Stanley Fitzmaurice laughed.
‘That’s what you say, Bursar, but I bet that when a new Warden asks for our invaluable help and support in his heavy task, and so forth – heads of houses always say things like that – you’ll be the first to pledge undying loyalty to him personally, as well as to the college. Somehow, I think that future generations of undergraduate will still benefit from the unique skills of “Joe the Plumber” whenever a pipe bursts, or a washer fails on a tap!’
The Reverend Timothy Fowler emerged from a beech wood covering the flank of a gentle hill, and saw at once the object of his pilgrimage, the isolated cemetery belonging to the village church at Highfield St Mary. It was odd, and rather unnerving, to find a graveyard sitting alone among tilled fields, a mile or so from its church.
He had put off his pilgrimage for so long that he had wondered whether he would ever be able to pluck up the courage to make it. And so it was only now, on 25 August, that he had ventured so far from home into what was virtually unknown territory to him: the remote hills and vales of Dorset.
No one here would know him, and he had thought it judicious to don secular clothing for his visit. Heaven had smiled upon him, clearing his name of all stain, and miraculously restoring to him not only his wife – he had known in his heart that she would come back to him – but also the parish of Clapton Parva.
As soon as his name was cleared, Kate had returned to him, clinging and weeping, and protesting her undying love. Initially, she had forborne to tell him that her father, losing all patience with her, had declared that if she did not return to her husband, he would deliver her personally to Clapton Parva like a parcel sent through the Royal Mail. After a day or two back home, though, she had told him what her father had said, and he had laughed at her confusion and embarrassment. It mattered little to him how she came home, as long as she was there with him.
Within days of the revelation of Gerald Templar’s villainy, Timothy had received a letter from the Bishop of Winchester.
My dear Fowler,
I must confess that I was too precipitate in my plan to banish you to what I know would have been an uncongenial parish in Portsmouth. Your reputation as a first-rate clergyman remains unblemished, and I have written urgently to Lord Stevenage, asking him to renew his offer to sell you the advowson of Clapton Parva. As you may have heard, the present incumbent has been obliged to resign the living by reason of frailty, so the parish is vacant.
My congratulations on this ‘happy issue out of all your afflictions’. I shall follow your career with lively interest.
Well, the grovelling tone of that letter had raised his spirits considerably. The Bishop had too readily believed the worse, and would atone for that by helping Timothy in every way, and possibly to higher preferment, such as that of archdeacon, in future years.
Soon afterwards, Lord Stevenage, evidently fretting at the absence of his favourite parson, had immediately renewed his offer of the advowson, and Timothy had purchased it without more ado. They had begun their move into the gracious Queen Anne vicarage within days of his receiving the Bishop’s letter. Yes, Heaven had been kind… .
Timothy descended the hill and opened the wicket gate in the fence surrounding the churchyard. It was a hot, oppressive day towards the end of August, and unnervingly quiet, as though the very birds were too exhausted to sing. A few sheep were nibbling the grass, but they moved away as he walked along the narrow, overgrown paths between the monuments.
He found the grave almost immediately, one of three all belonging to the same family, surrounded by railings, and marked by granite headstones. He read the inscription on the third stone; the letters still looked fresh, although they had been carved some seven years ago.
Also Adrian,
only son of James Fortesque, Esq.,
died 29 July, 1887,
aged 24.
‘For so He giveth His beloved sleep.’
Psalm 127.
‘Adrian,’ said the Reverend Timothy Fowler, aloud, ‘I know that by now you will have forgiven me for standing by and letting you drown. I make no excuse for what I did. Like you, I was a strong swimmer, and could so easily have plunged in and brought you safe to the bank. But you see, I was so in love with Kate that I could not bear the thought of another winning her. They say “all’s fair in love and war”, and there’s some truth in that.’
A dark cloud obscured the sun, and a deep shadow rushed across Adrian Fortescue’s grave. Timothy seemed not to notice.
‘I have been living in the dark shadow of despair recently,’ he said, ‘but all that is past, and my future is assured. I can devote myself once more to the needs of my little flock at Clapton Parva, doing so much good, and by works of charity, combined with preaching of the Word, bringing them to Salvation. I feel that God has forgiven me, though He has never let me forget that terrible day by the river in ’87. That, I suppose, is to be part of my penance.
‘So have you, too, forgiven me? I am sure that you have, and that you will look down from Heaven with compassion for my youthful folly. Goodbye, Adrian. May you rest in the sleep of peace. For now I have made my peace with God, and, I am sure, with you!’
Timothy turned his back on the three granite stones, and made his way out of the churchyard. It was near noon, and very hot. Far away, he heard the faint, low rumbling of thunder, presage of a gathering storm. It was time to regain the village inn, and order a conveyance to take him to the railway station in the neighbouring town. There was much to be done at Clapton Parva, and now that his mind was free of the burden of guilt, he could give full attention to his ministry.
‘Oh, Timothy,’ cried Kate Fowler, ‘how wonderful it is to have left that dreadful hovel! Had we stayed there much longer, I’m sure I would have died! And now – look at this beautiful dining room! When the new furniture arrives from Maple’s, this room will rival Lord Stevenage’s. When shall we hold the house-warming?’
‘When all is ready, my dear, and the whole house is redecorated. Mid-September would be a good time. We’ll have a full complement of servants by then, including two resident gardeners. Did you know that the advowson included three neat cottages beyond the spinney? That’s where we’ll house some of our staff.’
‘They say there’s a freshwater well by those cottages,’ said Kate. ‘I saw some men with plumb-lines – or do I mean theodolites? They were doing something near the well, yesterday. You can see the cottages from the upstairs drawing-room windows.’
‘Those men were surveyors, Kate. I got them down from London to examine that well with a view to taking it through a conduit, and to look at the site with a view to building a decent coach house there. We’ll need a good carriage, you know, and a dog-cart. The present stables will suffice, at least for a while. I’m going down there now, to have a look at that well. They told me that they’ve begun exploratory work there. I’ll see you in an hour’s time.’
Timothy left the house by one of the back doors, and made his way down the long rear lawn of the gracious old house. The grass was roughly trimmed, but in a week’s time a new gardener, with a modern lawn mower, would transform it into something disciplined and beautiful.
There was a low wall at the bottom of the lawn, with a little iron gate that took him into the spinney where the cottages lay. The wall around the old well had been partly demolished, and a pile of new bricks lay nearby, together with a number of workmen’s tools. Timothy could hear the rushing of water from the hidden spring that fed the well.
The sky had become overcast, and suddenly there came a clap of thunder. Within less than a minute, heavy rain had begun to fall. Tall oaks overarched the well, and Timothy moved closer to them to shelter beneath their branches. Looking back across the lawn, he could see the rear elevation of the vicarage, and the face of his wife Kate, who was standing at the drawing-room window.
The rain fell heavier, and he turned up the collar of his morning coat. Confound the rain! Why had he not brought an umbrella with h
im? From the area of the well, the sound of its feeding stream became louder. He suddenly thought of Adrian, and the expression on his face when he had beseeched him to save him from drowning. His feet suddenly felt cold, and when he glanced down, he saw that a stream of water was pouring down on to the path from the well. At the same time, the earth seemed to shift beneath his feet. He heard the sound of falling bricks as the rest of the well-head collapsed.
Kate stood in the long, well-lit drawing room on the first floor, and admired the Italian marble fireplace that had been brought from Florence by the first vicar to inhabit the house. She would have a Turkey carpet laid in here, with tapestried armchairs on either side of the fireplace. They had already purchased a Venetian mirror to stand above the mantelpiece.
The old oil lamps suspended from the ceiling would soon be replaced by new gas chandeliers: the necessary pipes had already been brought in to the loft above.
Kate crossed to one of the rear windows, and looked out at the summer storm. Beyond the garden wall she could see Timothy apparently executing a little dance on the path. Was he, too, so excited by their new home that he felt the need to leap for joy?
She saw him suddenly fall, and fling his hands to Heaven as though crying for help, and then the ground beneath him seemed to burst asunder as a raging torrent of water broke free from some underground restraint.
Kate Fowler stood transfixed at the window, unable to move through shock, and watched, motionless, as her husband disappeared beneath the waters of a long-imprisoned stream intent on finding a new course for itself. After some minutes, the storm abated, and the sun struggled out from the clouds. The initial shock had passed, but Kate still stood motionless, because she knew, before ever the news was brought to her, that her husband had drowned.
Author’s Note:
Sophia Jex-Blake (1840 – 1912) was one of a group of remarkable women who laboured for the right of their sex to become doctors. Two of her fellow students at Queen’s College, Harley Street, in 1858 were Dorothea Beale, who became Head of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and Frances May Buss, founder of the North London Collegiate School for Girls. Sophia’s elder brother, Thomas Jex-Blake, became Headmaster of Rugby in 1874. One of his daughters, Henrietta, succeeded Elizabeth Wordsworth as principal of Lady Margaret Hall in 1909.
By the same author
The Dried-Up Man
The Dark Kingdom
The Devereax Inheritance
The Haunted Governess
The Advocate’s Wife
The Gold Masters
The Hansa Protocol
The Ancaster Demons
Web of Discord
Evil Holds the Key
The Unquiet Sleeper
The Aquila Project
Depths of Deceit
The Calton Papers
The Dorset House Affair
The Ghosts of Mayfield Court
© Norman Russell
First published in Great Britain 2015
ISBN 978 0 7198 1840 0 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1841 7 mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1842 4 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1608 6 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
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Clerkenwell Green
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The right of Norman Russell to be identified as
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in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
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An Oxford Tragedy Page 21