by Kate Ryder
‘When I say come, I mean come,’ I scolded.
Elisabeth pulled a face. Returning to the bed, I cradled the boy once more in my arms. He was covered in an angry rash and burning up. Lovingly, I stroked his forehead.
‘Hush, my child. Hush…’
I was frantic with worry, and the girl sulking in the corner of the room wasn’t helping matters. I could stand it no longer.
‘Elisabeth. Go to bed.’
She glared at me and stomped off to the opposite corner of the room. With a dramatic flourish, she threw aside a sackcloth curtain hanging from the ceiling and disappeared behind it.
‘I was only looking at the horses,’ she said petulantly.
‘I know,’ I replied more gently. ‘But it’s best the soldiers don’t know we’re here.’
I knew I had to be strong for the children but I was gripped with a deep sense of foreboding. The boy moaned and wriggled in my arms and attempted to sit up. As he started thrashing around, I felt so helpless and tears of frustration pricked my eyes.
‘What’s wrong with Francis?’ asked the girl, looking out from behind the curtain.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, briskly wiping away a tear.
‘Mother, are you crying?’
‘No. Go to sleep.’
She mumbled something that I couldn’t catch, but climbed into bed without further ado. I stroked the boy’s face and started to sing quietly; a pleasant, rhythmic melody with a distinctly old-fashioned lilt. Eventually, he slipped into a feverish sleep. I lay on the bed with the little boy and listened to the rain. An acrid smell lay thick in the air and I heard the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer on anvil.
Above the constant murmur of men’s voices, one voice, louder than the rest, suddenly issued an instruction. There followed a series of shouts and, the next minute, the sound of horses’ hooves clattering away down the stony road. As I lay with my son in my arms I tried to block out all around me. A while later I heard weary footsteps on the stairs – six, seven, eight and nine. Suddenly, I was alert. Whispering came from the other side of the sackcloth curtain.
‘Goodnight, Father.’ Elisabeth’s clear, sweet voice drifted across the room as someone climbed onto the bed beside me.
‘Be careful, Mary. We must be vigilant,’ a low voice cautioned. ‘Those men have thunder in their hearts.’
I turned and looked into the face of the man I’d seen at the graveside. The moment I saw him I was filled with such intense emotions that I struggled to breathe. His face was sweaty and grimy and filled with misgiving.
‘The boy is sick,’ I said. ‘I’ve tried Culpeper’s herbs to no effect. He needs a doctor.’
The man leant across me. Placing his hand on the sleeping boy’s forehead, he nodded and looked at me. The soft, tender eyes that gazed into mine were Nick’s and yet his features were more pinched and angular, brought about by an altogether tougher existence.
‘Try and sleep a little, Mary.’
Gently he kissed my cheek and I sighed. Fear lurked within the darkest corners of my being but with this man at my side, maybe – just maybe – it was not as oppressive as it seemed.
‘I love you, Nat,’ I whispered, relaxing under his loving touch.
He swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was husky with emotion. ‘And you, my love, are my life.’
12
I awoke the next morning to a harsh ringing sound. I sat up and a splitting headache immediately took hold. I felt truly awful and decidedly nauseous. I heaved myself out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and rushed downstairs, reaching the phone just before it rang off.
‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly.
‘Miss O’Brien?’ a man’s voice enquired.
‘Speaking.’
‘Professor Stephens returning your call.’
‘Oh Professor Stephens, thank you so much for phoning.’
My pleasure. Now, how can I assist you?’
I explained that Nick and I had found the jewellery in the bread oven and we both thought it was old. He agreed it sounded intriguing and was keen to examine it further.
‘No time like the present,’ he stated. ‘I have a rare afternoon off today. Would that be convenient?’
‘Yes,’ I said, excitement bubbling. ‘That would be just fine.’
He gave me his address, which I scribbled down on the notepad by the phone, and said he looked forward to seeing me at three. ‘In time for tea.’
I filled the kettle, threw teabags into a couple of mugs and spooned cat food into Storm’s bowl, although he was still curled up asleep in his favourite chair. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I drank a glass of cold water in the hope it would quash the nausea and glanced out at the courtyard, remembering my dream. Last night, it was full of horses. As I looked more closely at the outbuildings I wondered at their original use. I thought of that other man, the man who seemed to mean the world to me, and then my thoughts turned to Nick.
With dismay, I recalled that Valentine’s evening had not been a success. Nick and Sarah were very much a couple. I also recalled Dan intimating strongly that he hoped to get back with me – although I very much doubted that now, having heard his sorry tale. Suddenly, the inscrutable look on Nick’s face at hearing the news came to me. Nick confused me. Although he was friendly and open, each time there was the slightest chance of us getting closer the chasm between us yawned deep and wide.
I made tea, carried the mugs upstairs and knocked softly on the guest bedroom door. I heard a groan.
‘Morning, Dan,’ I said cheerily, as I entered.
He lay on his back, one hand covering his eyes. ‘Can’t be that time already? God, I feel rough.’
‘Snap. I’ve got some Resolve somewhere.’
He groaned again, pushed himself up into a crumpled sitting position and took a mug of tea from me. He did look awful and I suspected it was more than just a hangover. No doubt he’d tossed and turned for most of the night, beating himself up over Lucy. I sat on the bed beside him and asked if he planned to stay another day or two, or immediately head back to London. He fumbled for his mobile phone. There were no messages or missed calls.
‘I’ll stay on, if that’s OK?’
‘No trouble, but I have an appointment with Professor Stephens this afternoon. You can drive me there.’
He agreed. When he didn’t ask who the professor was I knew he was still in the doldrums and wasn’t listening.
‘Shall I run you a bath?’ I asked.
For a minute, he stared straight ahead and I wondered if he’d heard me. But then, turning to me, he smiled a sad smile.
‘You’re a good friend, Mads. Caro always told me I should have made our arrangement permanent.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be, Dan, however good your sister’s intentions were.’ I thought he was going to cry, so I gave him a friendly nudge.
‘Missed opportunity,’ he said quietly.
However fond I was of him, the days ahead promised to stretch very thin if this sombre mood didn’t lift. I finished my tea.
‘I’ll find that Resolve and run you a bath,’ I announced, more brightly than I felt. ‘There’s plenty of hot water. Take as long as you want.’
For good measure, I took the Resolve as well.
By the time Dan emerged from the bathroom it was past noon. I made tea and toast – neither of us could face anything more – and then found a map of the area and checked out the route to Professor Stephens. He lived at The Manse, in a village called Hermitage, and this proved to be a pleasant drive of some twenty miles amongst Dorset’s rolling hills. During the journey, I read extracts from a book I had on the area and it wasn’t long before Dan’s inquisitive nature shook him out of his gloom and he began to notice the countryside we drove through.
‘Listen to this, Dan. Although situated only four miles from Cerne Abbas, Hermitage seems to delight in being a forgotten place. In Sir Frederick Treves’ book, “Highways and Byways in Dorset”, it is describe
d as a Rip Van Winkle village lying at the foot of the grassy slopes of High Stoy, a lovely hill 860 feet high, about six miles south of Sherborne. One cannot imagine a greater solitude for the Order of St Augustine whose hermitage once stood here, yet the monks left as long ago as 1460. In 1583 a landslide caused three acres of land to slip and block the highway to Cerne Abbas. Treves, with dry humour, comments: Since this date nothing in Hermitage has moved and it is a question now if even an earthquake would rouse it.’
I glanced at Dan. He wore a faraway look.
‘I wonder if Professor Stephens will be roused by my find,’ I concluded loudly.
‘What find?’ Dan asked suddenly.
So, he was listening.
‘Why are we going to see this bloke?’
‘Took you long enough, Daniel Chambers.’
He gave me a sheepish look. ‘Sorry, Mads. I must be terrible company.’
‘Not exactly terrible…’
We crossed the A37 and followed a country lane until reaching the crossroads in the middle of Hermitage, which, as Sir Frederick Treves had stated, did appear to be a sleepy, untouched, Rip Van Winkle of a village. Immediately ahead of us was a no through road. Following Professor Stephens’ directions, I instructed Dan to drive to the end.
We spotted The Old Manse straightaway. A tall, imposing property set in manicured grounds with plenty of shingled parking in front of the house. We entered onto a sweeping driveway through a pair of wrought-iron entrance gates, which opened at our approach. Dan parked alongside an immaculate black Porsche. Belying my earlier consideration that he might be slow to rouse, Professor Stephens was obviously a man of speed. As I stepped out of the car with precious casket in hand, the gates closed silently behind us and I heard a muffled bark resounding from deep within the house.
Suddenly, the freshly painted front door opened and a tall, casually dressed, grey-haired man, aged about sixty, appeared on the doorstep. He was attractive – in a boffinish sort of way – and steely blue eyes peered at me over a large, prominent nose, suitably offset by a wide, generous mouth.
‘Madeleine O’Brien, I presume?’ he said, the upper-class accent in keeping with the surroundings.
I walked up the tiled steps and shook his large proffered hand. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Professor Stephens. This is my friend, Dan.’
‘Nice bit of metal on the front drive,’ Dan murmured appreciatively, looking back longingly at the Porsche.
‘My little indulgence, dear boy. I have so few these days.’
‘A 911 Turbo. Top speed 193mph,’ swooned Dan.
‘Ah, you know your stuff, young man,’ replied the professor. ‘And 0–62mph in less than four seconds. Not that I point this out to the Dorset police, you understand.’
He beckoned us into the hallway.
It was cool in the house. Looking around, I noted the original black and white floor tiles, the high ceilings with ornate cornicing and dado rails that ran the full length of the hall. This was a house of substance, befitting a man of Professor Stephens’ obvious authority and status. There was nothing fake about this man, I decided, and a sense of excitement began to take hold. Perhaps he would have some answers for me today.
‘Let us go through to the sunroom. Janice will bring the tea.’
We followed him through a doorway at the end of the hallway and entered a Victorian orangery filled with plants. Some sunroom! Inviting us to sit at an ornate cast-iron table, the professor then disappeared into the house to organise the tea.
‘There’s obviously money in archaeology,’ said Dan, raising one eyebrow. ‘I should have considered that when I was thinking of a career.’
‘Shhh. He’ll hear,’ I whispered urgently.
It was a pleasant view from the orangery. The garden, stocked with a large selection of mature shrubs and specimen trees, backed onto open fields that ran into woodland. In the centre of the lawn was a pond built from mellow Dorset stone and a substantial rockery to one side supported a waterfall that cascaded into the still waters of the pool. The grass, I noted, comparing it to my own sorry patch, was mowed to within an inch of its life. Not a weed dared peep its head above the bowling green that masqueraded as a lawn.
Presently, Professor Stephens reappeared clutching a pair of spectacles in one hand, and followed by a black Labrador who was as grey around the gills as his owner.
‘You don’t mind dogs, do you?’ he asked. ‘Bertie is no trouble these days, though in his youth he led me a merry dance, always running off after any bitch, so to speak.’
He glanced at me apologetically, and smiled conspiratorially at Dan.
I assured him I loved dogs, thinking of Baron and Casper in particular. Suddenly, I flushed, but it had nothing to do with the warmth of the orangery.
‘Fabulous garden,’ Dan complimented.
‘Another of my indulgences, dear boy. This has been twenty years in creation. I think it passable now, don’t you?’
‘Very,’ agreed Dan.
The professor shot him an appreciative look.
‘Ah Janice. Thank you.’ He rose to his feet as a plump, sweet-faced woman appeared in the doorway pushing a heavily laden trolley. It was set with a full silver tea service, fine bone china and a plate of homemade fruitcake. The professor was obviously a bachelor, and I wondered if ‘tea’ was a ritual for him. He took the trolley from the woman.
‘Would you like biscuits to go with Marjorie’s cake, Professor?’ the woman asked in a broad Dorset accent.
‘Oh I think so, Janice. That would be most appropriate.’
She bustled from the room.
‘Janice is yet another of my indulgences,’ the professor explained, placing the cake plate on the table. ‘I guess one could say I do have quite a few these days after all!’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I think it such a shame more people don’t indulge in a “lady who does”.’
Dan’s eyes sought mine, his left eyebrow twitching ever higher, and I shot him a warning look.
Janice reappeared with a plateful of biscuits which, to my delight, included my particular favourite – chocolate Hobnobs. In fact, these could be referred to as my little indulgence. Inwardly, I suppressed a smile.
‘I’ll be off now, Professor,’ Janice announced. ‘I’ve hung the freshly ironed clothes in the wardrobe and the silver’s been cleaned and put away in the sideboard.’
‘Thank you, Janice. Most kind. I’ll see you next Thursday.’
Janice bade us farewell.
Pouring tea into the china cups, the professor nodded at the cake and biscuits and invited us to ‘tuck in’. Dan picked up a plate and helped himself to a large slice of fruitcake.
‘Excellent choice, dear boy,’ the professor commented.
I selected a biscuit.
‘Take two. You look as though you could do with a square meal.’
I did as I was told.
Choosing the fruitcake himself, the professor broke off a piece and gave it to the Labrador sitting patiently at his feet. The dog wolfed it down in one, licked its lips and looked hopefully at the man for more, but Professor Stephens had turned his attention to me.
‘Now, young lady, what’s all this about a treasure trove?’
I explained that Dan and I had discovered the bread oven and, on further investigation, I had unearthed a wooden casket. Delving into my bag, I extracted the box and placed it on the table. Easing open the lid, I showed him the pendant and ring lying within. As he leant forward to examine the contents, without warning, I was overcome with a curious sense of possession, and when he picked up the ring I had to sit on my hands to prevent an overwhelming urge to snatch it away from him.
With careful deliberation, the professor put on his glasses, resting them halfway down his prominent, bony nose. Tilting back his head, he peered through the lenses and rotated the ring in his fingers.
‘Intriguing,’ he said, ‘very intriguing. What age did you say the cottage was?’
‘The estate agent said part
of it dates back to the seventeenth century,’ I replied.
‘I would say they are probably right, judging by this.’ Excitement caught at my throat. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Replacing the ring in the casket, the professor strode from the room. The Labrador hauled itself to its feet and followed.
Dan shifted in his chair and leant forward to pick up the ring.
‘Don’t touch!’ I snapped.
He looked at me in surprise.
Why had I shouted at him in such a cross, irritated manner?
‘I wasn’t going to damage it,’ he said, defensively. Justifiably peeved, he sat back in the chair and grabbed a biscuit.
‘Sorry, Dan. I just think the less we contaminate the jewellery, the better,’ I said feebly.
He didn’t look at me and furiously chewed. I could tell he was sulking.
Professor Stephens reappeared with an eyeglass. Placing it in his left eye socket, he proceeded to examine the ring. I knew it was childish but when people used eyeglasses it always made me think of cyborgs. I wanted to laugh but managed to swallow the smile.
‘Yes, very intriguing.’ He placed the ring on the table and removed the pendant from the casket.
‘A love token.’ Nick’s voice rang in my ears.
Professor Stephens carefully turned the heart pendant over.
‘This has been very cleverly crafted. It’s not the work of a professional, you understand, but whoever created it was a very talented craftsman nonetheless.’
Placing it on the table, once again, he picked up the ring.
‘If I’m not mistaken, this is a ring in three parts.’ He applied pressure but nothing happened. ‘I’d like to show these to a colleague of mine, a jewellery specialist.’
Replacing the jewellery in the casket, he removed the eyeglass. A red ring now encircled his eye.
‘Oh, I’m not sure I want to let them go,’ I said, at once consumed by irrational panic.
Dan cast me an odd look. ‘Go on, Mads, let the professor show them to the specialist.’
‘I assure you, young lady; no harm will come to these pieces.’