‘Of course not,’ Serena said.
Jack squeezed her hand gently and let it go. ‘We can talk some more later,’ he said, ‘if you like.’
‘Yes,’ Serena said. She smiled at him. ‘I would like that.’ She watched Zoe trudge towards them. There was something very intense about her, compared with Jack’s laid-back manner. ‘I’m glad Zoe’s here really,’ Serena said, repressing a sigh. ‘I wanted to ask her about this weird business of the eighteenth-century burial.’
‘Yes, that is very odd,’ Jack said. ‘I asked Zoe yesterday whether it would be possible to open a grave and reseal it so that it was impossible to tell if it had been tampered with. She didn’t think it was likely.’
‘The police said the same thing,’ Serena said. ‘They felt it would show up under close forensic examination. But I can’t see there’s any other alternative.’
‘Hi, Jack, hi… um… Serena.’ Zoe, out of breath and pushing the damp stray strands of hair back from her face, had scrambled over the wall to join them. She gave Serena a shamefaced half-smile, clearly uncertain of her welcome. ‘I want to apologise,’ she said formally. ‘I’m terribly sorry about what happened yesterday—’
‘It’s OK,’ Serena said, taking pity on the younger girl. ‘Don’t worry about it. I need your help, actually—’ She glanced at Jack and smiled. ‘As an archaeologist, would you say it’s impossible to bury someone in an existing grave without the disturbance being obvious?’ She kept the question deliberately impersonal for her own sake as well as Zoe’s. It was easier to deal with.
Zoe too seemed happier with things on a professional level. ‘Never say never,’ she said, ‘but I think it would be most unlikely. This particular burial’ – she swallowed hard – ‘well, we’ve been all over it several times and so have the police forensics team. To all intents and appearances, it took place in the early eighteenth century.’
Serena looked across at Jack. ‘Yet the body has been positively identified as Caitlin,’ she said, ‘so that’s not possible.’
Zoe’s gaze darted from one of them to the other. ‘Did the police mention the… erm… decomposition of the body?’
‘Yes,’ Serena said shortly. She was remembering Inspector Litton’s words:
‘The general state of the decay suggested it had been interred for roughly three hundred years and that she had been dead for longer than that. However, the radiocarbon dating suggested that this was of a young woman who had died in the early twenty-first century.’
‘They said they were waiting for further tests to be complete,’ she said. ‘There must be some glitch in the results.’
‘It’s always possible,’ Zoe said carefully, ‘but perhaps you should read this, Serena.’ She rummaged in the rucksack and took out a sheaf of photocopied papers. ‘It’s not an original manuscript but it is a typed version of the original. I was going to give it to Jack’ – she looked at her brother – ‘before he said he wasn’t interested in the case any more.’
‘What is it?’ Serena asked.
‘It’s a witness account of the discovery of a body that was found in the ruins of the hall,’ Zoe said. ‘Our body, I mean. Caitlin’s. The one in the grave.’ Again she looked awkward. ‘The thing is…’ She stopped and the colour rushed into her face. ‘It was written in 1708.’
‘What?’ Serena looked at her in astonishment. Beside her she felt Jack stiffen with the same shock. ‘You mean there’s a contemporary written account?’
‘See for yourself,’ Zoe said. She passed the papers to Serena, who moved along so that she was closer to Jack and they could both read them.
Minster Lovell Hall, August 1708
From my window here in the eaves of the vicarage I can see the men labouring in the manor courtyard in the heat of the day. Mr Coke, who owns Minster Lovell Hall now, has decreed that some of the building should be repaired and reroofed, though as he has no intention of removing here to live, it seems a costly and pointless business. He is allowing the rest of the Old Hall to fall down. He thinks it looks romantic to see the bare beams reaching to the sky and the masonry crumbling into dust.
Serena looked up. ‘Is this someone’s diary?’
Zoe nodded eagerly. ‘When we originally found the grave, I looked back through the church documents to see if it had been recorded at the time. Initially, of course, we thought it was a straightforward burial. I found a reference in the files to the interment of an unknown girl in 1708, but then at the records office, I also found this from the same year.’ She pushed the hair back from her face. ‘It’s the diary of a servant at the vicarage at the time. It was in with the Wheeler family papers.’
Serena nodded and went back to the diary.
It has been an arid summer. The river runs almost dry and the ground is hard. Mr Coke’s men sweat and swear as they dig; perhaps this is the reason the Reverend Wheeler will not let us take them cool ale to quench their thirst, for their appearance is rough and their language rougher, quite inappropriate for ladies to hear. It would have been a kindness to offer them refreshment but the vicar has little truck with Christian charity unless it is to his own benefit and why waste his good ale on Mr Coke’s workmen when no one is here to applaud his generosity? The water from the well in the courtyard may be rank but it is good enough for them.
I live in the vicarage attic along with the two maidservants. Although I am companion to the vicar’s daughter, I am in essence a servant myself. Servility does not come naturally to me. Eleven long years have I been here. In that time, I have grown old and Miss Wheeler has turned from the hopeful young girl I once knew into an embittered spinster with nothing to occupy her hands and even less to occupy her mind. She is ill-educated, for the vicar does not approve of learning in women and so his daughter does nothing but fret about her life, on the absence of a husband and children and on the nothingness of each day, until her complaints threaten to drive us both to madness. The lot of a lady’s companion is to be agreeable in the face of all and any provocation and so I hold my tongue, remind myself that her life is very small and that I am fortunate to have this position.
‘Rebecca!’ I jump as I hear Miss Wheeler calling me from far below. She sounds cross and impatient. The heat irritates her; everything irritates her. She will want me to fetch her a glass of lemonade which she could so easily have poured for herself.
I tread lightly down the faded runner of the attic stair carpet, one hand on the rail to steady me against the steepness of the flight of steps.
‘Rebecca!’ Miss Wheeler is standing in the hallway, flapping her arms at me like an outraged butterfly. ‘Where have you been? They have found something exciting in the ruins of the hall. I see them digging madly! Do you think it could be the Minster Lovell treasure? They say it was lost hundreds of years ago and nothing but ill luck came to the family thereafter.’
‘I doubt it is any kind of treasure,’ I say, wondering at her childishness.
We stand on the steps, Miss Wheeler and I, watching the sudden buzz of activity in the courtyard of the manor. The workmen are excited. They have uncovered something in the cellars of a tower, something lost and long forgotten. This is an unexpected prize that breaks the monotony of their routine and they dig with a will now, curiosity speeding their work. Beside me, Miss Wheeler fidgets with anticipation.
‘I cannot see,’ she says. ‘Rebecca, should we go down there?’
‘Certainly not,’ I say. ‘That would be most unladylike.’
A shout goes up. The foreman comes running across the courtyard and behind him, more slowly, Mr Coke’s agent, Mr Anstruther, emerges from his office, rubbing the ink stains from his hands and blinking in the sunlight.
Miss Wheeler grasps my sleeve and pulls me down the steps. I realise that she intends us to join the gathering in the courtyard. I try to resist but Miss Wheeler is hastening us down the path to the gate and into the ruins. The ground is hot and the stones score my feet through the thin slippers I am wearing. I feel the perspir
ation slip down my back and prickle my neck. And all the while she is talking and talking…
‘How exciting this is! It looks as though they have found a body! Perhaps it is old Viscount Lovell. Do you know the tale, Rebecca? They say that he was a great friend of that terrible monster King Richard III and that he hid away here after the Battle of Bosworth and starved to death, locked in a secret room, when the retainer who was hiding him perished…’
I put up a hand to guard my face from the harsh sun. Miss Wheeler had dragged me out in such a hurry that I had no bonnet. I can only hope that the Reverend does not see us or he will rebuke me for immodesty, perhaps even dismiss me. I try to ignore Miss Wheeler’s babble.
Blinded by sunlight, I stumble and almost trip over the irregular stones of the path. The workmen do not notice our coming at first, so intent are they on their discovery. One man doffs his cap; others dip their heads. Still they have not spoken.
I cannot relate what it is they have found. Some poor creature whose body is tumbled on a rough blanket, bare bones, jumbled and brittle. She looks as though she might disintegrate with a puff of wind. There is a flash of gold amongst the remains; a man pounces on it like a magpie but the others turn on him and he falls back, abashed.’
‘Have you found the famous Lord Lovell?’ Miss Wheeler trills.
They look up from the corpse and the naked shock in the face of Mr Anstruther to see us there stirs me from my horror. This time it is I who pluck at her sleeve.
‘Come away, Miss Wheeler,’ I say. ‘This is no place for us.’
Mr Anstruther hastens to agree with me. ‘Let me escort you back, ladies,’ he says gallantly. ‘I must inform the vicar of what we have found.’ He shepherds us away with such a masterful manner that Miss Wheeler finds it quite impossible to resist. Nevertheless, she is talking all the time, and looking back over her shoulder to watch the foreman marshalling the men to remove the bones from their makeshift grave.
‘It looked too small to be the Viscount Lovell,’ she said, with evident regret. ‘A child, perhaps.’
‘The surgeon will no doubt be able to tell,’ Mr Anstruther says. He sounds grim.
It is a relief to regain the shadow and coolness of the vicarage. Whilst Mr Anstruther summons the vicar and Miss Wheeler hurries to acquaint the housekeeper with the shocking news, I sit quietly in the parlour and try to regain some semblance of calm. I feel hot, dizzy and in danger of swooning.
There was a row of dots at the bottom of the sheet and then another diary entry below. Serena swallowed hard. She was aware of Jack’s hand on hers, warm and comforting. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Serena nodded. Her throat was paper dry. ‘Caitlin was wearing a necklace when she disappeared,’ she said. ‘A gold chain with a little gold rose on it. They found part of it in the ruins that night and the other part in the grave with her body—’ She swallowed hard. ‘Oh God, this is so weird! I can’t…’ She picked up the papers again. ‘I want to read on.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jack said. He was looking worried. ‘Absolutely,’ Serena said.
1 September 1708
They are burying the girl’s bones today, a week on from when she was found. There is a pitifully small group of mourners. Reverend Wheeler insisted that his daughter and I attend to make it appear that someone cares about her passing. As long as the correct observances are made, the Reverend Wheeler is content. God forbid that the bishop should hear any whisper of scandal or malpractice in this parish.
It seems to me that the only person who genuinely grieves for the girl is Mr Coke’s agent, Mr Anstruther. I sense he feels pain for the dead girl even though he knows nothing of her.
‘Poor child,’ he kept repeating, when we assembled outside the church, ‘to die alone and lost.’
Miss Wheeler is standing beside him now, shedding a pretty tear every so often whilst checking out of the corner of her eye that he has noticed her distress. Occasionally she will lay her gloved hand on his arm for comfort. I suspect she sees Mr Anstruther as her last hope of marriage. For his sake I hope he does not make her an offer. He is too good a man to be obliged to suffer her complaints each and every day. At least I am paid to do so; a minuscule sum but it is a small recompense.
There are but a half-dozen of us in the church. The foreman of the labourers stands in the back pew for the service, looking ill at ease and turning his cloth cap round and around in his big, meaty hands. He knows it is his duty to attend but his eyes dart about as though he is seeking escape. He looks everywhere other than at the small casket resting before the altar. The workmen are a superstitious breed and they say that the building work is cursed because of this girl. They live in fear of an accident on the site, believing themselves ill-wished for disturbing a corpse.
‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery…’ The Reverend Wheeler is in full flood; he adores the sound of his own pomposity.
The girl is being buried in a plain grave. The fragment of a golden necklace that was found amongst her bones will be buried with her. No one wants to risk the wrath of God or any other deity by removing them. It feels as though everyone, whether educated or illiterate, rational or superstitious, feels discomfort at the discovery of her body.
The body is laid to rest, out of sight, out of mind, forgotten once again for all eternity. Now she is safely returned to the ground, we all breathe more easily and as we step out of the church into the bright, hot afternoon sunlight, our spirits lift still further. There is no suggestion that we should mourn the girl any longer; our lives resume. Miss Wheeler and I walk back to the vicarage, Mr Anstruther returns to the estate office and the foreman of the builders jams his cloth cap on his head and hastens to the alehouse.’
Serena looked up from the transcript. Her eyes were full of tears.
‘I feel as though I’ve just read an account of Caitlin’s funeral,’ she said, ‘but that’s impossible. It simply cannot be.’
Jack put his arm around her. It felt so reassuring that Serena allowed herself to lean into him. Zoe, tactful for once, was looking the other way, fiddling with the strap of the rucksack. Serena felt Jack’s lips brush her hair.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘when all logical explanations have been dismissed, all you’re left with is the impossible.’
‘In this case,’ Serena said, ‘the impossible is that somehow Caitlin was buried in 1708, and that’s madness.’
‘I agree,’ Jack said steadily. ‘By all the known laws of physics it’s not possible. Yet it seems to have happened. And we’re going to keep on working on this until we find out the truth. Come on.’ He stood up, pulling her to her feet. Luna jumped up too, shaking herself. ‘Luna’s on the case,’ Jack said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
Chapter 16
Anne
Oxfordshire, 1478
The winter of fourteen seventy-eight was a harsh one. We had travelled to London for the Christmas festivities at court and made our way slowly home to Minster Lovell through the winter snows. It had felt a less than festive season, for the King’s second brother, the Duke of Clarence, had been arrested for treason and Edward, it seemed, was less inclined to tolerate Clarence’s disloyalty than he had in the past. The Duke’s imprisonment had hung over the court like a pall of smoke whilst Edward tried to decide what to do with his glory-seeking brother. Francis, as Richard of Gloucester’s close friend, had been party to some discussion on the matter and I sensed the distraction and disquiet in him as we rode.
‘Gloucester seeks to intercede for Clarence with the King,’ Francis confided in me in the privacy of our chamber that night. We were staying with our neighbours, Sir William and Lady Stonor, near the little village of Henley on the Thames and were only a night away from home. I was looking forward to being back in my own bed.
‘The King has been remarkably tolerant of his brother until now,’ I commented, as I warmed myself before the fire, thawing out my frozen limbs. ‘What can have changed?�
�� I was allowing myself to think pleasantly of dinner. The Stonors had been anxious to court our friendship, being nakedly ambitious, so they were likely to provide a splendid meal, perhaps even roast swan, as the Christmas season was not quite over yet.
Francis shook his head. ‘I do not know why the King has moved against Clarence now. Not even Gloucester knows. Perhaps the King’s patience has simply run out, or perhaps…’ He remained silent for a moment, staring into the fire.
‘Perhaps?’ I prompted. I glanced towards the door for I suspected that Elizabeth Stonor might have her ear pressed to the outside of it. One of the things I abhorred about the society in which we moved now was the endless rumour and factionalism that swirled about it like a fetid miasma from the Thames. It choked all that was fresh and clean and free. No one spoke openly; men tested their power against one another and everyone courted favour. I hated it. The Stonors sought our company now because we were so close to the Duke of Gloucester. Without his friendship we would be as nothing to them.
‘Perhaps Clarence has finally gone too far,’ Francis said. He looked uncomfortable. ‘Gloucester thinks that he might have threatened the King.’
‘Threatened him?’ My brows shot up and my voice with them. One did not threaten Edward; it was supreme folly.
‘With blackmail,’ Francis added.
I went across and knelt beside his chair. ‘About what?’ I whispered.
‘A marriage,’ Francis said reluctantly. ‘Made long ago, before he was wed to the Queen.’
I sat back on my heels and let out my breath in a long sigh. The King had a way of wooing beautiful but virtuous women. It was the way in which Elizabeth Woodville had become Queen, withholding herself from him until he agreed to marry her. But what would happen if Edward had already promised the same to another woman and had already been married when he wed Elizabeth?
The Last Daughter Page 20