by Tom Holt
‘Major Benjy,’ she said in a loud but clear voice, ‘perhaps some of these books might prove helpful to you in your researches. Bryant and Vaill you will of course be familiar with ....’
‘Exactly. Bryant and—ah—Vaill,’ said Major Benjy hesitantly.
‘These are from my collection,’ went on Lucia, ‘these are from the County Library, and these from the London Library. Oh yes, and here is my copy of Pasmore, in case you do not have one of your own.’
The name seemed vaguely familiar to Major Benjy and he took a surreptitious glance at the title.
‘Ah yes,’ he said confidently. ‘I read that one. Got a copy at the Club, don’t you know.’
Elizabeth felt her hand shaking, so that her coffee-cup rattled on the saucer. This ferocious collection of books had not come together by chance. What exactly had Lucia been occupying her time with during her exile? Could it by any chance have been local history, with possibly even special attention to the Norman era? Something inside her warned of a terrible danger, but what could she do?
‘And you must go over to the Cartulary at Bodiam Castle,’ Lucia went on remorselessly. ‘The manuscript collection—quite magnificent. The papers of several important local families are lodged there. I spent an enthralling morning—such a helpful librarian—and you might like to cast an eye over some of the notes that I made.’
As if on cue, Susan Wyse interrupted her, asking if during the course of her own studies Lucia had come across any references to the de Map family. Elizabeth, said Susan, would be sure to be interested, as would they all.
‘But of course,’ said Lucia. ‘The name de Map is writ large across the pages of the history of the south coast. But I am sure you are familiar with the chief authorities.’
‘We aren’t,’ said Diva, perhaps a shade abruptly. ‘Elizabeth is far too modest to tell us anything. Won’t you tell us, Lucia?’
‘Shall I? Have I your permission, Elizabeth? Very well then.’
Lucia leaned forward and opened some of the books at previously marked pages and as she spoke she pointed out the passages she referred to with a little lecturer’s baton which she had taken from the desk.
‘We start with Hugo de Map, who was descended from Eric the Fat, a prominent Norwegian Viking. He received land from William the Conqueror, his patron, in the vicinity of Maidstone; this was Hugo’s reward for services to the King before the Conquest—’
‘Before?’ queried Diva.
‘Before,’ confirmed Lucia. ‘Sir Hugo was unfortunately indisposed during the Conquest itself. His son, Roger, was given a manor near Tilling, to which was added, in the time of his grandson, also called Hugo, the substantial property of Udimore. But the family—too distressing!—fell upon hard times. In the unhappy civil strife that so disfigured the reign of King Stephen’ (here Lucia pointed to a wholly incomprehensible piece of Latin) ‘the de Maps made the mistake of siding with that formidable woman Queen Matilda, and on her defeat were stripped of all their possessions in the south of England. They migrated’, continued Lucia, without the slightest hint of triumph in her voice, ‘to the then wild and uncivilised region of Northumberland, where they had a few windswept acres. Their fortunes continued to decline until the reign of Elizabeth’ (a muffled snigger from Evie and a loud ‘Shush!’ from Diva) ‘when Lambert Map—the “de” had by then been dropped—and a band of outlaws terrorised the neighbourhood of Penrith and were hunted down and destroyed by a local levy led by Lord Percy. Lambert’s only son, Perkin—the last surviving member of the de Map family—followed his ill-starred father to the gallows in 1602, having been convicted of stealing a sheep. Such a dreadful story, is it not, of the decline of a once powerful and noble house, and such a tragic end to your namesake family, dear Elizabeth. I have compiled what I think is an exhaustive list of references should you wish to check the story for yourself. Now, shall we have a piccolo rubber of Bridge?’
Chapter 9
Lucia perched at her desk in the telephone-room, a pencil placed clerkwise behind her ear, and studied a volume of ancient manuscript. Her recent studies had given her a taste for the placid occupation of the antiquary and the revelation that ancient books can bring forth information capable of being put to good use in the present had not failed to make its impression on her. Therefore her bright, bespectacled eyes were picking out, although with some difficulty, the spidery and heavily abbreviated script of a venerable old parchment, while her fascination with its contents made her entirely oblivious to its difficulties. For the text she was reading was a centuries-old compilation of the duties and privileges of the Mayors of Tilling, ‘used thereof from time out of mind, which Men’s mind cannot think the contrary’.
Many of the duties had been repealed or discontinued, but of the privileges she could find no mention in subsequent legislation; so perhaps she was still entitled to some of them, if they were worth having. As she read, she wrote a simple but faithful translation in modern English, which, when the work was done, she would have privately printed and distributed among her friends.
‘If the Mayor should refuse,’ she read, ‘and if the Mayor, so chosen and elected, will not take the charge but refuse it, all the whole commons together shall go sit beneath his house and entreat until such time as he come forth ....’
Lucia could picture the scene: the Wyses and Diva and Elizabeth (as Mayoress) filling the narrow street, beseeching her to come out and assume her responsibilities. Herself in the garden-room, all blushes, the unwilling choice of an adoring commons; ‘How you all work me, you dear people! Very well then, just for an hour or so.’ It would make a pretty piece of ceremonial, if people could be induced to be present, and the visitors to the town would flock to see it. It was passing fine to be a Mayor, but it would be better still if a little more notice were taken.
Nevertheless, March had turned out to be a pleasant month; she had resumed her rightful place in Society and her return had been marked by a sort of general amnesty. Elizabeth, for example, had not been punished for her petty deceptions, since the view was generally taken that at times the poor woman was not wholly responsible for her actions. Her tyranny having been overthrown, she was not granted the dignity of persecution. In the Jugurtha, which Lucia had just finished, she had read of how the strife of Marius and Sulla had brought untold hardship upon the people of Rome. There was a lesson to be learnt from that; oppressing a fallen rival tended to invite reprisal; far better to forgive and forget—or, at any rate, forgive.
As she sat in rapt concentration, Georgie tiptoed down the stairs and crept out into the garden. He had no wish to be observed, for his hair and beard, which had long needed retouching, were still glistening with wet dye. He had intended to carry out the necessary repairs that morning, but Lucia had dragged him off to the shops (she wanted his advice on a new hat) and in the afternoon they had been promised forth to tea. He had therefore, on their return, developed a tactical headache; and since it was generally unnecessary to have more than something on a tray for dinner after filling up with cake and muffins at tea-time, he had demanded privacy and seclusion for the evening.
Unfortunately, uncharacteristic negligence on the part of the hairdresser had compelled him to use a new preparation for his process of rejuvenation and, although the colour matched perfectly, it took rather longer to dry than the old one, as well as giving off rather unpleasant fumes. Wherefore, he decided to risk slipping out into the garden to see if the fresh air would dry it off more quickly and help dispel the unpleasant chemical smell. It was a clear night with only an occasional cloud disturbing the brilliance of the moon, but still quite chilly; so he slipped on his long, dark cape with the fur collar. The last thing he wanted to do was catch a chill by going outside with wet hair. He sat down in the giardino segreto, where he ought to be out of sight of the house, and waited for chemistry to take its course.
Suddenly the green-room doors opened and Lucia appeared, walking leisurely across to the garden-room. The light went on, re
vealing her taking her place behind her desk; she was probably settling down to read for an hour or so. This meant that Georgie was trapped. He could not move for fear of being seen with his hair still wet, but he could not safely stay where he was for the same reason. It was getting colder and he felt a sneeze coming on, yet to stifle it would require movement and movement would betray him. What if Lucia saw him and took him for a burglar? To the best of his knowledge, she did not own a gun of any sort, for the sharpness of her mind and of her tongue were all the armoury she needed, but she might scream and call the police. The moon, emerging from behind a cloud, was bathing the entire garden in silvery-grey light, making the shadows stand out sharp and clear and causing Georgie to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Lucia had gone out to the garden-room to check a rather fanciful story told in her Legends of Old Sussex, a book she had bought only recently and found enthralling. As she glanced at the list of contents her eye fell on a chapter entitled ‘The Ghosts of Tilling’. This she could not resist. Apparently, the town was a centre of supernatural activity. A nun who had been deceived by a priest stalked through Church Square on Christmas Eve. A phantom coach with a headless coachman and four coal-black horses rattled down the High Street on stormy nights, occasionally stopping while the coachman hammered on the doors of the houses (which reminded Lucia of Susan Wyse doing her shopping in the Royce), while gangs of spectral pirates and smugglers rehearsed the crimes they had committed during their lives the length and breadth of Porpoise Street. There were other spirits too, less well attested but recorded here nonetheless: the grey lady of West Street; a new-born baby walled up in Curfew Street and, of course, the notorious Black Spaniard of Mallards ....
Lucia nearly dropped the book. A Spanish merchant, so legend had it, had been invited to show his wares to the owner of Mallards House (‘a large Queen Anne mansion between Church Square and West Street; see plan at end of chapter’). He had been seen going in with a bale of fine cloth under his arm, but no one ever saw him leave; and his ghost, a tall, dark figure in a black cloak with flashing eyes and ghastly, phosphorescent hair, had on several occasions been seen about the house and grounds in early spring.
She read the story five times, then closed the book with a snap. She had long felt the want of a ghost at Mallards, to complete the otherwise comprehensive attractions of the house. Although her sceptical, scientific mind did not accept foolish tales of tormented spirits bound to earth by crime or guilt, she did believe that some sort of spiritual emanation, what the old Romans called Numen, could cling to the scene of violent or significant action, such as a battlefield or a house where murder had been done. It might be that some form of psychic energy was released, leaving behind some trace which, lingering for centuries, might be noticed by the perceptive. Of all forms of such spiritual energy, of course, an elegant Spaniard in a black mantle was one of the best. She rose and silently opened the door.
Georgie was bitterly cold and a moth had taken an interest in his moustache. He felt the urge to sneeze growing steadily stronger, until he could hardly keep it at bay; but the night was so utterly still and quiet that a sneeze must inevitably be heard. He resolved to take a chance and escape to the warmth and comfort of the house. The moon was vanishing behind a cloud and he need only traverse a small patch of moonlight on his way; most of his flight would be hidden in shadows. Noiselessly, he rose to his feet and tiptoed across the lawn and into the house. Then he ran upstairs to his dressing-room and locked the door.
As she looked out of the doorway of the garden-room, Lucia could see only darkness, and she was on the point of turning back when she saw something that nearly caused her heart to stop beating. A dark figure flitted across the lawn, coming from nowhere and vanishing in a second. But, although she saw it only for a moment, the image burned itself on to her optic nerve. A tall man, dressed entirely in black with a long cloak, piercing eyes, and hair and pointed Spanish beard that glowed an unearthly colour in the surrounding darkness, had moved noiselessly across the grass and disappeared through the wall of the house.
Georgie put on his dressing-gown and examined his hair and beard in the mirror. They were both now quite dry, but the chemical shine still lingered. That, however, could easily be removed by vigorous towelling, and he was soon restored to his normal appearance. A few minutes with a comb completed the process and he inspected his handiwork with satisfaction. It was almost a pity that it was such a deadly secret, for he was quite an artist in his way and his work merited congratulation.
‘One thing I’m good at,’ he moaned, ‘and I can’t tell anyone.’
Finally, he replaced his toupée and combed the hair round it to shape. There was now no evidence whatsoever of his transformation, and so confident was he in the subtlety of his skill that he decided that his headache was much better and he could go downstairs for an hour or so. There would be a good fire in the drawing-room and he still felt decidedly cold.
Lucia was standing in front of the fire and she turned towards him as he entered. She was as white as paper and her eyes wide open.
‘Lucia!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, what on earth’s the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost!’
‘I have,’ she replied. ‘Out in the garden.’
A chill ran down Georgie’s spine. ‘No!’ he exclaimed, for he was terrified of ghosts, being by nature very superstitious.
‘A tall man in a black cloak, with burning eyes and—oh Georgie, it was too awful! His head glowed in the dark, like sulphur.’
Georgie turned quite pale, for he had been outside too, with luminous spectres roaming about all around him. For all he knew, the beastly thing might have been standing over him and grinning. A dark phantom with a glowing head sounded most unpleasant.
‘I was just coming out of the garden-room,’ continued Lucia, ‘and there it was. It walked straight across the lawn and then right through—through, Georgie—the wall of the house. And do you know, as it went by, I felt a distinct drop in temperature. In fact, it was as cold as ice.’
No wonder I felt cold, said Georgie to himself. ‘Straight through the wall?’ he asked, terrified. ‘You mean the horrid thing is in here somewhere? Wandering about?’
‘Unlikely, Georgie. It has probably departed, who can say whither?’ Lucia was feeling better now and her face had taken on a tranquil appearance.
‘Well, if you think I’m going to spend another night under this roof, you’re very much mistaken.’ Georgie was not feeling in the least better.
‘The Black Spaniard is only seen very occasionally. So we are safe from visitation for tonight at least!’
‘So you knew about it all along and you never said anything? Oh, how could you, Lucia!’
‘I never gave the old legend any credence,’ said Lucia smoothly. ‘You know my views on superstitious beliefs. But having seen it with my own eyes, I fear that I must modify my sceptical opinions.’ Unwise, she thought, to mention what she had just been reading; she knew what she had seen, but others might whisper darkly of autosuggestion. ‘Besides, I do not believe that it is a malevolent spirit. In fact, I’m sure there’s no such thing: only the echo of discharges of psychic energy, given off by violent emotions in the past. Calm yourself, caro. There’s nothing to fear.’
Nevertheless, Georgie went uneasily to bed and did not sleep. The room seemed to be full of strange shapes and noises; of dark shadows that moved as soon as you took your eye off them. He switched on his bedside lamp and started to read a book, over which he soon fell asleep. Lucia, on the other hand, took her camera up to her room with her, with its diaphragm fully open, just in case the vision should reappear. The next time, she would be prepared.
Elizabeth’s sleep was not troubled by phantoms, for Grebe was rather too modern to be haunted. But she had felt a sort of presence looming over her recently; no Black Spaniard but Lucia, who stood between her and the sun.
Lucia had not been unduly oppressive after her rather cheap victory over the de Maps. She h
ad permitted her conquered foe to enjoy liberty and freedom of association, if not of expression. Yet there was always the threat of tactless reference to be feared; should Elizabeth venture to criticise some article of furniture, the reply (not only from Lucia but from anyone else—for the weapon was common to all) would be that, ugly as it was, it had been in the family for generations. If her partner at Bridge found herself heavily overbid, she could still all Elizabeth’s reproaches simply by saying that she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb ....
As well as this cruel treatment at the hands of those she had thought of as her friends, there was the complete loss, at a stroke, of all those sweet dreams of ancient lineage and noble blood that Elizabeth had so briefly entertained. Even now, she believed that there might be something behind the idea. She had, of course, followed up Lucia’s list of references, scavenging scraps of school-room Latin from the sides and corners of her mind to battle her way through chronicles and annals, and had found neither falsification nor error in that diligent woman’s account. With Perkin Map the line had perished; of that there could be no doubt. Yet something seemed to tell her that this could not be true; that somehow there was some evidence, perhaps as yet undiscovered, that might turn the whole tale on its head. It could not, of course, ameliorate such embarrassments as Eric the Fat; the brigandage in Cumbria; or Perkin’s life of crime and distasteful punishment; but Norman blood is Norman blood and any ancestor, however disreputable, is better than none at all.