh waves of laughter and embarrassment equally rolling over me—such is one’s ungovernable mind, when it comes to gossip and thinking ill of one’s fellow human beings—that I was determined to derive some sort of moral from my humiliation, and whilst searching for it, I decided to engage Maisie in revealing more details about Lord Parke.

  “I am given to understand, Maisie,” I said, as she once again worked her wonders on my frowsy, untameable locks, “that you and Annie and other girls have become enrolled in some sort of workshop or school that Lord Parke has created.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss,” said Maisie, with great enthusiasm. “He’s been so very good to all of us. We’re learning about crafts that folks in olden times did at home, that is, not poor folk of course, they be busy in field or with animals, but like ladies in yon castle.” She jerked her head in a northern direction; I assumed she was referring to Naworth Castle, the northern home of the Howards.

  I wondered anew at Lord Parke’s educational establishment—what were his aspirations? To what heights of manufacturing did he imagine these girls would ascend, and for what real purpose? Was it likely they would find satisfaction in medieval revival crafting? Perhaps I was sadly behind the times, here in England, having spent far too many years on the continent, where no one did anything useful.

  “Does he do any of the instructing himself?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, Miss, there are those he has set to that, for us,” Maisie explained. “His Lordship comes round, though, to see as how we be getting on, and then, there’s prizes.”

  “Prizes?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss, ever so beautiful, things from down London, for girls as do best work. Last night, Mary Wattendall took a first for her jet necklace—ever so lovely it was—and our Annie got a prize as well, for her embroidery.”

  “Well,” I said, “Lord Parke is a very generous man.”

  “Oh, that he is, Miss, ever so generous, just like his cousin, Mr. George.”

  “Have you ever been to yon castle?” I said.

  “Yes, Miss, just the one time,” Maisie said. “To see all the beautiful windows. After fire, you know, His Lordship—meaning our Lord William, Miss, Mr. George’s uncle—had to build castle all up again, not stone work or walls, you see, but inside—the girt rooms and chapel—all but Belted Willy’s room, begging your pardon, Miss, old Sir William as was, ever so many a year ago. And all new decorating was by Mr. Morris, so Lord Parke says, as Mr. George was in charge of late.” She breathed the famous artist’s name reverently.

  “I have heard a little about the fire,” I said. “It was quite some time ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, Miss, some score years afore I was ever born,” she said. She stepped back to survey her accomplishment with my appearance. “Me mum talks like ‘twere yesterday, all the old folk do talk of it such like—it happened on her marriage day, it did—and my da and all mun ran from dinner to help put out fire, but it took on too fast, and naught was saved but some old books and paintings—and Belted Willie’s tower, so high and thick are walls of it.”

  Such long memories country folk have, I thought. And the British have a distinctive sense of the importance of past times in their present lives, it seemed to me. By contrast, I had experienced, from my youth, the timeless aspect and approach to life of the Italian peasants who worked the farms attached to the villas my family rented over the years—but that wasn’t so much living in the past, or remembering it, as simply not acknowledging that anything had ever changed, or ever would change, since the time of their great-grandparents! I shook my head to bring myself back to my own present life.

  “Thank you, Maisie,” I said. “You’ve done wonders, once again.” I gave her a penny, and asked her to send up the bellboy to bring my luggage downstairs.

  “You’re not leaving hotel so soon, Miss?” Maisie said, looking genuinely sorry.

  “Yes, my dear, Mr. Sargent and I are removing to the Reverend Crickley’s cottage,” I said, with a sudden uneasiness about having revealed our plan. But a second thought reassured me—in a small town like this, it would soon be common knowledge where we were lodged anyway, so saying it aloud could hardly matter.

  “Oh, poor Mr. Crickley,” said Maisie. She held up my cloak for me to put it on.

  “Are people still saying . . . well, what are people saying now about his death?” I said.

  Maisie looked around, and spoke in a low voice.

  “Folks say as he were killed for a girt treasure, Miss, gold and such like.”

  “A treasure? Why are folk saying such a thing, Maisie?” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “I heard it meself, Miss. My friend, Delia—she helps Mrs. Barnstable, you see, charring and kitchen work—Delia says she heard that Mr. Gravely talking to old vicar once, when Delia was cleaning nearby”—here her voice dropped even lower—“and vicar said as he was powerful excited, that he had found a treasure, he did.”

  “A treasure? Truly?” I repeated. Well, my intended conversation with Mrs. Barnstable was definitely going to be interesting. Surely she would know something about this! I felt a moment’s uneasiness when it occurred to me to wonder why Mr. Gravely hadn’t mentioned this “treasure” last night. I closed the clasp on my cloak and gave Maisie what I assumed was a warm and personable smile. John wasn’t the only one who could talk to people!

  John was waiting in the lobby, had settled with the manager about our departure—only that Lord Parke had taken care of the bill already—and announced that the barouche awaited us at the curb. Our luggage appeared shortly, and soon all was in order for the short drive to Cottage Perilous.

  “Do you think,” I said as we glided through Brampton on a brilliantly sunny summer morning, “that the ‘perilous’ in the cottage’s name is a deliberate reference to the famous bridge and chapel, down in the South, you know, at Glastonbury and maybe Caerleon?”

  “You mean the Arthurian stories again?” John said. “Given your uncle’s interest in all that, I’d say so.” He mused a moment. “And aptly named, it seems.”

  “The Chapel Perilous, as I recall,” I said, “was a legendary site where Arthur lifted the sword from the stone, whereas the Bridge—which I believe is actually considered to be still extant, just outside the town of Glastonbury—is the place where Arthur supposedly threw his famous sword into the river, or perhaps a lake at that time, you know the Somerset country, it’s nearly all water half the year—and the hand of the great Lady of the Lake, ‘dressed in white samite’ reached up, clasped the hilt and pulled it under the waters.”

  “So she’s keeping it safe until Arthur comes again?” John said, amused at my peroration.

  “One can only hope,” I said.

  Mrs. Barnstable was again waiting at the door of the cottage upon our arrival, as well as the girl recently identified to me as Delia, Maisie’s friend. I was thinking I’d have to try to get a word with her as well, during the day. In the meantime, we were all a-bustle with getting the luggage upstairs to the proper rooms and settling ourselves into Cottage Perilous.

  I had yet to enter my Uncle’s own chamber, and steeled myself for this melancholy visit. My sorrow was indeed mixed with anger against the perpetrator of his demise, however, so it was with a keen and vigilant eye that I opened the door and stood in the doorway to survey the room.

  I immediately noticed that the door on the other side of the smallish chamber was partly open—that must be the door that opens to the staircase and down to the library. I’d approach that in a moment.

  Opening the door all the way for better light, I crossed the room to draw back the heavy draperies, which concealed everything in gloomy darkness. The morning sun illuminated the room quite well—it was a south exposure—and I was able to see everything I needed to.

  The bed was not made—good, that meant that neither Mrs. Barnstable nor Delia had been up here, tidying up, as had been so deplorably done in the library. The covers were th
rown back, the pillows awry, as if the Reverend had just flung them back and arisen. A small wooden table next to the bed, upon close inspection, held drips of wax, built up over some little time—there, probably, was where his candle stood, the one he’d carried down the stairs with him. A stack of books also lay on the table, bristling with pieces of paper sticking out of the pages, markers I assumed. I’d look more carefully into those a little later.

  Wardrobe, washstand, chair next to a bookcase and lamp—all seemed orderly and normal. A sudden image of Uncle Chaffee sitting in his comfortable chair, reading a book, perhaps sipping a little sherry, came to my mind and caused a lump in my throat. Poor dear man—how I would have liked to greet him once more. I put these thoughts aside for now, and moved toward the far door.

  Just as I put my hand on the door to pull it open, I was startled by a voice at my back.

  “May I be of assistance to you, Miss Paget?” It was Mrs. Barnstable, who had stepped into the room.

  I whirled and glared balefully at her. I noticed that she was taking a quick survey of the chamber.

  “Please forgive me, Miss Paget,” she said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Of course,” I said, recovering my manners. “No, thank you, Mrs. Barnstable, I … just wanted to look over some of … some of the Reverend’s things.” She nodded, as if waiting for more, but I stood my ground, saying nothing, until she decided to retreat.

  “Luncheon will be served at one, Miss Paget,” she said, and left the room after a slow look around again.

  I turned back to the door. Odd woman! She definitely had something to say about all this, if I could only get her to say it!

  I opened the door, which indeed turned out to be the one at the head of the stairs to the library. The height was a bit dizzying at first, very steep, and I stooped down to examine the boards as far as I could see them. As I crouched there, peering inch by inch across the steps, I heard the library door open down below, and looked up to see John entering the room.

  “Halloo, Scamps,” I called softly, not wanting to startle him. He looked up on the instant and smiled.

  “Great minds,” he said, and walked swiftly to the foot of the stairs.

  “I’m looking at every step and every part of the banister, starting up here,” I said.

  “I’ll do the same from this end,” John said.

  Nothing on the top step, or the one below. I lay on my stomach now, my legs inside the Reverend’s chamber, and the rest of me draped across the stairs as I examined the third step from the top. Eureka!

  “John, quick, look at this!”

  He carefully walked up the stairs and, kneeling down on a lower step, bent to look where I pointed.

  On the left, outer side of the railing, there were notably recent scratches near the lower third of the wooden balustre; flakes of varnish still peeled back from the scoring. We immediately looked to the right side, where the handrail of the balustrade was anchored to the wall. There, on the corresponding balustre, was a length of wire, the top still twisted tight around the wood, and the rest hung dangling between the wall and the stairs—it would have been easily missed had we not known what to look for.

  It had been attached about twelve inches up from the step, which would be, if I remembered it correctly, the height at which Uncle Chaffee’s shins bore their red whip-like marks.

  John and I simply stared at each other as we lay upon the staircase face to face—and it was in this ludicrous position that we were espyed by Lord Parke, who just then entering the library by the door John had left open, called out to us in an amused voice.

  “I say, some new sort of exercise you’ve imported from the Continent?” he said, looking up at us cheerfully. But, as I’ve said, he is a smart man, and immediately caught the direful looks on our faces.

  “You’ve found something,” he said and swiftly went back to close the library door. John had stood up, and giving me a hand to rise from my awkward state, we both came down the staircase into the library. I felt a moment’s reluctance to tell His Lordship what we’d found, then decided it might be better to tell him and watch his reaction carefully.

  “Yes,” I said. “You recall that Mr. Gravely had his suspicions about Reverend Crickley’s death,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice neutral. His Lordship nodded and kept silent.

  “Well, we have just discovered that someone placed a wire across the third step down from the top, on the Reverend’s staircase, which we can assume is what caused him to fall yesterday, in the early hours of the morning. It would account for those marks on his shins.”

  I pointed to the top of the stairs. “The wire is still there, but it evidently broke loose from one side, probably from the force and weight of Reverend Crickley as he fell, and is lying between the stairs and the balustrade, and is not visible from down here.”

  Lord Parke paled, and he looked greatly distressed.

  “You mean to say,” he said in a low voice, “that someone deliberately set this trap for Reverend Crickley—to make him fall down the stairs?” A sudden thought seemed to strike him. “How would they know that he would come down the stairs, and not go up—in which case, he would not have fallen, as the wire would stop his progress but not cause him to fall?”

  John spoke up, having already thought it through. “It can only mean that the person who put it there did so after the Reverend Crickley had retired for the night—so that his next most likely entry to the library would be from his chamber—as he was apparently used to doing.”

  “And that would mean,” I took it up, “that it would have to be someone familiar with the Reverend’s habits, and also, most importantly, with access to the cottage at night—perhaps someone who has a key?”

  “I have a key,” Lord Parke said, paling again. He pulled a key ring from his pocket, and after looking through several keys, showed one to us. “About a year ago, the Reverend had asked me to see about purchasing some noted relics on his behalf, as he was at the time laid up with a bad knee, and he gave me this key to enable me to deliver the relics to him in the evening, when there wouldn’t be anyone here to open the door for me.” He pocketed the keys again. “I hadn’t realized that I failed to return it.”

  That was a most prompt explanation, I thought. Well, we shall see.

  “I think it’s time we had a good, long talk with Mrs. Barnstable,” I said, and nodded to John. “You, I think, might be the one to ask the questions, as she seems to like you. But I intend to stay and listen.” I looked squarely at Lord Parke, and realized that he had come in quite unannounced.

  “Pray, my lord,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

  My question, I could see, took him off guard, and I believe he began to think for the first time that I held him under suspicion in my uncle’s death. It was no more than an uneasy flicker of intelligence across his face, and then his usual urbanity returned.

  “Why, only to see that you and Mr. Sargent made it safely to the cottage,” he said. “And of course, to offer my continued assistance, should you need it.” He looked bravely at me, unflinchingly, as if to stare me out of countenance. But then his look softened.

  “You see, I consulted with my cousin last evening, about what is needed to be done…what Reverend Crickley would have wanted…regarding the funeral, my dear Miss Paget,” he wound up, not sounding quite so urbane, but unaffected and natural—very becoming. “It is customary to hold the funeral within a few days of death.” He glanced at John, near whom he was standing, and received a warm look in return from my friend.

  “I…had not…thank you, my lord,” I said. I felt a little abashed.

  “Your very youth,” said Lord Parke, “would have, hopefully, kept you from much experience with this sort of necessity.”

  “You are not so very much our elder,” John said, reaching out to touch His Lordship on the arm, briefly.

  “Older enough,” Lord Parke said, “to have accompanied more than one relative to t
he grave.” He shook off what had become gloomy thoughts amongst us all.

  “As I said,” he continued, “I consulted with my cousin, who was privy to the Reverend Crickley’s wishes in this matter, and I hope that you will allow me the honor of arranging everything with the vicar at St. Martin’s Church in Brampton, for a funeral and service, and the burial—probably on Friday?”

  Today was Wednesday—we had arrived only yesterday morning! Again, the variable elasticity of time struck me.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “Thank you for your graciousness, my lord,” I said, feeling quite humble. “I can think of no better person to trust with these matters than yourself.”

  Lord Parke, to my surprise, looked highly gratified by my commendation. He walked over to me, took my hand in his and bowed over it in a most gentlemanlike manner, and left the room without another word.

  After a few moments of silence, John came over to me.

  “Are you all right, Vi?” he said, his eyes keen on my face.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.” I shook myself a little, and tried to smile.

  “Let’s go find Mrs. Barnstable, shall we? It’s time we had a talk with that good lady.”

  24

  For this was Arthur’s custom in his hall;

  When some good knight had done one noble deed,

  His arms were carven only; but if twain

  His arms were blazoned also; but if none,

  The shield was blank and bare without a sign

  Saving the name beneath.

  –Idylls of the King

   22 July 1539 