The Spoils of Avalon

by Mary Burns

  I came up behind John as he stood, hands on hips, surveying a great wall of stone that looked to have once been the massive side of a church.

  “Glorious!” he exclaimed. “How I wish I had my gear—what an excellent old building!”

  We moved closer to it and passed through a doorway—sans door—into the forlorn interior of the church. Ivy was climbing the walls on the inside as well as outside, and massive chunks of stone and marble lay open to the elements, as they had obviously done for more than three centuries.

  “What a pity,” John said. “See, there—what was the sanctuary, looks like the remains of the high altar.” He shook his head, puzzled and sad. “How could anyone destroy such beauty?”

  I looked up at blue sky and white clouds passing overhead, creating waves of shadows and light to fall across the ruins. We were standing in the center of the transept, and as I peered into the dimness of a side altar, I could make out an enormous tomb.

  “Look there,” I said, walking over to see it more closely. John stooped to brush accumulated dirt from some of the sculpting on the front of the tomb, and began to read aloud the inscription.

  “Thomas, Lord Dacre…and Lady Elizabeth Dacre,” he read. “They died in the early 1500’s, before the Priory was dissolved.” He looked at me, a question in his eyes. “I thought the Howards were the principle family here since the beginning of time.”

  “Almost,” I said, smiling. “To my best recollection, the Vaux family were here first, back in the 900’s, then their descendants the Dacres… and then, as always happens, male heirs were wanting, so the girls married cousins—in this case, the Howards—and the family name changed, although the dynasty really did not.” I placed a hand on the tomb, feeling only cold stone and dust. “Somehow, to my feelings, there is something so much more poignant in these ruins than, say, the broken columns of Rome or the caves of the Etruscans, which are a great deal older.”

  “Maybe it’s the kinship you feel with your own people,” John said. “Or maybe it’s just that the more time there is between us and the reminders of the past, there is less of a human, sympathetic connection.”

  “That could be so,” I said, “but I’m not sure it’s the people who make the connection—after all, what do we know of the people who lived here—the monks or friars or priests—or the farmers who tilled the field, and the people who came to pray here?” I looked back at the ruins, and then at the tomb again. “Only these great ones are named to us—but there were many others, of course. Were their prayers answered? Were their graves visited?”

  John caught my hand in his own, and we stood in silent solidarity before the tomb of the Dacre lord and lady. After a moment, we walked back to the waiting carriage, skirting the edge of the cemetery, where we could see grey-lichened tombstones leaning against each other, some fallen to the ground flat, others whose etchings were scoured away by hundreds of years of wind and rain.

  I felt a sudden tingling on the nape of my neck, and I had the feeling we were being watched. I glanced this way and that as we made our way down the grassy path, and I could swear I caught the edge of a coat flap whisked out of sight behind a large tree in the cemetery.

  John seemed deep in thought, and not as if he had felt the same sensation as I. Perhaps it was just the effect of the ruins. He helped me into the barouche and sat down across from me.

  “Back to Naworth, please,” I said, and held on to the grip as the carriage lurched into motion.

  Turning at last into the road that led to Naworth Castle, we ascended a considerable hill through a veritable tunnel of large trees that formed a leafy, green archway above the narrow road. At the top of the hill we found ourselves on a vast stretch of meadow, looking down and out to a lovely country of hills and trees. Black-faced sheep with curly horns stared at us curiously as we passed.

  After about a mile or so, we began to descend from this high plain, and then indeed we were able to see the towers of Naworth, its brave pennants flying in the wind that was growing ever stronger. Behind the castle, to the west, roiling clouds rose up above it, casting it in a brilliant light against the darkening background.

  We both expressed our admiration of its sturdy baronial hulk, approached along a solid rock wall some five feet high on the side of the entrance road. The outer walls of the castle were some eight feet thick—a fortress indeed! The substantial central building looked bright and relatively new, clean and welcoming, with flowers in large pots along the approach—its cheerful air dispersed the cobwebs of melancholy that had drifted upon us at the old ruined Priory of Lanercost.

  “I understand that a terrible fire burned up a great deal of the original building,” I said aloud to John, and was assured of this fact by the attentive driver.

  “T’was thirty-three years ago this very month, Miss,” he said. “Me grandfather holped put it out, such as it was, along with townfolk and fire brigade from out the town. Pump was brought in by train, then horses, but t’were much too late to save main hall.”

  “What a pity,” John said, looking around the large, square courtyard, which we had attained after passing under an ancient stone portcullis. “Although it certainly appears that the main part of the house has been rebuilt in remarkably good form.”

  “Aye, sir, that it has, Mr. George seen to that, after old Sir William took sick,” said the driver. “Belted Willie’s Tower is near all that survived—no one e’er got t’best o’Belted Willie.”

  “Belted Willie,” I murmured. I’d heard that name a few times now—Mr. Gravely mentioned it earlier today, and the hotel maid, Maisie, also referred to it. I hoped Mr. Howard would be amenable to showing us that interesting tower during our visit this evening.

  The driver brought the carriage to a halt at the foot of a grand stairway leading up to the front door, and two footmen hurried out from a lower door to offer their assistance, however it might be required, which wasn’t much. I stepped down onto the fine gravel and shook out my skirt a bit, the increasingly strong wind pulling me about. I had put on the best of what I had brought with me on my travels, and I admit I felt a moment’s unquietness as to whether I was appropriately fashionable for the Lordships with whom we seemed to be keeping company these days.

  Men are more fortunate in their attire—it’s much easier for them to look well—it takes only a clean, well-cut dark jacket and trousers, and a brilliant white shirt with a well-tied cravat, for them to look like gentlemen. Women have far more work to do to look more than merely presentable—but then, Lord Parke had seen me in my nightgown, covered as it was by my day coat, and he didn’t seem to behave as if I were any less a lady. As if on cue, Lord Parke appeared at the top of the stairs, then came down with a light and graceful step, greeting us as if it had been days rather than hours since we last met.

  “On behalf of my cousin,” he said, with a slight bow and flourish, “I welcome you to Naworth Castle.” He grinned and looked back up at the house. “George is dan-cing attendance on his lovely wife, Rosalind, who is busy with the imminent arrival of yet another Howard—he’ll be along in a moment.” He waved an arm toward the front door. “Please, do follow me, and we’ll get all settled in the drawing room.”

  We entered through a stately and artistically carved set of panelled oak doors and into a foyer brilliantly lighted from a round skylight set in the ceiling two stories above us. Clouds rapidly blocked and revealed the sun, causing a kaleidoscope effect of color, light and shadow.

  “Magnificent!” John could not help exclaiming aloud. He turned slowly around, his head back at an angle to see far up into the carvings and paintings that decorated the walls and ceiling around the skylight. “It is pure Burne-Jones, is it not? Such rich, jewel-tone colors, such depth and brightness!”

  “George has been the greatest benefactor this old castle ever had, I vow,” said Lord Parke, smiling with enthusiasm. “I knew you would appreciate it, John—you, perhaps more than most visitors here—and George is very much anticipating m
aking your acquaintance.” He looked over at me suddenly, as if aware of the unintended slight his remark contained. “Both of you, indeed,” he amended smoothly. “I’ve told George so much about both of you, he’s quite eager to meet you and engage such lively minds as yours.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” I said, “you quite intimidate me. I’m sure all my powers of wit and intellect will make but a poor showing to your cousin, with such expectations as these.”

  “Never, Miss Paget!” he cried, taking my hand and bowing low over it. “I have every confidence in your wit and intellect. Shall we remove to the drawing room? I believe my cousin has ordered tea to be served there.”

  Room after stunning room opened before us as we made our way through the magnificently restored house—windows, wallpaper, furniture, carpets—all formed by the excellent craftsmen of Morris and Company, as Lord Parke was able to tell us—all in excellent taste, a harmonious variety of colors, and beautiful wood, stone and glass construction of the finest English substance and design. At last we reached the drawing room, a room smaller than I expected, but then I was able to account for it by assuming it was the family’s own retreat, rather than a grander and less comfortable room used for larger company.

  John went immediately to one of the tall, arched windows and looked out at the grounds, suffused in the late afternoon sunlight, pouring in rays through the fast-gathering clouds.

  “How I should like to paint this scene,” he said. His hands clenched, and he waggled his fingers a little to loosen them. “My hands have been idle, and I long to be painting.”

  “I’m sure George would be delighted to set you loose over the grounds,” said Lord Parke. “You know, of course, that he’s quite the painter himself—has exhibited in London, and at the Salon in years past.”

  “I have indeed seen some of his work, quite impressive,” said John. “And I shall be even more delighted to meet him.”

  Tea was in preparation as we entered the room, with maids and men busy bringing in trays, cups, glasses, sherry, and what looked to be a delightful assortment of cakes and savories. I had just seated myself, at Lord Parke’s invitation, on a comfortable chair, upholstered with a vivid and colorful array of autumn leaves and grape vines artfully entwined, when the master of the house entered through another door than the one we had used.

  “Ah, James, there you are, in good time,” he said, coming over to where we were gathered. George Howard was some fifteen years older than John and I, thus about ten years older than his cousin. He had a handsome, dark brown but short beard, a solid frame and a rounded face that looked intelligent and good-natured. He was dressed in country clothes of brown corduroy, with a vest and jacket, pants buckled at the knee, and stout walking shoes. He stood before me where I was seated and bowed.

  “My very dear Miss Paget,” he said, taking my hand in both of his. “May I offer again my most sincere condolen-ces on the death of our dear Reverend Crickley? He will be greatly missed, by me and all the county. My wife Rosalind joins me in sympathy, but as you may have heard, she is presently unable to receive visitors.”

  I murmured my thanks, and was recalled from my distraction by his beautiful house to the main purpose of our visit here. From his manner, I couldn’t tell if Lord Parke had indeed already informed him about our suspicions of murder, as Mr. Gravely suggested he would do.

  “My cousin,” he went on, in the familiar manner of an old friend—which I found pleasant and not at all presumptuous—“has said immensely interesting things about you, and I’m so very delighted to make your acquaintance.” Ah, I thought, he doesn’t know yet.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, looking sideways at Lord Parke, who stood nearby, listening attentively. “I fear I have inadvertently given Lord Parke some very interesting things to say about me, some of which, perhaps, may have been best not repeated in polite company.”

  Mr. Howard laughed aloud, and looked at his cousin with a wink. “I say, you’re not wrong about her, James, she’s sharp!”

  He then turned to greet John, who had moved back from the window.

  “And Mr. John Sargent,” he said, holding out a hand to be shaken, American style. Surprised but willing, John clasped his hand in a cordial grip. Mr. Howard addressed him in French. “Tout le monde en parle de vous, à Paris, à Londre—un étoile montant!”

  “Pas de tout, m’sieur,” said John, modest as always. “Vous êtes un artist déjà célèbre.”

  “Well, well, I dabble as best I can,” Mr. Howard rejoined.

  We all seated ourselves, and waited a few moments while the servants handed us our cups and little plates of delicate morsels.

  “Mr. Howard,” I said, determined to get to the point quickly, “have you been fully informed of the circumstan-ces of Reverend Crickley’s death?”

  Lord Parke seemed to choke a bit on the scone he was eating, but I ignored him.

  Mr. Howard glanced at his cousin, then looked back at me. He had as keen a mind as any of us, despite his jovial manner.

  “This sounds serious, Miss Paget,” he said slowly. “To what are you alluding?”

  “George,” Lord Parke interposed quietly. “Perhaps it’s best we speak of this in private.”

  Mr. Howard nodded to the butler and maids still in the room, and they departed swiftly. He turned back to me, and with a look that showed he was justly a county magistrate, and a future Earl of Carlisle, indicated I should begin.

  I told him of Mr. Gravely’s concerns about the red marks on the Reverend’s shins, the rifling of my hotel room for the book I had been sent—leaving out the whole escapade of the missing Maisie—and the wire which we found on the staircase in the library. He listened in silence, nodding occasionally. I wound up with the odd behavior of Mr. Wattendall that morning, and his revelation that Reverend Crickley had given him the Arthurian relic, as well as the apparent difference between the two wills, the most recent of which—draft or final—we had been unable to locate.

  Mr. Howard frowned in concentration.

  “It is indeed the case,” he said, “that both Reverend Crickley and I had some concerns about Mr. Wattendall—both his abilities as a lawyer and his, how shall I put it, rationality of mind?”

  Then he had several questions.

  “What did you do with the wire?”

  “We left it attached to the stairs as we found it, sir,” I said, feeling myself very much under interrogation. John gave me an encouraging smile, which heartened me.

  “Did Mr. Wattendall say why Reverend Crickley gave him that relic?” Mr. Howard frowned even more deeply.

  I shook my head. “He was quite affronted to even be asked, and left the cottage in a huff.”

  “And what about the book you say is possibly at the center of all this?”

  For answer, I retrieved my reticule, pulled out the book, and handed it to him.

  “Yes, yes, I’ve seen this before,” said Mr. Howard, turning it over in his hands. “Chaffee was quite delighted—overjoyed even—when it turned up in some old trunk in his attic a while back.” He paged to the table of contents, and ran a finger up and down the columns. Then he closed the book and placed it in his lap, most carefully.

  John had risen and gone to the tea table; he brought back the pot and poured more for everyone, then sat down again. I was grateful for the hot, sweet beverage, and thanked him with a look.

  Mr. Howard was deep in thought; it seemed best not to interrupt his cogitations.

  “First,” he said, “the matter of the wire is definitely evidence of foul play. That much I feel sure of. Secondly, I cannot imagine any possible motivation that would induce Chaffee to give young Mr. Wattendall one of his most precious and sacred possessions—the finger bone of King Arthur—but there is no way of proving that now.” He rubbed his bearded chin, and began—as I have seen all bearded men do—to curl the edges around his fingertips, pulling and caressing the soft hair. “Thirdly, the will—of which I was marginally aware, having been informed of
Chaffee’s intentions of marrying soon. It seems reasonable he would have changed it, and perhaps this was not to Mr. Wattendall’s liking, but we don’t know that. Finally, there is the book—it apparently contains some clue to a precious treasure—you say Mr. Wattendall asked about it?”

  I nodded affirmation, and he went on.

  “That could be something or nothing,” he said. He slapped his hands on his knees in some exasperation. “Except for the wire, we have only suspicion and surmise to go upon, and that precious little.” He looked keenly at me.

  “Have you read through the book?” he asked.

  “Some parts, not all,” I said. “There’s been so little time, you see.” Which even to me, I admit, sounded lame and dull-witted. How strange that I should feel defensive! Such is the effect of authority, I imagine, on even an entirely innocent person.

  “You may not know,” said Mr. Howard, “that Reverend Crickley’s ancestors are closely intertwined with the forebears of Naworth Castle, and the Priory as well.”

  “You mean the ruins we passed on the way here?” John said.

  “The same,” said Mr. Howard. “The nave end is still in use as a parish church for Lanercost—has been since the early 1600’s, when my ancestor Sir William Howard, who married Elizabeth Dacre, his cousin, finally managed to buy back the castle from the Crown, which had held it in a kind of royal escrow whilst William battled it out with another branch of the family for possession.” He sighed, and it seemed to me that he felt the injury as if it were a matter of years ago instead of centuries. I marvelled again at the hold on one’s soul that the past can create.

  “And in your Uncle Chaffee’s family,” he continued, “many of the men were priests—sometimes Catholic, sometimes Church of England—and in the latter case, often vicars at Lanercost and in Brampton and Carlisle—going all the way back to bad old Henry—he whose greed and ambition destroyed so much. There are legends in both families that connect them in interesting events over the years.”