by Winona Kent
“I do,” Mr. Deeley replied.
“It is the deed to your inherited land,” Charlie said, to Sarah.
“The deed?” Sarah said, surprised.
The same,” Mr. Deeley supplied. “He claims it as his own, won fairly and squarely after a game of cards.”
“Then it has recently changed hands,” Sarah lamented. “Again.”
“I should like to see it,” Charlie said, to Mr. Deeley. “Will you take me there?”
Mr. Deeley looked doubtful, but Charlie was adamant.
“It will not be the first time I have mixed with the inn’s unruly customers,” she reminded him. “And I will have you with me to keep my honor safe. I will not stop for a drink. I am interested only in viewing the deed, and bringing back my report to Mrs. Foster.”
If, in the 21st century, there had been a selection of drinking establishments in Stoneford, Charlie—and indeed, most of the village’s inhabitants—would have preferred to have taken their custom there. But there was no choice at all, and the nearest pub after The Dog’s Watch was several miles away, in a village whose entire population seemed to embrace loud and completely incomprehensible rap music while downing their pints.
Here, in the 19th century, there were two taverns, but The Dog’s Watch seemed to be the most popular. Constructed of brick that had been stuccoed and painted white, it was a single story high, and was attached to a two-storied establishment next door that formed the coaching inn. There were square sashed windows with working shutters. There was a sloping roof. And there was a six foot chimney that Charlie remembered in the 21st century had been struck by lightning three times in four years, much to the consternation of the customers within.
Here and now, in 1825, she could see the new red brick stable that Mr. Deeley had referred to, where horses could be put up for the night. Two centuries into the future, it would still be standing, its hayloft and wide wooden doors intact, though it would remain empty, its usefulness as a barn long since abandoned.
Charlie entered the public house with Mr. Deeley by way of the same doorway she’d always used on those days when she’d met Sam for post-work drinks. It was, in fact, the very same door. Although here and now, its hinges were not inclined to squeak or catch, and there were no splintered bits caused by someone’s angry boots.
There were fewer people inside than there had been during the lesser Monsieur Duran’s extraction two nights earlier. And so Charlie could see more of the room. She was astounded at how similar it was to Reg Ferryman’s 21st century domain.
It had the same low, timbered ceiling. And the same massive dark brown beams extending down into the walls, which had been filled and plastered and painted white.
The same huge stone fireplace stood in the corner, complementing the same planked wooden floors and leaded windows.
The bar was far smaller than Reg Ferryman’s, however, and certainly less decorative. It was merely the place where ale could be poured by Lemuel and carried away by his two assistants. One was a sallow-looking man with stringy hair and a look that suggested to Charlie he would be dead of consumption within the year. The other was a buxom wench who appeared to be on overly familiar terms with most of the male customers.
“Clara!” Lemuel Ferryman called. “This table wants serving!”
Clara.
Soon to become the second Mrs. Lemuel Ferryman, Charlie thought, remembering her research. In common law, anyway, the first and legal Mrs. Ferryman having departed in 1823, taking her two sons with her.
Clara.
Soon to become pregnant with Marcus Ferryman, if she wasn’t already. And when Marcus was grown, he would marry; have sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters. Down through the centuries, the lineage would end, at last, with Ron and Reg, neither of whom had ever married nor, as far as anyone knew, been responsible for any offspring.
Clara removed herself from three particularly appreciative gentlemen, one of whom was very pleased with the fact that he’d been able to pinch her bottom without having his face smacked. Meanwhile, Mr. Deeley had spotted his two friends, Mr. Cole and Mr. Wallis, at a table close by the plastered wall where the bar was.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Deeley said, as they rose hastily to their feet. “I have the honour of introducing Mrs. Collins, who is visiting from London and is the cousin of Mrs. Foster.”
Both Mr. Wallis and Mr. Cole bowed their appreciation.
“Mr. Wallis,” Mr. Deeley said, to Charlie, “and Mr. Cole.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Charlie said, but her attention was diverted almost immediately by the piece of paper affixed to the wall beside the bar. She turned to Mr. Deeley. “Is that it?”
“It is,” Mr. Deeley replied.
And before he could do anything to stop her, Charlie had dragged a chair across to the wall, and climbed up on it, the better to scrutinize the document.
It was the deed to two holdings, the first identified as “the land in the middle of Stoneford” and the second, “a piece of land in Stoneford, at Poorhouse ende”.
The paper was made out in the name of John Harding, and dated 22 July 1729.
“John Harding,” Charlie affirmed, aloud. Sarah’s great ancestor, who had once worked the land around and in the village.
“A farmer,” Lemuel Ferryman said, joining Charlie at the wall, “and a gentleman.”
“Indeed,” Charlie replied, turning to face him squarely—and making note of the grubby white piece of linen he had wrapped around his hand as a makeshift bandage. “As I understand it, this deed was taken from its legal owner in exchange for an unpaid debt. And as the debt was minor, compared to the actual value of the property, it was something close to highway robbery.”
Lemuel Ferryman grinned, revealing an alarming absence of important teeth.
“In actual fact, madam, the exchange was made at a card game attended by myself, a local smuggler whose name escapes me, and my great friend Monsieur Louis Duran. It was the smuggler who won the game and was therefore owed the debt, and it was Monsieur Duran who suggested the deed by way of payment, as the gentleman in question was without other monetary worth. I had no say whatsoever in the matter.”
“Is that blood?” Charlie inquired, pointing to a small blot of dull brown near the edge of the paper.
“I have no idea, madam,” Lemuel Ferryman replied. “The stain was there when I took possession of the document.”
“And how did you come to take possession of it?” Charlie asked.
“My friend Monsieur Duran won it back from the smuggler during a more recent game of cards. And made a gift of it, to me.”
Charlie resisted the impulse to laugh. She had seen what had happened with her own eyes. And there were other witnesses, too. But they were also accessories to the murder, and if she dared to accuse him, what would happen to her? It didn’t bear thinking about, even if she could prove it by drawing attention to his wounded hand. He would only make up some story about a temperamental pig or a recalcitrant chicken, resisting their fate as they were destined for the soup pot.
“A gift in exchange for a bottomless mug of ale, I have no doubt,” Mr. Deeley remarked, from the table.
Lemuel Ferryman manoeuvred his large and greasy girth around Charlie, so that he was directly in Mr. Deeley’s line of sight.
“Hastily spoken, sir, by someone who, it seems, is no longer in the employ of the aforementioned patron.”
Mr. Deeley met Mr. Ferryman’s hard stare with one of his own.
“An aforementioned patron who appears to be overly fond of dispensing with those who become a vexation to him,” he said, evenly. “Aiden Foster, for one.”
The level of noise in the room dropped suddenly and appreciably as the attention of the inn’s drinkers was drawn to the conversation beside the bar.
“You have no proof of that, sir, and it would be unwise of you to pursue those thoughts further.”
“Perhaps you know more about Mr. Foster’s disappearance than you
are willing to say,” Charlie suggested.
A large vein in Lemuel Ferryman’s right temple was beginning to throb with vexation. “It would be wise for you to reign in these accusatory statements,” he replied.
Mr. Wallis raised his tankard to salute Mr. Deeley and Charlie. “I have heard similar,” he said, taking a long drink, then returning his cup to the table.
“And I,” added Mr. Cole, also drinking. “And upon more than one occasion.”
“And since I am no longer in Monsieur Duran’s employ,” Mr. Deeley continued, “it appears I have little to lose by speaking my mind.”
Lemuel Ferryman collected Mr. Wallis’s empty tankard with his unbandaged hand.
“You are correct, sir,” he replied. “In my establishment you may speak your mind. Or, you may stay and drink. You may in fact do either—but not both.”
Mr. Deeley thought for a moment before responding.
“The proprietor of the Rose and Crown has no such conditions,” he said, at last.
“The proprietor of the Rose and Crown is welcome to your custom, sir.” Lemuel Ferryman turned to Charlie. “And yours.”
“The proprietor of the Rose and Crown will welcome four new patrons this very afternoon,” Mr. Wallis decided, as Mr. Cole finished his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The two gentlemen stood, and Mr. Deeley helped Charlie down from the chair.
“Good day to you, sir,” he said, cordially, to Lemuel Ferryman, as all four left the inn.
“It is the genuine deed,” Charlie judged, conveying what she had seen to Sarah. “Made out in John Harding’s name, and dated 1729.”
She had been safely accompanied back to the cottage by Mr. Deeley, Mr. Wallis and Mr. Cole, who had continued on to The Rose and Crown, on the western edge of the village.
Sarah stirred the supper she had made from the remains of the picnic, thickened into a stew over the kitchen fire.
“Such a valuable slip of paper,” she said, sadly. “I wonder at Mr. Ferryman’s folly, posting it on the wall of his inn. Anyone could remove it, following a convenient diversion of his attention.”
“They could,” Charlie supposed, “but what would be the point? Mr. Ferryman is not stupid. If anyone took it, they would never be able to show it anywhere, or use it to claim ownership. Mr. Ferryman has made witnesses out of everyone who drinks at The Dog’s Watch. The deed is his.”
Supper was brief, and conducted without much conversation. Afterwards, Sarah attended to some mending in the sitting room, and Mary and Jack read books by the window, and Tom sketched a likeness of a horse he had seen in the village.
Charlie excused herself, and made her way back to the old oak in the middle of the Village Green. There, in the early twilight, the annoying pain in her middle making itself known yet again, she eased herself down into a sitting position, her back against the tree’s sturdy trunk.
She switched on her phone.
The battery indicator glimmered at her. 63% charge. 62%.
The sight of it made Charlie’s heart sink.
At home, in the future, she never went anywhere without her recharger, which she kept in her bag.
But even if she’d had it with her now, there was nothing to plug it into.
A new message had arrived from Nick. This improved her mood a little.
I know you know, but just in case. I have to caution you about interfering. Remember the Butterfly Effect. Would hate to think flapping your wings Over There would cause a hurricane Over Here. And wipe out the entire population of Stoneford.
Well. She had interfered. Her intention had been only to nudge. But she had flapped her wings, and the bitter wind that was Monsieur Duran’s vile son had roared down the hillside from the manor to destroy everything.
And there was nothing she could do about it now.
She shut her eyes and held her side as the terrible shooting pain began again.
If this was something very serious…and it certainly felt serious…then no amount of bloodletting and plasters and herbal tinctures and whatever else was in the medicine chests of 19th century Stoneford was going to make her better.
Charlie read the second part of Nick’s message.
Still working on a way to bring you back. Looking into that virus on your laptop. Hopefully have answer in the next day or so. Try and save your battery. Might not be too many more opportunities to chat.
Easier said than done, Charlie thought.
She composed a reply, keying in her symptoms, describing them as accurately as she was able. Please ask Sam what’s wrong with me.
If Sam could at least come up with a diagnosis, it would help her make a decision. The decision.
Began yesterday, she added. Getting worse.
She touched Send, and then switched off her mobile, and closed her eyes as the pain made her double over and gasp.
Chapter 27
It was amazing to Nick, but not in the least surprising, how the Village Green had become, in the space of something slightly more than forty-eight hours, the talk of Southern England and Wales, as well as a good part of the Midlands, and a small coastal village in Scotland which also had a green with an oak that was ailing, and therefore was supporting Stoneford in local solidarity, as well as online.
As for the oak, there were now regular bulletins on TV, radio and the internet, and the state of the tree’s health was updated hourly by reporters affiliated with podcasts, newscasts and newspapers around the world. Stoneford’s most famous tree had been symbolically adopted by one of the former Spice Girls. In South Korea, someone had created a Dancing Tree video, and it had received more than 250,000 hits in its first hour on YouTube. And in Alaska, a woman had reportedly given birth to a son she was determined to call Stoneford Oak, something Nick was convinced she would later regret, as the surname she and her husband shared was Barrall.
Meanwhile, at the top end of Poorhouse Lane, an impromptu barricade had sprung up, populated by Jack and Kirsty Parker, Edward and Mrs. Oldbutter, three of the eight McDonald children and half a dozen others Nick was sure he recognized, although he wasn’t altogether certain that they actually lived in Stoneford. They were working their way through the soundtrack to Les Mis for the cameras, while Jack tweeted their solidarity to 3,000 followers and Kirsty provided regular updates to her Stoneford Facebook page.
And as day had given way to evening, the green had erupted with lanterns and fairy lights, burning torches on long sticks, spotlights and floodlights. It had taken on the air of a carnival. There were now dozens of tents. Food carts selling baked potatoes, ice cream, candy floss, hot roasted chestnuts, doughnuts, crepes and health drinks. And kiosks offering soaps and oils whose fragrant scents wafted over the open space and mingled quite interestingly with the commerce of hot dogs, popcorn and kebabs.
Nick perched on his accustomed place atop the stone wall, feeling slightly claustrophobic as there were now twice as many hippies, travellers, musicians, hawkers, tourists, politicians and reporters jostling for space with the villagers on the green. Under normal circumstances the little patch of ground was able to accommodate the occasional fete and travelling fair. But now it seemed indeterminably small and overcrowded.
He was joined, in short order, by Sam and Mrs. Collins, who’d been having a drink in The Dog’s Watch.
“Reg Ferryman,” Sam reported, “has decided to hold a Bottle Auction. Tomorrow night. The bottle will remain sealed. The winner has the privilege of opening it once they take possession. They’re putting up signs over the bar as we speak.”
“Shall we entertain a bid?” Nick mused.
“I’d rather not line the Ferrymans’ pockets and contribute to free publicity for their illicit property developments, if it’s all the same to you. And Reg’s plans for renovating the pub are reprehensible.”
“Although his fireplace is quite impressive,” Mrs. Collins remarked, removing the plastic wrap from a chocolate brownie. “Imagine how many legs of mutton could
be roasted there on a spit on a winter’s eve.”
“Don’t bloody give the man any more moneymaking ideas,” Sam said. “He’ll be hosting Medieval Banquets next, with serving wenches and too much mead. Where did you get that brownie?”
“I was earlier walking past a tent which had a most peculiar scent. Several bearded gentlemen bade me sample a paper-wrapped cylinder which was lit at one end, and contained, upon closer inspection, some sort of pungent dried leaf. I declined, of course, as it seemed a very disagreeable pastime. But they were very taken with me nonetheless, and presented me with this, instead.”
She bit into the brownie, then offered what remained to Sam and Nick.
“It is tolerably good. An interesting combination of tastes.”
Sam removed the brownie from Mrs. Collins’ custody, and tucked it away into her bag.
Nick switched on his mobile, and checked for messages from Charlie. There she was.
But he frowned as he read what his cousin had written.
“What’s up?” Sam asked.
“A friend,” Nick said, “needs your professional opinion.”
“What, medical?”
“Yes. She’s ill. She’s got stabbing pains in her right side. They began yesterday and they’re getting worse.”
“Could be anything,” Sam shrugged. “Kidney stone. Ovarian cyst. Appendix. She ought to see her doctor about it.”
She turned to Mrs. Collins, who was investigating her bag.
“What do you want now?”
“I am possessed of an uncommonly strange hunger,” Mrs. Collins replied. “Is there nothing else to eat?”
Sam gave her a handful of coins.
“Go and buy yourself some of those crisps you liked in the pub. And don’t walk past that tent again.”
“I don’t think she can see a doctor,” Nick replied. “She’s not actually anywhere…accessible.”
“Where is she?” Sam laughed. “The Outer Hebrides?”
Nick put his mobile down.
Moment of truth time.
How to explain?
How to begin to explain?