‘Hello. Sage, isn’t it?’
She turned at the deep voice and saw the vicar walking towards her. He was dressed in muddy jeans and jumper, and carrying a strimmer.
‘Vicar.’
He smiled. ‘Nick, please. Have you come to see me?’
‘I was just passing,’ Sage said. ‘I went to see Maeve Rowland like you suggested. She mentioned something about there being local stories of a witch in Banstock, perhaps around the same time period as the bodies ended up in the well behind Bramble Cottage.’ She paused. ‘You don’t know anything about that, do you?’
Nick grinned. ‘I haven’t been here that long, but it’s virtually the first thing they told me. The story is, the Devil took his baby back from a French witch, right here at the church gate. Apparently, she ran here for sanctuary, but the consecrated ground wouldn’t let her demonic baby in. So she turned, and the Devil reached into her womb and snatched the baby.’ He ran his hand down the massive limestone gate post. ‘These are the marks his claws left, apparently.’
Sage ran her fingers down one set of parallel grooves. ‘That’s what Mrs Rowland told me. How do you think these marks were made?’
‘I think maybe the old gates were once hung forward of their present position and the wood marked the stone when they were moved.’ Nick started to walk towards the church.
Sage crunched up the gravel path after him. ‘It looks Norman. In design, anyway.’
‘Some of it is. In fact, the foundations of the nave are Saxon. But most of it is fourteenth century, built on a Norman foundation. Come and look inside.’
She hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t really. I’m supposed to be working.’ Something about churches made Sage uncomfortable, and her boots were incredibly mucky.
‘We have instant coffee and a range of teas.’ When she shook her head Nick added, ‘And I need to talk to you about something anyway.’
He really did have nice eyes. ‘OK, but just a few minutes. I need to get back to my students.’
A florist’s van was parked outside the church. Sage was grateful to see an outside tap by the door. She rinsed off the worst of the muck from her boots, dribbling icy water into one of them by accident, then sloshed her way into the porch. Nick was laughing with a young woman inside.
‘There you are, Sage,’ Nick said. He gestured at his companion. ‘Kayleigh’s our local florist.’
‘Nice to meet you, Sage.’ Kayleigh was about her own age, and carrying a huge bunch of carnations. Her hair was a shade pinker than the flowers. ‘I’d better get back to work. We’ve got a big wedding on Saturday.’
Sage nodded at Kayleigh, and followed Nick into the church proper, and down the limestone flagstones of the nave. The worn stones were patchworked with light from the stained-glass windows.
‘Wow. Lovely.’ She leaned back to study the timber crucks of the roof. ‘That’s beautiful work.’
‘The timbers are original, from the 1100s. Some have the carpenters’ marks on them.’
Sage studied the stone floor. Many of the slabs were covered with curly lettering, smoothed by generations of feet. ‘You have a lot of burials inside the church. These ones look old.’
Nick nodded. ‘There are a few seventeenth-century ones. Some of the Banstocks, the local landowners, are buried in the Lady Chapel.’ He guided Sage off to the side of the nave where there was a forged iron screen with a door. There was a substantial iron lock, painted black. Nick pointed through the bars. ‘Banstock family burials from the fourteen hundreds until about 1720 are in there. Then they built a stone mausoleum outside.’
Sage peered through the narrow bars. She could see three raised tombs with figures on them, and the floor was paved with different-sized memorial stones, all with carved inscriptions.
‘I’d love to have a good look at those. Medieval memorials are rare.’
‘Just call the vicarage when you’ve got more time. I’ll show you around,’ Nick said. He turned as the florist called his name. ‘Be right back.’
For a long moment Sage stood alone in the nave, looking around. She couldn’t guess at the date of the windows but they were rich with stained-glass images that painted the pale limestone walls with colour. Between the windows and pillars were panels, inscribed with memorials and donations. She hadn’t been to church for years, except to go to the odd wedding or funeral, but this one had a feeling of calm, of permanence. Wars and plague and murders will come and go, it seemed to say. But I will still be here.
Was the woman married here? Was the baby baptised in that font?
She turned as Nick walked back to her. ‘You said you wanted to ask me something?’
‘It’s Judith Bassett.’ He led Sage down into a small kitchen in the extension at the western end of the church. ‘I know she’s struggling with her husband’s illness – well, anyone would. But she’s upsetting some of the local mothers at the school.’
‘How?’ Sage nodded when he waved a teabag at a mug.
‘She shouted at me in front of the school gates yesterday morning. Milk?’
Sage was surprised. ‘She did? She seems so bottled up. But she did have a go at us, too.’ She watched his profile as he poured hot water into two cups. He smelled like cut grass, and had a smear of green on one cheekbone. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s my job to go into the school from time to time; it’s a Church of England primary,’ Nick said. ‘We were talking about raising money for our sister school in Ethiopia. Chloe Bassett asked me a question about infant mortality. How many babies die in Africa compared to here.’
Sage’s hand faltered as she reached for the mug he held out to her. ‘Do you think she heard us talking about the baby in the well?’
‘I don’t know. I just thought I should warn you. Anyway, Judith ran up to me at the school gate, shouting at me to leave Chloe alone.’ Nick stared at the floor for a moment. ‘I can understand she’s angry and frightened, but she won’t let me help. She’s somehow focused her anger on me. And on the church.’
‘She got really upset when Chloe asked us about the dig.’ Sage looked around the kitchen, at the rotas on the wall, safety notices, a corkboard covered with clippings of cartoons. ‘I suppose you see a lot of bereavement in your job.’
Nick leaned against the sink, which creaked. ‘I do, but I’m speaking from personal experience. I lost my wife.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ She wasn’t sure what else to say. Amongst the awkwardness was a little spark of interest. He’s single.
‘Cancer, like James Bassett, fifteen months ago. That’s why I moved to this parish. We didn’t have any children but… I got pretty irrational by the end. Raging against God and fate, that sort of thing. I understand Judith’s anger. But she is alienating the people who can help her, and who can help James and Chloe.’
‘I really am sorry.’ Sage watched lines on his forehead deepen at remembered pain. ‘That must be awful.’ She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like. She had never lost anyone except very elderly grandparents.
‘It’s not how you expect it. Some days are OK. Some days are harder.’ Nick managed a lopsided smile. ‘The worst days are agonising. But the next day is usually better.’
Sage stared into her mug. ‘To be honest I don’t know what to say.’
‘There isn’t anything to say. There isn’t a magic, comforting phrase. But when you see Judith Bassett, it would be good if she knows you care, that you would listen to her if she needed to talk. Since she won’t accept my help.’
Sage nodded, and looked up. ‘I’ll try.’
Nick smiled, and she felt a warm feeling spreading in her chest.
‘Thanks for the tea. At some later date, I’d like to have a look at your memorials. I love early inscriptions, and it would be nice to get a snapshot of the parish around the time the well was filled in. Although we don’t have any firm dates yet, we think the burial was after about 1550 but before 1650. There’s no Stuart pottery yet anyway, it seems solidly late Tudor.�
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‘We have written records, too, if they would help. Baptisms, burials, that sort of thing.’
She put the cup in the sink. ‘Thank you. Anything you have on Isabeau would be great, if she was a real person. So far she’s the only name I have.’
‘Sage—’ He shook his head, as if changing his mind. ‘Let me know what you find out about the people in the well.’
‘Of course.’ Sage did up her coat as they walked back down the nave towards the porch. ‘What were you going to say?’
Nick shrugged, and pushed open the door for her. ‘Nothing that can’t wait. See you later.’
As Sage walked down the path towards the lychgate a movement caught her eye. A man, turning away to talk to someone – his posture, the movement of his shoulders looked familiar. Marcus? For a moment she started to raise her hand to wave, opened her mouth to call out, but she managed to stop herself. He was an estate agent, he travelled all over the East Wight. He disappeared into a house, clipboard under one arm. She felt disturbed at seeing him, even though it was over.
Sage walked across the road to Bramble Cottage. The students had felt uncomfortable after Judith Bassett’s outburst about Chloe, and she didn’t like to leave them too long.
When she entered the garden they were standing over the bone boxes, talking in hushed tones. She realised Steph was teary-eyed and Elliott appeared at a loss as to how to comfort her. He looked relieved to see Sage, and walked over to her carrying a plastic box.
‘We found the baby’s skull,’ he said, and Steph uttered a sob. Sage opened the box and gently lifted a layer of bubble wrap.
The baby’s brown skull was pathetic, lying in several fragments like a pile of porcelain leaves, the jaw laid beside them in two parts. The cartilage had gone, leaving the separate face bones to be laid out. Like all babies, it had disproportionately large eyes, like an alien. Steph walked over, sniffling.
Sage patted Steph’s shoulder. ‘I know it’s sad, but we knew it might be there. Skulls seem so much more real than just odd bones. But it all happened many years ago.’
Steph pulled herself together, and wiped her eyes with a handful of tissue. ‘I know.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘It’s just horrible. Elliott—’
‘I found a cut on the lower jaw.’ He traced a dark line on the remains of the bone. The cut was deep, on the left-hand side, about halfway along. It had obviously been made by a sharp edge. ‘It’s just a nick. I wondered how it got there.’
Sage leaned over for a better look. The scratch was disturbing; the thought of someone putting a knife to a baby’s face was horrible. ‘That’s weird. I mean, possibly it happened when they were put in the well, but I suppose it could be deliberate.’ Maeve’s story about the Devil tearing a baby out of its mother popped into her head.
Steph’s voice was now less wobbly. ‘Maybe someone killed the baby.’
Sage nodded slowly. ‘It’s a possibility but really unlikely. I do have a suggestion of an identity for the adult in the well, though. I spoke to Maeve Rowland; she moved into the cottage in the seventies and sold it to the Bassetts. There’s a local myth relating to a Frenchwoman, Isabeau, who might have died while pregnant, or lost her baby; it’s not very clear. And then there’s Den’s story about another possible burial in the woods behind the cottage, with a stone from about the same period. It’s been linked to Isabeau too, although she couldn’t have been buried in two places at once. Of course, the stone in the woods might just be a memorial stone.’ She turned to Steph. ‘I thought I would check it out. Fancy a walk through the woods some time?’
Steph shook her head. ‘Too creepy. I’m having so much fun digging up dead babies.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Take Ell.’
Elliott, however, declared that he was in the middle of cataloguing pottery finds, which now numbered in the hundreds, and was collecting pieces of curved glass. Sage went over to him, where he was taking pictures with his phone of gleaming shards of glass. ‘What is that?’ The curved pieces looked like a blown bowl that had been shattered. They had caught her attention because Elizabethan glass was very rare. ‘Wineglass, or decanter? Surely it’s too thin for a bottle.’
He put his phone in his pocket. ‘I have a theory. I’ll let you know when I get more of it. There’s loads in there.’ Elliott turned over another fragment with his forceps. ‘I’m trying to work out how to piece it together. Perhaps you can help me with it when you’ve got time.’
Sage examined the fragile glass, turning over fragments with a paintbrush. ‘It’s very thin. Blow up a balloon, and clamp off the end. You can get the right curve then. If you glue it with water-based paste you can dissolve it again when needed.’ She turned to Steph. ‘Any problems with Mrs Bassett?’
‘Not really.’ Steph glanced over her shoulder at the cottage. ‘She’s ignoring us.’
‘I’ll go and see her. Thanks, guys. You’re doing a great job.’
Sage walked around to the front door and knocked, half hoping the woman was out, but Judith Bassett answered, looking even paler, if possible, than usual. ‘Mrs Bassett. I just wanted to check you were all right. I’m sorry again about Chloe, we didn’t mean to upset her.’
Judith waved a hand. ‘Don’t. It was my fault. I just get protective; Chloe’s going through a lot. Come in, please.’
Sage slipped off her boots in the hall and followed her into the kitchen. The Aga was on, creating a bubble of warmth at the end of the room.
‘We’ll be finished as soon as we can.’ Sage leaned against the granite work surface, which chilled a cold line into her hip.
‘That’s good.’ Judith lifted the kettle and turned it on. ‘My daughter is becoming morbidly interested in the dig. James – my husband – is coming home soon, and I just want her less focused on death.’
‘Does she know about the skeletons?’ Sage asked.
Judith shook her head. ‘Not yet. But as soon as she heard about the well, she assumed someone must have fallen down it.’
‘I’m sure, being a child, she would be fascinated rather than horrified. Chloe seems very bright.’
‘She is. And that reminds me: her teacher wrote me a note. She wondered if you could find time to talk to Chloe’s class for a few minutes one morning. Maybe even her whole year group?’
Sage’s heart sank. This was one aspect of her job she knew she wasn’t good at. ‘I’m sure we can put a few bits together. We have found a few mutton bones and teeth, and there’s loads of pottery. But Steph is much better with kids than I am, so I’ll get her to help. Interpreting the past to the public is part of the job she’s training for.’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘I’ve just had one, thank you.’
While Judith clattered a spoon into a cup, Sage had a closer look at the kitchen. It was a long, L-shaped room, with a work surface that had been plastered into the walls. They were so uneven none of the furniture fitted squarely, so the builders had adapted the cupboards to fit. ‘This is nice,’ she said, politely.
‘I hate it all. If James… I’ll sell, when I can. I’ve even spoken to the estate agent that sold it to us. Is that awful? I’m planning to sell the house before he’s even…’
Sage wasn’t sure how to reply. ‘You must have liked the house when you first moved in.’
Judith sat at the scrubbed pine table. ‘I thought it was lovely, buying a place with so much history. When we first came to the Island, we – me and Chloe – tried to find out who lived here, on the census for 1901. We couldn’t find any mention of the cottage though.’
Sage sat down with her. ‘We found out the name changed; that would have made it more difficult to locate on the census. It used to be called Well House.’
‘Oh.’ Judith grimaced. ‘Because of its history? Did people know about the bodies?’
‘I doubt it.’ Sage pulled her tablet out of her bag and switched it on. ‘The Harbour Bell has a picture of the cottage on the wall. Elliott scanned it in for me—’ she skipped through the images of b
ones, to the photograph. ‘See the wide front wall? I think the cottage had one of the village pumps in front of it. It’s ideally suited. When piped water came in, the land was given back to the cottage.’
‘Not another well.’
‘I’m sure the pump well was all filled in innocently, and in public.’
Judith turned away, cradling her cup. ‘I feel like I’m going mad, sometimes.’
‘It must be hard,’ was the only thing Sage could think to say.
‘I feel better with you outside all day.’ Judith’s voice was distant, as if she were talking to herself. ‘But there’s the crying…’
Sage looked up. ‘The crying?’
‘Well, maybe not crying. More like howling or wailing.’ Judith took a sip of her tea. ‘James heard it first. That’s how we knew the house was haunted.’
Sage thought carefully how to phrase a response. ‘I don’t think…’
Judith’s lips twisted into a smile but somehow it looked as if she was in pain. ‘I tried to explain it away as a neighbour’s TV, an animal in the garden…’ Judith’s hands were trembling. ‘Oh, God.’ Her thin shoulders started to shake.
Sage spoke gently. ‘Judith, are you getting enough support? I mean, you’ve got such a lot on your shoulders, and now this…’ She rose and tore a couple of sheets of kitchen towel from a cast-iron holder, then handed them to Judith. ‘Here.’
Judith mopped her face and got her composure back. ‘I’m fine, really. Well, not fine.’ She managed a wobbly laugh. ‘I have help if I need it. My mother’s coming to stay in a few days. Chloe’s been difficult.’
‘Let me know if we can do anything. I’ll contact Chloe’s teacher if you give me a number. I suppose the discovery of the bones will become common knowledge soon, but I’ll explain to the children that it was all a long time ago.’
Judith tore a piece of paper out of a notebook and jotted down the names of the school and the teacher. ‘There. Thank you.’
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