“Did you ever hear anything about a murder at the priory during the period the monks were in residence?”
Ross blinked several times in quick succession as he extracted a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his forehead. “A murder, you say? What makes you ask?”
I fidgeted on the sofa, unsure what to tell him. Relating the tale of my bizarre vision might frighten him away before I could extract useful information from him. “Just a vague rumor I heard,” I said.
His grey eyebrows drew together, and he patted his forehead again. “The story is public knowledge, but not many people are aware of it.”
“You mean the murder really did happen? Please, Mr. Ross, tell me everything. Who was the woman? And why was she killed?”
“Do call me Alistair. Mr. Ross makes me feel old. Older than I am, that is.” He folded the handkerchief and tucked it in his pocket. “The woman’s name was Agnes Fenton, and she was the laird’s niece. She came to live here at the castle after her parents died. Her beauty and intelligence were widely admired, and she wrote some remarkable poetry. I had the opportunity to read some of it in the National Library archives. What we know of her comes primarily from letters written by a nobleman from King James’s court. He wooed her for several years and died of a broken heart after she was murdered in 1526.”
He paused, lost in thought. His sad story had raised goosebumps on my arms.
“How did she come to be murdered?” I asked finally.
“The story goes that she took something valuable from the priory.”
I thought back. She’d been holding a book. It had fallen to the ground, and the monk had leaned over to pick it up. I waited, and Alistair confirmed it. “It was a book. An extraordinary piece of work written and illustrated by a monk called Aethelwin. We know, because he signed the cover page. He started writing it when he lived in a Cistercian monastery in the north of England, where he was supposed to be working on a breviary— you know, a collection of hymns, psalms, and prayers. Instead, he filled the pages with hand-drawn images of machines and mechanisms, remarkable because of the book’s age. It was written in Old English, and its vellum pages have been dated to the early eleventh century.”
The historian paused to sip his tea. “Aethelwin drew a clock that predates the first geared clock by nearly a hundred years. The Arab engineer, Al-Muradi, working in Spain, developed a sophisticated gear train to drive the timepiece in the late eleventh century. And the book contains a drawing of a constellation not visible to the naked eye, although there were no telescopes yet invented that were powerful enough to view the heavens.”
“How did the book get to Scotland?”
“It’s believed that either Aethelwin was caught out, or feared he would be, so he arranged to transfer to a smaller monastery in Scotland. Sometime later, he died. The abbot found the book, realized what it was, and hid it in a secret place. Although it was a disturbing, perhaps even heretical, piece of work, it seems that the abbot recognized its unique nature and he didn’t want to destroy it. Historians have conjectured that it was hidden for several hundred years.”
“Historians? You mean this book is well-known?”
“Absolutely. It’s called The Aethelwin Codex. I’ve done a great deal of research on it. There have been many documented sightings of the book, which is known to have traveled extensively, in the possession of kings, emperors and generals in England, France, and Russia. Over the centuries, it gained mythical status as an object of great value, reputed to bring good fortune and power to its owner.”
“So that’s why Agnes stole it?”
“No one thinks she stole it. It’s generally believed she had attempted to rescue it. Although the codex remained under lock and key for centuries, rumors of its existence were rife. We may suppose monasteries to be secluded, introspective retreats from the outside world, but they maintained constant contact with the local community. The monks provided medical assistance to the villagers on occasion and purchased supplies of food and beer from merchants in the vicinity. The brothers had plenty of opportunity to gossip and speculate about the value of the supposedly secret book. Indeed, several attempts were made to steal it. Records show that two men were charged and hanged in 1510 for breaking into the priory. They claimed they were paid by an English aristocrat to acquire the codex for him. Therefore, the book’s location was somewhat common knowledge at that point.”
“Why did Agnes Fenton feel it needed rescuing?”
“Several theories have been proposed. One, she was attempting to save it from being destroyed. A number of monks deemed its contents to be the work of the devil. They claimed Aethelwin had been encouraged in his imaginings by conversations with Satan. They thought it should be burned.”
“How awful. Book burning has always been used to censor information and silence opposition.” I sat up straight. “Please don’t tell me it was burned?”
“It wasn’t. It appeared somewhat regularly over the next few centuries until it vanished in the early 1900s. So the other theory, more widely accepted, is that Agnes was trying to take the codex from a monk who’d already stolen it from its hiding place with the intention of selling it. He had newly arrived at the priory, and he disappeared, of course, right after the murder.”
“The monk in the black robes. What else do you know about him?”
“His name was Hubert. He may have been French and he may well have not been a real monk. After he killed Agnes, he escaped with the book. It isn’t known where he went or to whom he sold it. However, it made an appearance three years later, in the court of King Francis I of France. The king had a reputation as a generous patron of the arts; he sponsored several famous artists including Del Sarto and Da Vinci. During his reign, he established a substantial library and initiated the acquisition of many artworks, most of which are now in the Louvre.”
“So, even though the French quasi-monk stole the codex, it fell into good hands, it seems. As a book lover and art aficionado, King Francis would have cared for it and kept it safe.”
“That’s true,” Alistair agreed. “It did go on to cause its share of problems over the centuries. Apart from Agnes, others died in their attempts to secure it and hang on to it. In the 1700s, it became the subject of a duel between a grandee of Aragon and an ambassador from the court of Louis XV. Both men died, causing something of an international incident. No one knows where the codex went after that, until it reappeared in the house of an English duke, who shot himself after losing it in a card game.”
Alistair took a swallow of tea. I tasted mine, but it had gone cold, forgotten as I listened to his account.
“Poor Agnes.” I shivered as I remembered the violence on the moor. “The man, Hubert, looked so evil. She must have been terrified.”
“What do you mean, he looked evil?”
“I saw him…” I stopped, but the words were out.
“Go on.” Alistair took his hanky out again and patted his face where a sheen of perspiration glistened.
I couldn’t take the words back. I didn’t want to lie to him. I liked him, and he was being generous with his time and knowledge. But if I told him about my vision, our interview would probably be over.
“I walked out there to the priory, or the ruins of it at least, and I saw a vision, a sort of reenactment.”
To my surprise, Alistair looked delighted. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and stood up. “Miss Benedict, did you touch the Brynjarr Stone before you walked to the ruins?”
I recalled the morning when Josh and I had walked along the lochan and passed the ancient spire. I had brushed my fingers across the black rock. “Yes, I did. And, please, call me Kate.”
He set off on a circuit of the drawing room, muttering to himself. And there I’d been worrying I was the crazy one. Finally, he came to a halt and sat down again. “Extraordinary,” he said. He picked up his tea cup and, realizing it was empty, put it down again. “Very few are affected by the stone. Only myself and
a couple of others that I’m aware of. Over the centuries, though, who knows how many people have been granted the ability to see the vision.”
“You’ve seen it too? And you actually know others who have seen it?”
“I experienced it years ago, and have been researching the history of the place ever since. An old neighbor of mine saw it as well, but she died some time ago. Then there’s Lachlan, Fergus’s groundskeeper.”
“Lachlan?” That was a surprise.
Alistair nodded. “I think he has the second sight, but he won’t discuss it. The subject is firmly off-limits.”
“Second sight?”
“A primarily Scottish phenomenon. It’s the power to predict the future. My grandmother had it. In her case, she only saw good events, like the birth of a child, or an unexpected windfall. Some foresee terrible things like war and death. Once upon a time, it was considered a gift but, nowadays, people just think it’s….”
“Weird,” I finished. He nodded with a rueful smile.
“But Lachlan admitted he’d seen the young woman killed on the moor?” I asked.
“He did. He came to me to ask if I could explain it. We meet occasionally to talk about it, but honestly it’s more an excuse to have a pint than conduct a serious scientific investigation.”
“I’m confused though. Hundreds, even thousands of people, must have touched the Brynjarr Stone, yet, presumably, they don’t all see the vision.”
“That’s true. I can only surmise that some souls are more susceptible, more open perhaps to paranormal experiences.”
“Yes, I believe that too,” I agreed.
He gazed at me. “Have you seen other visions, apart from the one you told me about?”
“Not here.” I hesitated. The conversation had veered off in a direction I would never have envisaged, but I felt it best to tell him the whole truth. The more we shared, the better the chance we might uncover information that would help save Fergus. “I’ve had encounters with spirits, though, and I can see auras which predict death.”
“Fascinating. Go on.”
I described my meeting with my mother three months after her death, and my conversations with the dead nun who’d first explained my aura-sighting gift to me. When I described the aura over Fergus, which remained even though the police had arrested Nick’s Dad, Alistair drew his brows together in concern. “Fergus is a good man.”
“He is. I’ve been wrestling with the question of whether this vision has anything to do with the threat to him.” I paused, feeling my shoulders slump. “But now I think not. If others have seen the murder in the ruins, it wasn’t a sign intended specifically for me.” I leaned my elbows on my knees, chin in hand, weighed down by frustration. I wasn’t making any progress at all. And while it would otherwise be delightful to chat about visions and stone spires with special powers, I was acutely aware I was running out of time. “I’m back where I started, with no idea of how to save Fergus.”
Alistair tapped his fingers on his knee. “Did young Duncan have an aura too?”
“Yes. But it appeared only hours before he died, which means something changed. Whatever it was, it put him in danger, but it all happened so fast. I couldn’t do anything to keep him safe.”
“I’m sorry, lassie. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Do you have any other information that might point to what threatens Fergus?”
I remembered the papers I had in my pocket and took out the sketch I’d drawn of the young woman who’d been murdered. I unfolded it and smoothed it out before giving it to him. “I drew this after I saw the vision.”
“Agnes Fenton,” he murmured. “That’s how I remember her, but I don’t have any artistic talent like you.”
“And there’s this.” I unfolded the list of words I had found in Duncan’s notebook and read it again before passing it over. Alexandra 1917. Anna Vyrubova 1939, Cyril Thorpe 1940. “Do you have any idea what this might mean?”
He pulled a pair of reading glasses from a case on the coffee table and perched them on his nose. It seemed to take him a long while to peruse the list. “Can you read my writing?” I asked. “I scrawled the words quickly before I forgot them.”
He rested the paper on his lap and removed his glasses. “Extraordinary. Where did you find this?”
Reluctant to admit that most of my research so far had consisted of digging through other people’s private property, I took a bite of my scone, and he carried on talking.
“Alexandra would be the wife of Tsar Nicholas,” he said. “They were taken prisoner by the Bolsheviks in 1917.”
“Yes, and they were executed in 1918.” I struggled to conceal the impatience in my voice. “I learned that much in school at least.”
“My apologies, Kate.” Alistair smiled. “I was musing out loud. But here’s the thing. The Tsarina was the last known owner of the codex.”
“What?” My hand started to shake, and I put my plate down.
“Yes.” Alistair’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “The book was known to be in her possession following her marriage to Nicholas. After she and her family were executed, there were no further sightings of it. Many historians believe it was lost, destroyed perhaps by the revolutionaries.”
“But maybe it wasn’t destroyed. What about the other names on the list? Do you recognize them? Did they also possess the codex for a while?”
“Anna Vyrubova was Alexandra’s lady-in-waiting, her favorite, according to many accounts. A staunch supporter of Rasputin, she encouraged the Tsarina’s friendship with him. After his murder and the capture of the Romanov family, the Bolsheviks arrested Anna.”
“That’s impressive. How on earth did you learn all that?”
Alistair shrugged. “As I said, I’ve been pondering the meaning of the vision for years now. I’ve acquired all sorts of useless information about the priory, Agnes Fenton, and the codex, including its many owners, right up until it disappeared. But I haven’t found any evidence that Anna Vyrubova ever owned it.”
“What happened to her? Did she get executed too?”
“No. In spite of her very poor health, she somehow survived five months of imprisonment, after which she left Russia with the help of her family. She traveled to Finland, where she lived until her death in the late 1960s.”
Mrs. Dunsmore appeared just then to offer us more refreshments. We gratefully accepted a pot of fresh tea and more lemon scones. The housekeeper set the tray down with a smile. “Pierre’s using my scone recipe. They’re very good, aren’t they?”
We voiced our enthusiasm for the scones to Mrs. Dunsmore’s retreating back. The woman was in constant motion.
There had been something I meant to say before Mrs. Dunsmore’s appearance. I bit my lip, trying to remember.
“Oh yes, there’s another thing,” I said. “Duncan had written ‘Helsinki’ in his journal. A possible link to Anna living in Finland?”
“Duncan’s journal?” Alistair’s eyebrows marched upwards.
“It’s complicated.” I poured tea for both of us. “In a search for clues that might help me identify the source of the danger to Fergus, I’ve been digging around. I’m positive Duncan was searching for something before he died, but I thought it was a Fabergé egg.”
Alistair leaned against his sofa cushion, still clutching the scrap of paper with the names on it and gazing at me intently. “I assure you I will keep in total confidence whatever you tell me,” he said. “What gave you the impression Duncan was after an egg?”
“Several things, really. First, I found a news story about an imperial Fabergé egg discovered by a collector in Paris six months ago. Lucy— she’s Duncan’s girlfriend— had a press clipping about it in her room. When I asked her about it, she admitted to hunting for an egg, not the one in the press clipping obviously, but another of the seven that are still missing.”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I don’t know much about Romanov treasure or Fabergé eggs. Even if it is what Duncan wanted to find, how does it repres
ent a danger to Fergus? Do you think that’s why Duncan was killed? Because of his interest in it?”
I flexed my neck, trying to work out the kinks that had taken up residence there. “I don’t know. What about Cyril Thorpe?” I asked, nodding towards the piece of paper in Alistair’s hand. “Any thoughts on who he might be?”
“No, but I’d be happy to do more research. Can I copy this list down?”
“Of course.” I jumped up to find a notepad and pen. “You’ll contact me if you find anything? I want to know but, at the same time, I can’t help feeling the egg and the vision are distractions from the real problem, which is finding out who means harm to Fergus.”
Alistair frowned. “I heard about the arson attack last night. Even with Jameson in custody, you think Fergus is still at risk?”
“His aura’s still there.”
“Well, the word is that Inspector McMahon is one of the best. I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Maybe. But I’m going to continue poking around myself as well. There’s too much at stake to rely on a single police officer.”
“You can count on my support,” Alistair said as he stood up. “I’ll make some enquiries and report back to you.”
25
Just as I waved goodbye to Alistair Ross, Josh and Fergus came downstairs, both looking somber. I guessed that the process of making the funeral arrangements for Duncan must be taking its toll.
“How did it go?” Josh asked.
I was still trying to make sense of everything Alistair and I had discussed. “Good, I think. Shall we sit down? There are tea and scones if you want them.”
The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries Page 104