‘Why a witch?’ Sage asked. ‘There weren’t any witch trials here around Banstock, were there?’
He waved up towards the slope and the trees at the top of the rise. ‘Behind the windmill is an area called Witch Hill. Local legend is that witches used to gather in the ruins of the abbey.’
Sage vaguely remembered hearing about Witch Hill as a child. She looked at the stone again in its mossy coat. ‘Then who left a gravestone in the woods?’
His manner seemed to soften and he half smiled. ‘To be honest, my father always thought some servant girl got herself into trouble and topped herself.’
She tapped the stone. ‘This is an expensive grave marker, but in unconsecrated soil. That’s unusual.’
He scowled at her, all warmth gone. ‘Maybe so, but you just can’t come barging onto private land and deface gravestones.’
‘I can assure you, I haven’t damaged it, and I didn’t know this was private land,’ Sage retorted. At that moment an elderly golden retriever bounded up to the old man, then to Sage, frisking around her and splattering her waterproof jacket with mud and hair. She patted the dog, reducing her to ecstasy by scratching the middle of her back.
‘You know dogs.’ The old man looked at Sage appraisingly.
‘My mum and dad have two Labradors.’
‘Bloody idiotic dogs, worse than golden retrievers. They’re even worse than spaniels.’ He appeared to make a decision and held out his hand. ‘George Banstock. Lord of the manor and all that rubbish. So, what put you onto Damozel’s grave?’
She gripped his big hand. ‘Please call me Sage. The landlord of the Harbour Bell pub mentioned it. I’ve been working on Bramble Cottage for the new owners. We found some human remains in an old well, possibly from around the same era as this marker.’
George Banstock raised his eyebrows until they were lost in his bushy hair. ‘Bloody hell. Like a murder?’
‘It would be a very old one. Between 1500 and 1600 we’re guessing, from artefacts found with the bones. Although it might be a plague burial or an accident.’
The lord of the manor stroked his chin. ‘Well, the cottage wasn’t even there until the mid-1500s. My family owned it until about 1860. It was a farmhouse then, and we owned all the land backing onto the church. Actually, this was all part of the original farm; my great-grandfather kept the woodland when he sold the house off.’
Sage ran her hand over the headstone. ‘This style of burial marker is unusual for the period, if indeed it is from the same time as the bodies in the well. Would you mind if I at least do a survey of the site?’
‘Do you want to dig her up?’ George folded his arms, the gun dangling between them. It hadn’t been loaded, she noticed. She wondered why he had been carrying it, although the dog had disturbed a few pigeons.
‘If there’s actually a body here it would be fascinating from an archaeological point of view. That would be for the Home Office to decide, though.’
‘The museum applied once before, but nothing came of it,’ the old man said. ‘There wasn’t any funding. My wife will love all this mystery. We open the house and gardens to the public, and she has a team of volunteers looking into the history of the manor and the village. We have a lot of old documents, you know, though the local records office has most of the originals. All written in gobbledygook Latin.’
Sage stroked the dog’s soft head, as it gazed up at her adoringly. ‘I would love a look, at some point. I have a couple of students with me; they could help look for mentions of Damozel or Isabeau. Or anyone else who went missing at the end of the 1500s for that matter. They are used to reading old English and Latin.’
‘Well, come up to the house and talk to my wife. How about Sunday morning? Her ladyship’s got a meeting of the history society after lunch, so if you come around eleven there’ll be cakes. Give her a ring, we’re in the phonebook.’
Sage watched the old man stamp across the woodland, the dog jumping up until he threw a stick for it. She slid down the slope towards the stream, and waded across the driest patch, her boots sticking in black mud that was over her ankles.
* * *
Sage was just packing the latest finds into the back of the van with Elliott when she saw Nick, this time in black shirt and dog collar under a long coat, approaching the cottage at a brisk walk. She went out to meet him.
‘Hi. Wow, you really look like a vicar today.’
‘Well, I really am a vicar. All dressed up for evensong.’ He looked down at her. ‘Finished for the weekend?’
‘Yes, finally.’ The sky was deepening its blue minute by minute.
‘Are you going home now?’ He seemed tense, his face tight.
‘Not straight away. I have to go to the office first and find somewhere to put all these bags and boxes. We’ve catalogued more than two hundred finds today.’ Sage paused. ‘Is something wrong? I got the impression you wanted to talk to me yesterday.’
‘I went to visit James Bassett at the hospice this afternoon.’ Nick put his hands in his coat pockets. ‘He’s coming home tomorrow. He wants me to pop in after the weekend.’ He looked down, his eyes striated by long, black lashes. It occurred to Sage that he was handsome in a 1950s, knitting pattern way. His lower lip was caught between his teeth for a moment. Then he looked up, straight at her. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘Of course.’ Sage reached out a hand and touched his sleeve. ‘What’s wrong?’
Nick sighed, then ran his hand through his dark hair. ‘It’s Judith. She’s been going through hell. Her husband is dying, she has a young daughter. I feel like I’m letting them down by not being able to convince Judith to let me and the church help her. The child isn’t responding very well, either. She’s been very aggressive at school. At home too, I suspect. I’m not sure if Judith is coping with her. Judith’s got some nasty scratches – the school mentioned it – and Chloe has thrown a couple of tantrums at school. Have you had a chance to talk to her?’
Sage didn’t know what to say. She turned to get a glimpse of Bramble Cottage, visible through the shrubs in the front garden. ‘Judith? She just seems so broken.’ She hesitated before lowering her voice. ‘Is there anyone else there? I did see the scratches on Judith’s neck.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Nick.
Sage stepped closer, into the lee of his body, keeping her voice low. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Elliott, scowling at her. ‘Have you talked to her husband about it?’
‘I tried to.’ Nick sighed again. ‘But I don’t want him to worry about her when he isn’t there. Could you have a chat with Judith and James on Monday? You could sit down with them to talk about the well. Maybe gauge her reaction to me visiting him?’
Sage rubbed her upper arms with gloved hands. ‘I’m the last person you should be asking.’ She looked over at the tall figure of Elliott, standing by the van, frowning impatiently at Nick. Over his head, she thought she saw a hint of movement at one of the cottage’s dormer windows. Maybe Chloe. ‘I’m the opposite of diplomatic.’
‘That kind of openness creates trust. If you could just pave the way for me it would help. Tell them I’m interested in the dig, I’m going to help re-inter the remains. Anything that will make it easier for me to visit James.’
‘I’ll try.’ He was so close, Sage was drawn towards his warmth. ‘Nick, I really was sorry to hear about your wife.’
‘I know.’ He managed a crooked smile, then gestured towards her stomach. ‘Are you and the baby’s father getting married? I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring. I could do you a deal, probably get you a discount on the flowers too.’
‘The father’s out of the picture. He never wanted the baby anyway.’
Nick grimaced. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Really.’ Sage stroked her tummy. ‘I have the baby, that’s enough.’ She smiled at the vicar. ‘In a way the baby has forced me to end a not very healthy relationship with a very egotistical man.’
‘Good for you.’ H
e paused for a long moment. ‘I’m glad for me, too.’ He half waved at Elliott. ‘Looks like your student wants you.’
Sage didn’t know how to answer. Why was he glad for himself? She looked over at Elliott, who was still waiting by the passenger door of the van, arms crossed. ‘I’m giving him a lift to Newport.’
‘Well, have a great weekend.’
Sage watched his tall shape, a little hunched against the cold, walk away. She felt a pull. Ridiculous. Maybe there was some sort of biological instinct to secure a father for the baby. She shrugged it off and turned to Elliott. Steph was already on her bike, lights on.
‘I’ll be glad when the clocks go forward,’ she said, before she wobbled into the road and disappeared onto the High Street.
10
3rd August 1580
Basket of eels from Yarmouth river for my Lady Banstock one shilling and three pence farthing Four pence for the boy to bring them to the manor one shilling and seven pence farthing
Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582
The man Seabourne has moved his traps and servants to Well House. He has just two men in the house, one Allen Montaigne and Edward Kelley, and a lad in the stables. There are fine horses, three, including a high-stepping mare. I gave him the direction of Mistress Ashdown, who takes in laundry, perhaps not to a gentleman’s standard, but he does not want a woman in the house. The new well forward of the house is almost finished, and the villagers plan to celebrate its opening. Seabourne will have to be on good terms with his neighbours, since they will be frequent visitors to the new well, which gives sweet water with no trace of salt, despite our closeness to the Solent shore. His servants will be glad of the good water, since the old well behind the house is vilely brackish.
I ride over with Viola, to welcome him to the village. At my knocking upon the door we are greeted by the servant, Kelley. It is a humble cottage for a man of Seabourne’s resources, I think, but he has a fine walnut chair Lord Anthonie himself would not have despised, and a cupboard of oak, carved abundantly and covered with books. His table, scarred and scorched, holds a number of boxes and a pile of papers much inscribed. A good fire warms all against an early frost, and despite the hour, two lamps are lit against the dull day.
His man is sent off for wine and it is carried in fine glasses. We sup, Seabourne in his chair and Viola and I on a good settle, and talk about the journey.
‘Master Seabourne,’ I finally ask, ‘what lies in these boxes?’
His eyes brighten and he smiles at us. ‘Kelley,’ he shouts, and the man appears. ‘Fetch the alembic,’ he says, and the man vanishes, to return with a leather case, much embellished.
‘Shall I get the Paracelsus, my lord?’ he asks. At Seabourne’s nod, he carries one of the larger tomes over, reverently in his arms, and lays it upon the table. As he turns pages it is clear he is familiar with the work, and able to read.
‘Now, let me show you,’ Seabourne begins, opening the wooden box, packed with hay. ‘This still, or alembic, is used in France for the distillation of spirits. But this has been made to my specifications by a glassmaker in Bohemia.’ A large glass bottle, elegantly blown, emerges in his tender hands. ‘This is the base vessel, the cucurbit, and there is the cap in the case. This retrieves the base metal, in this case, mercury.’
Kelley searches under papers for a stand, and his master carefully sets the vessel upon it, and fits the lid on top. It looks like a hat with a long glass spout, which he fits into a fat bottle.
Viola leans forward, and I see her eagerness to learn light her face. ‘Is this alchemical equipment, Master Seabourne?’
He steps away from the fragile construction. ‘It is a tool in understanding what we call “chrysopoeia”, the transformation of base metals into gold.’ He frowns at her like a teacher. ‘In doing so, we understand the quality of metals and of all nature.’ He strokes the page Kelley has left the book open to. ‘I am a student of Paracelsus, and have studied with the great natural philosopher Tycho Brahe in Vienna. “The same stone which the builders refused, is become the head stone in the corner. This was the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.”’
I am interested, but worry about the interest that Viola is showing in what, in the wrong light, could be seen as heretical. Quoting the psalms did not make it less so.
‘You speak, I gather, of the philosopher’s stone?’ I stand, picking up my coat from the arm of the settle. ‘Dangerous work, my friend.’
Seabourne opens his mouth, but it is Viola who answers. ‘Important work, Master Vincent! What could be more important than understanding the mysteries of God’s own creations?’
I meet Seabourne’s eyes. ‘A man may explore within the confines of proper scholarly investigation, but a woman may not be tainted by any suggestion of impiety.’
‘You told me that knowledge is for all, Master Vincent,’ Viola says. I turn to see if she is being impertinent, but she is serious. ‘That truth is to be sought.’
‘Knowledge, yes. But some questions are best left to the scholars and clergy, lest we are led off the righteous path.’ She looks so downcast that I add, ‘And, perhaps, artists and poets. We shall leave Master Seabourne to his work.’
The man himself steps forward with a handful of pamphlets. ‘If you deem them seemly and suitable, Master Vincent, perhaps Viola may enjoy these poems from the court.’
His humility in approaching me as if I were Viola’s father flatters me, perhaps, for I glance cursorily over them, and allow Viola to take them.
Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir
11
Saturday 30th March
The car ferry to Portsmouth had a rhythm of its own. Drivers waited, were waved on and directed inch by inch to the spot the ferry man chose. Finally, they were allowed to park their car. Sage had a booked slot, so she could visit her parents in Petersfield. Stepping onto the car deck was a blast of the quay air: brine, oil, spray.
Sage grabbed her laptop bag from the passenger seat, locked her car, and clattered up metal steps to the passenger deck. Not queuing for a coffee gave her a good choice of seats, and she selected one by the salt-crystalled window.
Opening her laptop and letting it load up, she watched the other passengers taking their seats. Many were probably Islanders like Sage, at least on her father’s side. There was a certain tongue-in-cheek snobbery about being a local with a good Island name. The picture of the well woman’s skull slowly loaded on the screen. She wondered what features the woman’s face would have had, and whether she looked like a ‘good Islander’. Most of the skull was intact, so it should be possible to get at least an approximate reconstruction done.
She looked away as someone, a man by his shoes, sat down opposite her, at the end of the seat. When she glanced up, she saw Marcus smiling at her. She jumped.
‘What—?’
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ he said.
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘I thought you might be on this boat. Going to visit your mother?’ He dropped his voice, murmuring over the engine grinding below decks. ‘It’s nice to see you. You OK? How’s the baby?’
‘I’m fine. We’re fine.’ She stopped and did an internal audit. She was tired; she was wrestling with strange dreams; the bodies in the well, though fascinating, represented months of work for which she had no budget. And she was missing the contact, the familiar touch of Marcus’s body. ‘And I’m really busy.’
‘Me too. I’m going to an auction in Tunbridge Wells on behalf of a buyer.’ His eyes dropped to her cleavage. ‘God, you’re beautiful.’
She knew it was true for him. Some things he couldn’t fake.
‘Just stop, OK? I’m trying to move on.’
‘I hear you are digging up the garden at Bramble Cottage.’
She sat back, staring at him. ‘So it was you I saw.’
‘Possibly. I’ve got a few clients in the village at the moment. Don’t spoil the garden at the cottage,
it was always a great selling point.’
‘Was it you who sold it?’ Stupid question really: Marcus had a good reputation on the eastern side of the Island and it was just the sort of property he liked in his portfolio.
‘It’s a great cottage. If people keep dying there it’s going to be a real money-spinner.’
Sage couldn’t believe what he’d just said. ‘You are disgusting.’
He shrugged, half smiling. ‘Just looking for the silver lining. I liked Bassett, he seemed like a nice guy. But the wife – she used to be some sort of bigwig artist. Not my type.’
‘Look, Marcus, I’ve got work to do before I get to the mainland.’
‘Well, I’m just saying, if you need anything, you let me know.’ His smirk killed the warmth growing inside her like a slap. ‘You look tired. You should make sure you get enough rest. When Fliss—’
She cut him off with a wave of her hand, as if to push him away. ‘Fliss had a husband when she was pregnant. She also didn’t have a full-time job just to pay the mortgage.’
‘I just meant—’
‘I’m really busy, Marcus, and I’d rather not sit with you. OK?’
She pulled her headphones out of her pocket and plugged them into her phone. She checked her emails and was pleased to see one from Felix Guichard, the social anthropologist recommended by Yousuf. Divorced, the echo seemed to reach her. Nice guy, divorced.
Dear Dr Westfield,
I’ve had a quick look at the images and see some similarities with known sigils. Intriguing puzzle. You might like to look at a book by Solomon Seabourne in the British Library from around 1580, Casting Out Devils leading Good Women to Witchcraft. You’re welcome to come and see me – I’d love to talk over these photos and put them in the context of what else you’ve found. Contact my research assistant Rose Billings for my schedule and I’ll clear some time for you.
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