A wedge of yellow light stretched across the vicarage drive as Nick opened the door.
‘You’ve got me spooked, now,’ she grumbled, walking over to him.
Nick stood looking down at her, dressed in a sweatshirt and worn jeans. He opened his mouth, then paused, as if he couldn’t say the words that first came into his head. He settled on, ‘Thank you.’
Sage brushed past him, following the light into the kitchen. The room was more modern than his study, with new worktops and a decent cooker, though the high ceiling was dusty with old cobwebs. The kettle was hissing next to two mugs. Sage made tea as Nick followed her in, glad to see that he had found decaffeinated teabags, and sipped hers slowly. She missed coffee; it was like a physical loss some days.
‘Tell me about the phone call,’ Sage said.
‘More obscenities. The usual.’ Nick flopped onto a kitchen chair, resting his arms on the table. The landline handset lay on it. ‘I am so tired. I don’t like to turn the phone off in case… it’s part of the job. Especially with James Bassett at home at the moment.’
Sage sat down next to him. ‘Let me hear the next call. Then we’ll call James, and he can have a look around, confirm it isn’t coming from inside the cottage. Then I’ll take over recording the calls for a couple of hours and you can get some sleep.’
Nick rested his forehead on his arms before looking up. ‘I really appreciate this.’ Then his body jerked as the phone rang.
‘God, you are really wound up.’ Sage reached for the phone.
‘Wait! The calls are horrible. They’re my responsibility really.’ His voice faded as she answered.
‘Hello?’
A long hiss was the first thing Sage heard, followed by a silence as whoever was on the other end reacted to her voice.
‘Hello? This is the vicarage.’ Sage was rather enjoying herself, and added, in a hollow voice, ‘Is anybody there?’ Nick rolled his eyes.
A growling sound began to come from the tinny speaker. Then the words started, screamed so loud it took her a few seconds to work out what he’d said. ‘What are you doing there?’
Sage was chilled at the tone of the voice. She glanced down at her forearms, exposed when she had rolled up her sleeves, to see goosepimples lift the skin. The voice repeated the words in a deep rolling tone, as if the speaker was drunk, forcing Sage to pull the receiver away from her ear. ‘What are you doing there? Get out! Get out!’ She grimaced at Nick as she forced her suddenly cramped arm to put the handset down. With a mundane click, the snarling voice was abruptly stilled.
‘Shit.’ Sage was shaking, and wrapped her arms around her cold body. Nick was half smiling in sympathy. ‘Who was that? That’s mean.’
‘At least I can tell the police I’m not imagining the rage in the caller’s voice. Did he recognise you?’
‘Maybe.’ She felt in her pocket for her mobile. ‘He thought so, anyway, but he never mentioned me by name. I’ll call James. How long is it between calls, usually?’
‘It won’t be long.’ Nick’s voice was tense. ‘They keep coming until I give up and switch it off.’
‘How do you record them?’
He demonstrated the buttons to press. ‘The memory filled up in the first few nights. I put a bigger memory card in for the police to look at.’
The phone rang again, an annoying jingle, a contrast with the strange voice Sage had just heard.
‘OK.’ She pressed the button to record, then called James from her mobile. She tried to ignore the tinny voice coming from the landline handset, shouting obscenities.
‘James, we’re getting a call. Anything going on over there?’
‘Nothing.’ James’s voice sounded even weaker over the phone. ‘And Judith and Chloe are both asleep in our bed.’
‘OK, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
Sage ended the call as Nick hung up the landline.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s bad enough him having a go at me but now he’s shouting at you.’
‘Well, it’s definitely not Judith and it’s obviously male.’ The strange voice was so filled with frenzied rage it stayed with her, teasing at the back of her mind. ‘It reminds me of something. Maybe someone. It must be someone who knows you and recognises my voice. That narrows it down a lot.’
The next call was longer, and Sage let the recording run. Maybe the caller would let some detail slip that would help identify him. It was horrible listening to someone who sounded so deranged. Eventually he started howling ‘whore’ down the phone so repetitively she cut him off.
Nick yawned. ‘He sounds mad. Why would he have a problem with me?’
‘And me, now.’ Even as she spoke the words, Sage shuddered inside. What are you doing there, you whore? ‘It sounds personal, as if he knows me, too. I don’t think you’re safe. You have to talk to the police again. At least we have a recording.’ She shook herself. ‘God, that bloody cottage. Judith keeps going on about it being haunted.’
‘Maybe old houses just make us speculate about the people that have lived there over the centuries. You have just been excavating the well with the tragedy of a dead baby. Or maybe we’re picking up on the Bassetts’ pain.’ Nick leant on the edge of the table. ‘I’ve always thought places pick up emotions. After a great service, for example, the church feels as if it’s still full of people, long after they’ve all gone home.’
The phone rang again and Sage pressed record, burying the handset under a tea towel so she couldn’t hear the invective.
‘Do buildings make people insanely angry?’
Nick smiled. ‘Not normally.’
Sage looked up at him. ‘Go to bed. I’ve got this for a couple of hours. It’ll give you a bit of time, anyway. I can unplug the phone before I leave.’
‘I feel bad leaving you with… that.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a night owl.’ The baby moved, and she patted it. ‘We both are.’
Nick yawned again. ‘OK. Just for a couple of hours, though. But I don’t like the idea of you driving home too late. Not at this time of night.’
Sage laughed. ‘You are kidding. “This time of night” – do I look like I can’t party until dawn?’
He smiled in return. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit old-fashioned. But you are pregnant and it’s late.’
‘Then I’ll crash on your sofa. Go to bed. I’ll be fine.’
* * *
By twelve o’clock Sage had recorded eighteen calls. She had relocated to Nick’s study to use his desk, and had written up eighty finds and labelled them. Then she had wandered around the room looking at Nick’s books and pictures for three nosy minutes. There was a picture of Nick with a laughing woman hugging a dog. She was young, maybe early twenties, and her blonde hair swung in the breeze like a shampoo advert. Sage didn’t feel she could compete with that freshness, while she was carrying her lover’s baby. Nick looked younger, too, and happy. She wondered if he was interested, for the hundredth time going over the few times they had met. She checked her mobile occasionally. Marcus was still texting her, inviting her to meet – which probably meant much more than just lunch – as if she hadn’t ended it. She pushed the problem of Marcus to the back of her mind as another call came in, setting it up to record.
The caller was now screaming down the phone, she assumed with frustration since she wasn’t saying anything back. When she did, he shouted at her to get out of the house. Clearly he was very disturbed. It was easier to keep her archaeologist’s hat on and just make notes, make the recordings.
At half past twelve Nick appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up at the back like he’d at least managed to get a bit of sleep.
‘Has it stopped?’
Sage looked up from the desk where she was leaning her head on her hand. The find numbers were starting to blur even as she wrote them. ‘Not yet. I just turned the ringer right down.’
Nick unplugged the phone’s base, and placed it on the desk next to her. ‘I think that’s enough for
tonight.’
She yawned. ‘Who have you pissed off so badly?’
‘I have no idea. I’ve been here less than a year and everyone’s been really friendly. It makes me feel sick, to be honest. He’s also starting to repeat himself.’ He leaned over her to switch his computer off as it idled in the background. ‘Except his reaction to you, that was new.’
His breath was just tickling Sage’s neck, where a few stray hairs were drifting across her skin. It was distracting. She turned her head to find his face disturbingly close. ‘So far, it’s just phone calls. Let’s give the police tonight’s recordings.’
His gaze dropped to her lips for a second, and she could feel warmth spreading up to her neck. ‘I’m really drawn to you,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I don’t know why you should be interested in me… I mean, you’re obviously not available, and I’m… well, not available, either.’
Sage leant back in the chair, looking at him. He was attractive, in a brooding, dark way.
‘Nick…’
He took a breath, and stood up straight. ‘You’re right. Sorry. I’m tired, it’s late.’
‘No problem.’ She curled her legs under her in the chair. ‘I could stay.’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘I’ll make up the spare bed.’
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa, if it’s all right with you. It looks comfortable.’ She rose and went over to the overstuffed leather sofa with fabric cushions. ‘Just get me a blanket, I’ll be out like a light. The baby’s finally asleep.’
His smile was crooked. ‘If you’re sure.’ He seemed confused by her matter-of-fact approach to staying over.
‘Go. Just show me where the bathroom is.’
It was strange. Nick found a new toothbrush, lent her his extra minty toothpaste, and put a soft blanket and plump pillows wrapped in floral cases on the sofa. He saw her tucked in before saying goodnight.
‘Are you sure—?’
‘Go to bed! For goodness’ sake.’ She sank into the pillows, and her aching back immediately eased. ‘Oh, that feels good.’ She let him turn off the lights, leaving only a bulb lit in the hall. The strange voice on the phone seemed to echo in her head for a few minutes then the ticking of a clock somewhere and the creaking of his movements in the bedroom overhead lulled her towards sleep. ‘You may not be available,’ she whispered to herself, ‘but I am.’
22
6th September 1580
Axe to cleave firewood two shillings
Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582
As the month progresses I have cause to ride past the abbey grounds, gifted to the first Lord Banstock for his services to good King Henry when he set aside the monasteries. I turn in at the old gate, hanging open by one hinge, the postern wall mostly levelled to ground level. I ride over the old track, the grass sweeping my horse’s belly and my legs to both our displeasure, until we come into the clearing before the abbey itself. Little grows in front of the buildings save short sward. The villagers declare it cursed, but I recall the drive to the abbey being dressed with crushed stone, and therefore there is little to sustain the plants. The abbey itself was mostly burned out ten years ago after some of the roof timbers and panelling were taken, no doubt for the building of the new inn. It had been robbed, and perhaps the thieves sought to cover their crime, but no one tried to douse the flames when they came, the reputation of the place making the villagers fearful. The inferno heralded a new age, where the people are ruled by English princes, not the foreign pope.
Beyond the main building the cloister cells remain, and as I pass one I see a doorway. Being a curious man, and a custodian of the estate, I look inside. A simple pallet within is covered in simple blankets, the windowsill bears evidence of many candles lit upon its ledge. A posy of dead flowers rests in a cup, long dry. Someone has used it as a trysting place, perhaps many times. I cannot think who would do so, as the local girls seek quiet barns and fresh haystacks for their lovers. I cannot imagine a girl of Viola’s rank having such liberty that no one knows their whereabouts, and my lady’s waiting women are either too old or too pious. My thoughts jump to Isabeau, much attended when we are in residence perhaps, but when we are in London… Isabeau, who said she has sinned against her marriage vows. Not just by deserting her brutal husband perhaps.
I consider the men of the manor. Has she lain with one of them? Then my mind flies to my suspicions of Seabourne, who visited Banstock for the betrothal. When we left for London, he made an excuse to visit Dr Fell in Newport.
I leave the little room, and ride back to the manor house with my mind in a turmoil.
The narrow cell, in a place that for four centuries was one of veneration and worship, has been defiled. It disturbs me with its ritual of seduction, as if the stench of sin lingers.
Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir
23
Friday 5th April
Sage had woken on Nick’s sofa when she heard noises in the room above. She squinted at her watch. Shit. Eight fifteen, and she had to meet Steph to walk to the school to give the presentation to the children. She pushed the blankets off, and as she put her feet on the floor, the door opened.
Her smile faded as she took in a woman, about her age, blonde hair bouncing. The woman stared at her, her mouth compressing into a thin line. ‘Sorry. I was looking for Reverend Haydon.’
Sage pointed to the ceiling. ‘I think he’s upstairs.’
‘I didn’t know he had a guest.’
Sage shrugged. She wondered how close Nick and this woman were, if she just came and went as she pleased. ‘Excuse me, I need to get washed and dressed.’ She dragged her trousers on and squeezed past the unmoving woman.
She met Nick at the top of the stairs. His expression changed when he saw her, and she became acutely aware of her raggedy hair and rumpled clothes.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit scruffy.’ It sounded lame even as she said it.
He smiled at her. He looked younger without his glasses. ‘I was thinking how lovely you looked, actually.’ She smiled back and he stepped closer. A footstep in the hall made them both look down the stairs.
‘You have a visitor. A woman, she let herself in.’
‘Oh. Right. It’s just Mel, who co-ordinates the parish volunteers. Work begins early around here; I’m already late for a prayer meeting.’ He made a tiny grimace, and tucked his shirt in. ‘Help yourself to breakfast, I’ve got to run.’ There was an awkward moment when she almost felt he wanted to kiss her, then he clattered down the stairs.
Sage escaped into the bathroom and leaned against the door. The baby moved lazily and she stroked her bump. ‘Morning, Bean. Mummy’s getting very silly.’
By the time she was washed and tidied up, Nick had already gone to the church. The blonde woman was sitting in the study, writing in a big planning diary. She didn’t look up when Sage came in. ‘Nick says there’s bread by the toaster, if you want it, butter in the fridge.’
‘Thanks.’ There was an uncomfortable silence, so Sage headed for the kitchen. Eight forty-five. Loads of time. She switched her phone on. There was a text from Marcus, asking where she was. She didn’t have the patience to soften the blow and typed: We split up, remember?
* * *
After being greeted by an enthusiastic headmaster, Sage and Steph were shown to a classroom and introduced to Mrs Hodgkins, Chloe’s class teacher. After a welcome from the children, Sage stood at the front, feeling as if she was glowing with nerves.
‘I’m an archaeologist,’ she began. ‘Does anyone know what an archaeologist does?’
It appeared most of the kids had a good idea, so she ran through an introduction to the Tudors and started handing out the more robust finds from the well. The children oohed and aahed very satisfyingly over the pottery, especially the pieces of the Bellarmine jug with its little face, reconstructed by Steph. The student showed them pictures of the excavation, from lifting the turf, to the dark hole that was left after the infill had been dug out. She a
lso had pictures of the reconstructed pieces of the alembic Elliott had slaved over.
It was when Sage asked for questions it all started to come unstuck.
‘Miss, Miss!’ She smiled at one spiky-haired little boy, who was in danger of dislocating his shoulder. ‘Miss, my gran says you found a dead baby down the well. Is that true?’
‘Ah.’ Sage caught the teacher’s eye, as she shook her head. ‘We did find a lot of bones. We think some are even cat bones.’ Over a chorus of sentimental reaction, she added, ‘We are going to look at them more closely in the laboratory. We will then be able to tell the difference between animal and human bones. But they must have died hundreds of years ago, long before you were born.’
Another child called out, ‘My dad says there’s a baby and his mum stuck down the well that was put there under loads of rubbish. My Uncle Harry helped dig it up.’
‘Really?’ Bloody Harry. ‘I’m afraid we won’t have all our results for a little while. But Reverend Haydon says we can put a report in the parish magazine, so we can let you know.’ Sage glanced at Chloe, who was looking pale. ‘This all happened far back in history. Everyone from that time has been dead for hundreds of years. So even if someone did die then, which would be sad for their families, it wouldn’t be so sad for us now.’
‘I still wouldn’t want dead bodies and skulls and stuff in my garden.’ The first boy looked over at Chloe, and the teacher intervened.
‘Thank you so much, Dr Westfield. I’m sure we will all look forward to seeing that report. So, can we give all the specimens back to our visitors, and show them how much we appreciate their visit?’
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