by Jane Adams
‘A policeman. Run out of modern criminals, have we?’
Ray glanced sideways at her. ‘I wish.’
‘Not an amateur historian either, are we?’ she said. Then smiled, a revelatory smile that took the harshness from her words.
Ray smiled back. ‘No, I’m on holiday. Well, actually, I’ve just come to live round here and I’m sort of semi-retired. Well, actually I’m still on sick leave.’
Sarah’s eyebrows raised above the thick frames of her spectacles. ‘Do I choose any or all from those options?’ she asked him.
‘Any and all I suspect. I’ve not decided yet.’ He sighed. ‘I thought this would be easy, but it’s taken me all morning just to read through June 1642. It’s going to take me weeks at this rate.’
‘And you are in a hurry?’ Sarah asked him. ‘Is there a time limit? Because if there is it might be good to choose the retirement option rather than the holiday one, you know.’
She got up as though suddenly making a decision. ‘It’s my lunch break,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an hour and the pub next door does good sandwiches and Theakston’s Old Peculiar on draught. You can tell me what it is you’re searching for in 1642 and I’ll tell you where you ought to look.’
* * *
Ray returned to the cottage at six that evening to find messages on his answerphone.
One was from his solicitor. The estate agent had called. Someone had made an offer on Ray’s house. And there was a message from an old friend who was thinking of leaving the force and setting up on his own. He wanted Ray to join him. Ray listened to his messages, then dumped his notes and the bundle of copies Sarah had made for him on the sofa and went through to the kitchen. Unable to face cooking that night he’d picked up fish and chips on the way home. He filled the kettle and switched on the radio while waiting for it to boil, stamped around the kitchen finding a plate and cutlery and buttering bread. It had been Evie’s cleaning day and he’d left her money as instructed, in a small brown envelope on the kitchen table. She’d taken it and made up the account book for him, leaving a little note that he could do with more milk and also something to clean the mildew off the back door, if he could pick it up in Edgemere.
He turned up the radio, fiddling irritably with the tuning. He should get his music out of storage and brought here, then at least he’d have something decent to listen to. The television rarely held his attention for long and sometimes the evenings could be lonely.
It was a thought that led him back to Sarah Gordon. Now, there was a woman worth making an effort for. He had been hesitant at first to explain to her about Kitty, but she had listened well, a spark of interest in her grey-green eyes.
‘You’re a detective,’ she said to him. ‘If this were a criminal investigation, how would you begin?’
Ray laughed. ‘With the witnesses,’ he said. ‘But unless you’ve got a Ouija board handy I can see problems with that. That’s why I thought, you know, if I read the diaries, my aunt’s and the Reverend Jordan’s, I might get a handle on things.’
‘And what have they told you so far?’
‘That my aunt felt she was being haunted. Not that it bothered her, I think she felt the ghost was quite benign. And that the Reverend Jordan really didn’t want to leave his home in 1642. It wasn’t the thought of moving in with his niece. I gather he was going back to the family home because when she married, her husband took over a place that had been in Jordan’s family for generations. It was worry about leaving Kitty. Jordan saw himself as her mentor and her protector and I get the feeling that he’d have liked to be much more, if he’d thought it proper, which he didn’t.’
Smiling, Ray took his supper through to the living room and plonked himself down in an armchair. He’d rather like his relationship with Sarah Gordon to be ‘more’ if she saw it as proper, and Ray very much hoped she did.
Chapter Eleven
Ray ate fish and chips with his fingers and read about the last meal Matthew Jordan had shared with Kitty.
The old priest had taken great pleasure in describing the food, which seemed to have landed on the table all in one course, a mixture of sweet and savoury. Of roasted meats and stuffed fowl. A ‘fricassée of rabbit and chicken flavoured much with wine’ and something referred to as a ‘sallet’ of fresh herbs decorated with figs and preserved oranges, which the reverend described as ‘being served very prettily’ but which he did not eat. Not being a salad man himself, Ray could appreciate the sentiment.
Matthew Jordan had a taste for sweetmeats, though. He went to great lengths to record the candied fruits and the ‘Jumbals’, which seemed to be some kind of biscuit, and some kind of rice pudding that he had described in exact detail, so that his niece could make it for him when he moved to her home.
Ray sat with a piece of battered fish fast growing cold between his fingers as he tried to figure it out.
The rice, sugar and milk was fine, the addition of so many spices together with eggs and something called barberries, he could accept, but adding beef suet and stuffing the whole lot, haggis wise, into a prepared stomach sounded bizarre.
He bit into his fish and wondered if Matthew Jordan’s niece ever made this favourite pudding for her uncle, and if she did, had he complained that it was not as good as Kitty’s. That there were too many spices, or the sheep’s stomach had not been boiled for long enough?
There had been five people at that last supper: Matthew, his niece Margaret and her husband Thomas Stone, Kitty herself and someone Matthew referred to as Master Eton, who was not explained, but was enough of a friend to be debated with, something Matthew Jordan had enjoyed as much as the food.
It appeared that they had talked of politics. Of the tension between the King and Parliament and whether or not it would finally lead to outright conflict.
Ray had only an approximate idea of the history of that time. He had a Hollywood notion of dashing Cavaliers and puritanical Roundheads and Oliver Cromwell having his portrait painted, warts and all, but he realized, reading through the record of Matthew’s debate with his friend, that he knew very little at all of the real effects the war must have had upon the ordinary people.
The Reverend Jordan’s niece and her husband lived in Leicester, twenty miles or so away, in the Belgrave area. Ray had driven through the city. Belgrave Road, he remembered, was now referred to as the golden mile, full of saree shops and Asian restaurants. When he’d been there, preparations for Diwali had been in full swing and the Belgrave Road illuminated with pre-Christmas lights. He found it hard to visualize as it might have been in Kitty’s time. Most of the buildings were Victorian. Rows of terraced houses leading off the main drag. Nothing he had noticed had seemed older.
In June 1642, Leicester had been sitting on the fence, hoping that the problems threatening the country would resolve themselves before the town was forced to become involved. Careful not to take sides, they had elected and sent two members to Parliament from opposing sides. Lord Grey of Groby, a committed Parliamentarian, and Thomas Cooke, a supporter of the King.
‘And it seemed to me,’ Matthew Jordan had recorded in his journal, ‘that this could only lead to conflict. That it will please no one, simply make equal enemy . . .’
Ray pushed his plate aside, he had skipped the rest of the debate and moved two pages on to Matthew’s entry of the following day. It was brief, but, to Ray’s eyes, poignant. It concerned Kitty.
. . . watched her waving to me, running along beside the path as a child might until we reached the tight bend in the road and she was gone from my view. And I felt great heaviness of heart that I had lost the best and truest friend, outside of any wife, that any man might have.
* * *
Morning brought the post and a package redirected from Ray’s old address. He opened it to find the gas bill and a plain brown envelope with a Middleton postmark.
Ray tugged impatiently at the flap. Inside was a single piece of paper, a clipping from a newspaper, folded in half. He unfolded it and
laid it on the table.
‘River man named’ the headline told him. Puzzled, he scanned the text. A man’s body had been pulled out of the Soar close to a bridge and moorings just outside of Middleton. There was no doubt that he had drowned but a blow to the head added complications. Had he hit his head falling into the river? Or was it the blow that had caused him to fall?
Ray sat down and read the text again. The man was described as a petty criminal with a history of violence. His name was Frank Jones, it was an ordinary enough name and it meant nothing to Ray, surprising if, as the paper stated, he was a persistent offender. Less surprising perhaps as it described him also as a Leicester man.
So, what was he doing in the Soar at that point, miles away from his home patch?
Ray turned the clipping over and examined the envelope. There was no separate message, but scribbled at the foot of the clipping was a date and a location. Middleton Magistrates’ Court, 12 Feb. The place and day that Ray had been attacked.
Ray drew his hand slowly across his face, tracing the ridges and hollows of the scars that crossed his cheek, trying not to draw the most immediate of inferences. There had been more than one officer who had sworn to get the man that had attacked DI Flowers, though Ray, more concerned with the pain and whether or not he would lose his sight, had taken little notice of their angry promises. He had heard that the investigation had stalled and they were no closer to knowing who had attacked him than they had been in the first days. The thought, however small, that someone suspected what they couldn’t prove and might actually resort to murder on his behalf was something he had never considered and it sickened him. He threw the rest of his breakfast in the bin and got ready to leave.
When he had been injured, the papers had been full of Ray Flowers. Rubbish about the hero cop injured in the line of duty. But he’d been spared the impact of it, too badly hurt to be aware of anything more than drug-eased pain. Not knowing what to think, but afraid that it must be the worst, he got into his car and drove to Edgemere, hoping to find refuge in the records office and the older story of Kitty’s life. Once there, concentration eluded him. He stared hard at Matthew Jordan’s words, trying to make sense of them, but his mind was filled instead with images of that unknown man, glimpsed so briefly before the red pain eating its way into his face had driven everything else from his mind.
Ray sat in the cool, dim section of the records office, watching the dust motes swirling in a shaft of light, his mind telling him that it was all ended, that he was alive and safe, while his body sweated fear.
‘This might be useful to you,’ Sarah Gordon said, dumping a book on the desk in front of him and pointing to a couple of paragraphs halfway down the page. ‘It gives you a bit of background.’
Ray thanked her vaguely.
She stared at him. ‘You look ill,’ she said and pulled the book away as though he might contaminate it.
‘I’m all right.’
‘Sure you are.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I’ll summarize this for you if you like?’
Ray fought to give her full attention. ‘Please do,’ he said. ‘I mean, I am getting to grips with bits of this Civil War stuff. I’ve figured out it’s more than Cavaliers and Roundheads.’
‘So I should hope.’ She glared at him. ‘The main thing to remember is that King Charles was a fool. He thought that every decision he made had to be the right one, regardless of sense.’
‘Divine right of kings,’ Ray said.
He was rewarded with a little smile. ‘So you are learning something. We were a rich country by then, trading links all over the world. Colonies in the New World and Jamaica and, of course, in Ulster. We’d already abolished Irish law and religious rights and we were doing our best to do the same with Scotland. By 1637 Charles had a rebellion on his hands up north by his forcing High Church liturgy on a proudly Low Church population. By 1640 contingents of the revolutionary committee, they called themselves the Covenanters, had already crossed the Tweed. Charles had war with Ireland, an uprising on the Scottish borders and Parliament threatening another on his own doorstep . . . Are you listening to me?’
Ray jumped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Yes, of course I am. You were saying?’
She scowled, but gave him the benefit of the doubt and carried on. ‘That Charles was beset by problems. He’d ruled without Parliament since 1629 and only called them back in 1640 when he ran out of money. Look, Ray, you’re not listening to me, are you? I’m not used to people tuning me out.’
Ray managed an apologetic half smile. ‘I don’t suppose many people dare. No, you’re right. And I’m sorry, I just can’t seem to get my head into gear today.’
Sarah Gordon gathered up her book and used it to tap Ray smartly on the shoulder. ‘Come along,’ she said.
‘Come along where?’
‘Early lunch. You’re buying. Consider it punishment for non-attention. And you can tell me what it is that’s on your mind.’
Chapter Twelve
She had known that it would not be pleasant, showing strangers around the house that had been her home. And these strangers were not initially prepossessing.
She had been watching for them since just after dawn, but it was almost noon when the Reverend Randall and his family arrived, accompanied by an entourage of servants and baggage carts. The master of the house rode a fine bay gelding and the mistress seated pillion behind a young male servant. Two children sat beside the driver of one of the carts, one fast asleep despite the jolting on the hard bench seat, the other, a girl about eight or nine, looked about her with an air of disbelief.
They had come from Nottingham. Kitty wondered how they would settle into village life after the bustle of the town.
She left through the back door, and raced to get to the vicarage before them. She arrived as the first of the wagons trundled into view. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted from the kitchen. Mim had promised to light the kitchen fires and bake bread and she had left cold meats and cheese to break fast after their journey.
The head of the household was the first to arrive, breasting the slight rise at a canter and pulling his mount to an abrupt halt before the door. He stared down at Kitty.
‘Mistress Hallam?’ His gaze searching her face and examining her scars with an expression that barely concealed distaste.
Then he followed her inside.
‘It is a pleasing view,’ Randall commented, looking from the study window.
‘The Reverend Jordan found it so.’ She pointed. ‘The sun sets beyond those trees and when the snow falls in winter, the whole valley looks to be aflame.’
A noise in the hallway drew them back outside. The children thundering into their new home and calling for their father.
‘Can we look upstairs? Can we go outside?’
‘Which is to be my room?’
Their father smiled fondly. ‘Go outside and explore the gardens,’ he told them. ‘But keep clear of the men unloading the carts.’
Through the open door, Kitty could see the Reverend Randall’s wife directing the unloading of their furnishings. Heavy chests were being lowered to the ground and Turkey carpets spilled from the back of the cart and into the dust. She could hear the woman scolding.
‘Mim, who was cook here for the Reverend Jordan, she has baked fresh bread and left cold meats for you. She will return tomorrow if you still have need of her. Will you need aught else?’
Randall shook his head. ‘No, the servants can make themselves of use and my wife will direct things as she pleases. I understand that you kept house for your kinsman. How do you keep yourself now he is gone?’
‘A small allowance from my father,’ Kitty told him, surprised that he should ask. ‘He is a man of business and has enough to provide for me. In any case, I took no pay from the Reverend Jordan. He gave me home and protection and that was enough.’
The man nodded as if satisfied, then he held out his hand. ‘If you would please to give me the keys, mistress, then we need
trouble you no further.’
It was, she thought, strange to be treated as a servant in this house where she had been all but mistress for so long, but she handed him the ring of keys, telling him briefly which belonged to the outer doors and which locked the stores and cupboards before turning to leave.
‘I wish you good health, sir, and happiness in this house.’
‘And I thank you kindly. Oh, Mistress Hallam, there is one small matter. The land about these parts seems fertile and well-tended. You could tell me perhaps, who it is collects the tithes?’
‘That would be Master Eton’s man, sir. Master Eton, he owns much of the village and surrounding land.’
He thanked her with the briefest of nods, then went outside to assist his wife in ordering the carts unpacked.
She left them, barely noticed by anyone and walked back into the village towards home. She must make allowance, Kitty told herself, for the long journey. He must be tired, and not up to the niceties that she had come to expect from Matthew Jordan. But even so, his dismissal of her as though she barely mattered had, Kitty felt, been harsh.
Though, then again, he had smiled at his children and spoken to them kindly and there had been pride in his expression when he’d looked at them. That must count for something.
But she found herself unable to shake the heaviness from her thoughts. Nothing would be the same. That, of all things, was certain.
Chapter Thirteen
Ray poked at the food on his plate. Sarah had recommended the lemon sole and he wondered if he dared put ketchup on it. She was waiting for answers and he was unsure of what he could tell her. ‘I had a letter today,’ he said finally. ‘I suppose it brought it home to me what I’m giving up. It’s hard to imagine another life.’
‘Enjoyed the chase, did you? Thrill of pitting your wits against the enemy?’