by Graham West
***
I followed Reverend Francis up the path and through the gardens to the manse. The old house towered above the trees that surrounded its walls and had lost none of its grandeur despite having been turned into a meeting centre for young mothers and local pensioners.
Cork boards covered in health notices and postcard adverts for prams and stereos lined the entrance, which had been knocked through into a large reception and painted a rather unappealing beige colour. A young girl with a pushchair looked up from her plastic seat as I walked in. She smiled at the minister, who greeted her cheerily. “Hi, Andrea. How’s things?”
“Oh, much better, thanks,” she replied breezily.
I followed Francis up the newly carpeted stairs.
“We’ve spent quite a bit of money on this place,” he told me a little breathlessly. “It’s been empty for fifteen years. I’m not sure what’s taken the council so long.”
We reached the narrow stairway that led to the attic. My heart was thumping hard. The minister had said nothing that would dash my hopes. Francis fiddled with a bunch of keys as my impatience grew with every second. “We have kids in this place, too,” he said. “We have to keep it locked—you know what they’re like for rooting around!”
At last, he found the key, twisted it in the lock and pushed open the door, which groaned like a sick animal. The darkness seemed to spill out as the reverend reached in, feeling for the light. A sixty-watt bulb, hanging in the centre from a wooden beam, cast a dismal light across a musty room lined with old plastic chairs and cardboard boxes.
The wooden floorboards creaked as I entered.
“Not a particularly pleasant aroma,” Francis said. “And I’m not sure what’s in all theses boxes.”
“History, I’m hoping,” I said. “Is it okay if I have a look?”
“Well, that’s what you’re here for.” He must’ve seen the where the hell do I start look in my eyes, because he elaborated, “I seem to recall that all the documents were put into one box, more than twenty years ago, but it’s everything from old hymn sheets to council letters. You’re going to be some time.” He smiled. “How about a coffee?”
“That would be great.”
The first box I opened was on a pallet in the corner of the room and contained documents stuffed into two plastic bin bags. I had opened the first and emptied its contents onto the floor when Reverend Francis returned with a large plastic cup. Steam swirled into the damp musty air. “There’s a machine in the reception. Help yourself when you want another.”
He placed it on a chair next to me and looked at the mountain of paper on the floor.
“Good Lord,” he breathed. “Let’s hope all this is worth your while!”
I was thinking the same. The task ahead of me was daunting. I took a gulp of the warm, sweet coffee and began, but it was nearly an hour before I came across anything that might be of interest. Much of the bag contained nothing more than general church business, along with sheets of children’s drawings. There was nothing I would have dated earlier than 1960.
The envelope that caught my eye was yellowing and handwritten. For the attention of Rev H Penworth. It was dated April 1902. I pulled the neatly folded paper from the envelope and carefully opened it. The writing was beautifully neat.
Dear Reverend Penworth,
It is with regret that I write to inform you of the death of my daughter, Helen. She passed peacefully into the arms of the Lord early on Sunday morning. I know that you held her in your thoughts and prayers during her illness and would beseech you to continue to pray for our family. I have entrusted this letter to Mr. Granger, who has assured me that he will deliver it as soon as he arrives in Tabwell.
Yours faithfully,
Ann
If the letter had raised any hopes, they were dashed when the remains of the bag proved to be nothing more than old balance sheets and church magazines from the early seventies.
I emptied the second bag to find more of the same, and after two hours, with the paper junk returned to their bags and re-boxed, I fetched myself another coffee from the machine in the reception. I passed Reverend Francis on the stairs.
“Any luck?”
I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said gloomily.
He gave me a sympathetic smile as he continued on his way. After several seconds, I heard his voice.
“You could try the old metal trunk under the blanket,” he suggested. “It has some old biscuit tins in it. I’ve never looked in any of them.”
***
The lid of the old trunk was covered in old children’s annuals. I stacked them carefully on the floor and eased the trunk open to be greeted by what appeared to be a toy box. Old teddies, dolls and boxes of jigsaws along with an array of old games had been thrown in together. I delved through the mountain, careful not to displace any lids. At the bottom of the trunk were two large and very old tins.
I opened the first and my heart sank: old pencils, sharpeners, erasers and crayons. I returned the tin to the bottom of the trunk and pulled out the other. Inside was a plastic bag which, it turned out, contained what appeared to be a batch of letters. But they were nothing more than parish newsletters that had never been sent out.
I returned everything to its place and stood, stretching my legs and patting the dust off my knees.
The remaining boxes contained only bric-a-brac. I opened each one, peering in and moving on to the next. I glanced at my watch; I had been there for over three hours and decided that was enough for today. I thanked the reverend and asked if I could return the following morning. Francis was more than happy to give me the freedom of the room, so I made the journey home with hope still stirring in my heart.
I sat at Jenny’s bedside, recounting the events of the day like a man trying to break the world record for words-per-minute. “It’s good news, isn’t it?” I said excitedly. “We know that this has something to do with this Allington bloke!”
Jenny seemed in good spirits, despite my failure to find anything at the manse. I was determined in my quest, and my daughter believed in me. I wasn’t going to let her down.
That night, I slept well and took the fifty-mile trip back to Tabwell early the following morning.
Francis greeted me warmly and handed me the keys. “Help yourself, Mr. Adams.”
I found nothing in the first two hours, and the hope that I’d carried in my heart began to fade. I returned a set of dusty parish accounts to a cardboard box and was about to take a break when, in the far corner, half hidden by the largest of the storage cartons, I spotted something beneath a large, grey blanket.
The old sideboard stood about a metre in height and about two metres in length. I studied it for a moment. It could easily have graced the home of a family in the eighteenth century. The antiques shows on TV had not exactly turned me into an expert, but I’d seen something similar dated to the time when the Reverend Allington would have been in his pulpit.
It had four panels of eight drawers—a piece of furniture clearly designed to hold small household items. I pulled open each drawer but found nothing in any of them. I tried again, this time pulling each section out and checking it fully. By the time I reached the top drawer of the final panel, I’d become accustomed to the length of each one. But this particular drawer was at least six inches shorter than the others.
I bent down and peered into the empty section that had housed the drawer and saw, at the end, a small silver clasp. I reached in, undid the clasp and the wooden lid dropped into my hand. Behind it, I felt what I knew immediately to be a batch of envelopes.
I sat down on the plastic seat with the naked bulb dangling above me and released the rubber band. The letters were all addressed to Mary Allington. I took a deep breath to steady myself, but my hands trembled uncontrollably. Mary Allington. Wife of Reverend Charles Allington. I pulled out the first letter and began to read.
Chapter Seventeen
My dearest Mary,
I fear you are more t
roubled by recent events than you saw fit to divulge in your recent letter. Naturally, I understand that it is no business of mine to question the activities of a man of God. Charles is an eloquent man, and a servant befitting his position in the Church, and I am sure that his frequent visits to the Stanwicks should not be of any concern to you.
My darling daughter, I do not need to further impress upon you that as a minister’s wife, it is your solemn duty to God Himself that you support your husband with all your heart and soul.
As you are aware, I find it difficult to write. My hand tires so easily these days, but I shall ask of you only one more thing. Do not raise your doubts. Do not give them a voice or allow them to trouble your mind, for you are also a servant of God.
Your Mother.
With the first letter, I’d discovered a link with the Stanwicks. Who were they? Why was Mary Allington so concerned that her husband was visiting them?
There were five letters. I opened the next.
Dear Mary,
How I would love to see you. My heart aches when I bring to mind your beautiful face. I am relieved that you have resisted in confronting your husband, for it is not the place of a wife to do so. Such a confrontation will bring no reward or peace of mind. I fear you may not be spending enough time with the Scriptures, my dear. You are leaving your mind open to the Devil and his lies. I pray that God may lift you in His truth and guide you in His ways.
Your Mother.
I returned the second letter to its envelope and opened the third.
Dear Mary,
I am so relieved that the cabinet has met with your approval. Mr. Jamison is a fine Christian and a skilled craftsman whose furniture, I’m sure, will grace the homes of the nobility, one day. I could not think of a more fitting gift and trust that you both feel it was worth waiting for.
Your Mother.
I took a sip of warm coffee and pulled out the fourth letter.
Dear Mary,
My dearest girl! What wonderful news. With such joyous an event, it has not been difficult to forgive you for keeping a secret from your mother. If only I were well enough to travel, I should be making arrangements without delay. I fear, however, that I shall never see my granddaughter, yet I rest in the knowledge that the hand of God is upon her. Give my regards to the Reverend Allington.
Your Mother.
The letters had all been short and straight to the point, written in a day when ministers and policemen could do no wrong. But what had troubled Mary, I had not been able to determine. Until, that is, I took the final letter from its envelope and noticed immediately that the handwriting had deteriorated. A sign of failing health? I began to read.
Dear Mary,
My dear child. The news reached me this morning and I felt compelled to leave my sick bed and write immediately. If I had not learned of this through such a worthy source, I should never have believed that you could have disgraced yourself and that dear man in such a way.
I trust that you have prostrated yourself before God and begged His forgiveness by the time this letter reaches you…
I blinked hard, trying to decipher the following sentence.
It is beyond reason that you should question your husband or, even for a moment, lend your ear to the ramblings of a mad woman. Is it true that this demented creature entered the house of God and spewed forth this bile as you consecrated your precious child? Did you ever really consider her claims?
Oh, Mary. How could you believe that a righteous man could behave in such an unseemly way? May God forgive you, for I cannot find it in my heart to do the same. I will pray for your Soul.
Your Mother.
I stared at the letter. My stomach rolled and my heart thumped. I re-read it, over and over again, scarcely able to believe that I’d found it. But it was true. It had to be.
I folded the letter carefully, as if it were a winning lottery ticket, and slipped it back into the envelope. I heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Reverend Francis standing in the doorway. “You’ve found something?” he asked, reading my expression.
I nodded and held the envelope in the air. “This is the first—maybe the only—written evidence.”
Francis frowned. “Evidence? Of what?”
I managed a weak, tired smile. “That Amelia Root existed!”
The minister eyed the envelope suspiciously. “What is it?”
“A letter—five, in fact—all written by Charles Allington’s mother-in-law to her daughter, Mary.”
The reverend stepped into the room. “You found them in the trunk?”
I shook my head and pointed towards the corner of the attic. “They were in the old sideboard.”
Francis peered through the gloom. “Goodness—I thought that was empty.”
I smiled. “Mary had a secret drawer,” I said, tapping my temple. “It seemed Allington knew nothing about it.”
***
I drove home with the letters on the passenger seat beside me, occasionally glancing over to check that they actually existed. The details within them were sketchy, to say the least, but my mind was working to fill in the gaps.
Mary Allington had been suspicious of her husband’s behaviour. That was beyond doubt. She was questioning his visits to the Stanwicks’ home—that, too, was quite clear. But why? Was it the frequency of those visits? Had this particular family been disreputable? Had Mary believed that her husband might be having an affair with someone within that household?
It had been the fifth letter that left me totally confused. I was convinced that the graffiti on the church wall was referring to the Reverend Allington, which suggested that his wife’s suspicions might have been founded. But that was all they had been. Suspicions. Then, if I had got this straight, a mad woman had interrupted a service of consecration with accusations of abuse.
Had the reverend made sexual advances? Had he raped her? Or, had this woman—the one I believed to be Amelia Root—really been crazy? Had her advances been rejected by Allington? Had the birth of his child pushed her over the edge and left her seeking a terrible revenge?
By the time I arrived home, my mood had changed. Had Amelia Root been an institutionalised lunatic, well known in the parish? Maybe it was among the duties of the minister to visit the asylum, and that was where he’d encountered Amelia. I poured myself a coffee and laid the five letters on the table in front of me. I had promised to return them when I’d finished reading between the lines.
I scanned the letters onto my computer and printed off several copies of each. Then I sat down, with Frank crooning in the background, and read through the originals over and over again. My head ached, but I knew that there was little chance of a nap.
Instead, I saw, in my mind, the church with its suited congregation, and the Reverend Allington, standing proudly by the font with his wife and baby—a scene of eighteenth-century middle-class civility portrayed in one of those expensive period dramas. Then, quite suddenly, the peace was shattered. I could almost hear the crashing doors—the people turning to see a howling wild woman running down the aisle, her arms flailing as she vented her vitriolic accusations in the direction of the minister. I could see the wardens rushing to restrain her, wrestling her to the ground.
Mary, already paranoid and suspicious of her husband, in a moment of confusion had given some credence to those accusations, incurring the wrath of her mother. Had she raced to the woman, questioning her as she writhed like a trapped animal? Or had she questioned her husband at home, resulting in a violent argument?
I might never know, but I was coming to the conclusion, with nothing more than five short letters to go on, that Amelia Root was insane.
***
I called Sebastian Tint early the following morning and, with nothing more than a cursory hello, launched into my tale of discovery. I didn’t stop to draw breath until I’d reached the fifth letter.
“Then I came to this,” I said, pausing for effect before beginning.
Sebastian l
istened without a word, waiting patiently for me to finish.
“What do you think of that?” I asked, placing the letter back on the table.
Tint hesitated. “It sounds interesting,” he said. “At least we have something.”
“Interesting?” I said, feeling deflated. “It’s more than that! That mad woman—it has to be Amelia Root! It has to be!”
“Let me see the letters,” he said. “Can you come tomorrow afternoon, around three?”
“Sure.”
I replaced the receiver and fired up my computer and typed the word Tabwell in the search engine. Where I was going wasn’t clear. Maybe the village would have its own paper with an online archive. Perhaps there would be a collection of local books covering the history of the area.
Tabwell Arts Association topped the first page, which also told me that there were another one hundred and twenty eight entries featuring the word. I scrolled through but found nothing of any interest. After nearly an hour, I gave up and called Jack Staple, leaving a short message on his answering machine.
“Jack? It’s Robert Adams. I have another name. Could you call me?”
I poured myself a glass of fresh orange and read the letters again. Mary Allington had hidden them in a secret compartment in a piece of furniture commissioned by her mother as a gift—probably a wedding present. But what had happened to the other furnishings in the Allington house, and why had this one survived?
I called Reverend Francis and put those questions to him.
“Your guess would be as good as mine, but I’d imagine that the quality of the cabinet was the reason no one wanted to scrap it.”
“It is an antique, though. Someone could have made a wad of cash.”
Francis chuckled. “If only! Whoever moved into the manse would need the permission of the parish council. It would be regarded as the property of the Church.”
“So, there would be no more of the Allingtons’ furniture around?”