In Prior's Wood

by G. M. Malliet

  “Well, no, although I understand what you mean. He wanted children to carry on the family name and she saw having children somehow as her duty—part and parcel of making her husband happy.”

  “Yes, I think so. Lenore was born first, you see, and I gather the disappointment was great that she was ‘only’ a girl.” Awena sketched little quotation marks in the air at “only.” “So then Lawrence came along. General rejoicing, a son and heir to carry on the name, praise heaven.”

  “What an outdated point of view. Positively archaic. I’d have been delighted if Owen had been a girl. I truly did not care either way about primogeniture or any of the other rot.” Headed for the kitchen, he asked, “Will we need soup spoons?”

  “Yes,” she said, “to the spoons.”

  On his return, she continued, “And yes, dear Max, but that is you. For someone like Leo—and by extension, Netta—the birth of Lenore was a disappointment. Think of Henry the Eighth’s displeasure at his daughter Elizabeth’s birth and you won’t miss the mark by much. But with Lawrence’s birth, I suppose Leo felt he had ticked that box and now he could move on.”

  “I don’t suppose Lenore fared too well, especially if her parents couldn’t hide their disappointment at her existence.”

  Again Awena shook her head. “Do you know, the rumor went round that she killed herself, although officially she died in a skiing accident in the Alps. Fell off a ski lift, of all things, and plunged to her death. She wasn’t yet in her forties.”

  “That’s hard to do these days—fall off, I mean. With all the safety features built into those lifts.”

  “That was the general thinking around the village, too, but it seemed kinder to those left behind—to Colin—to call it an accident. There was never a thought it was foul play—Lenore was alone in the lift.”

  “But that’s appalling,” said Max. “The poor soul.”

  “We’ll never know what was in her mind. She didn’t leave a suicide note, if the fall was intentional. Nothing—no hint. Anyway, by that point Netta had long since sort of written her off, her and her brother both. From the moment Netta finished giving birth to the two children, she regarded her job as done, and she could focus her energies back where they belonged: on her husband’s happiness. The children were sent off to boarding school at the first opportunity. But worse followed worse: Lenore fell off that ski lift, and Lawrence died a year later—definitely a suicide. Drugs. So there were two people of the same generation of the family gone too soon, and then their father Leo taken in such a horrific and sudden way. If Netta seemed a bit sharp-tempered at times, it was no wonder.”

  Sharp-tempered was an understatement, from all Max had heard and knew of the woman firsthand. But like Awena, he had made allowances. Everyone carried a secret burden, and it was impossible to gauge how he himself might react to such a cascade of losses. He’d nearly lost Awena once and he still didn’t know how he’d managed to hang on to his sanity.

  “There is no question,” Awena continued, “that losing Leo was a last straw. Every time I ran into Netta she seemed to have shrunk an inch, and withdrawn further into herself. I saw her less and less often around the village, in fact. She’d gotten rather doddery—you know what I mean. But if you offered her your arm to help her cross the High she’d refuse. Once Jane came along, most of the shopping and running errands fell to her. And to the great-granddaughter: Poppy helped out as she could.”

  “Another teenager in the house,” said Max. “I wonder how she and Netta got on.”

  “Interesting you should say that. I did hear Poppy’s experiments with her hair and nails were a renewed source of friction. Sometimes you need to pick your fights with greater care. Anyway, Netta never shed a tear during any of this, not even at losing Leo. That was when her reputation as a cold fish began to solidify. Some people were scandalized, but I thought that rather unfair. Netta was stoical by nature.”

  “We all grieve in different ways.” This was always Destiny’s stance, and Max knew it to be true. “People assume roles to get themselves through it. They do their crying in private.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” said Awena. “We have to make allowances for shock. But the son’s drug use—well, Netta had hardened against him a long time before because of it. The disgrace, you know. I don’t suppose she ever acknowledged that addictions like that run in families, as does depression. And that his difficult relationship with her may have exacerbated things. But it’s going to be hard for you to carve a fitting homily out of any of this. You’ll have to sand down the bumpy parts. ‘Funerals are for the living,’ Netta would always say. But who else, I wonder, would they be for?”

  “That expression is a coping mechanism,” said Max. “Used by people who tend to distance themselves emotionally. It’s a form of self-defense against pain and loss. I’ve seen it often in people with difficult childhoods—they build these walls, you know. No one can hurt you if you refuse to feel any pain. It’s a form of strength, but God knows the damage it causes—to oneself, and to others.”

  “And if you pride yourself on your stiff upper lip and common sense, it makes matters worse. I do see. Yes, that was how she operated. Nothing must mar the perfection of her life as she presented it to her public. I admired her for years and I still do. But one day I realized such perfectionism comes at a price. At too high a price for those closest to you.”

  “But when Leo died, Netta couldn’t entirely hide her grief behind platitudes.”

  “Yes,” agreed Awena. “It became more of a struggle. I suppose her death can be put down to a sort of wasting away to grief. Outwardly she was strong, for her age, and tough as a nut. Inwardly—that can be a different story.”

  “Destiny said she died of a broken heart. It does happen all the time. One of my biggest fears is that, God forbid, anything should happen to you. I doubt I’d survive. At least, I know I wouldn’t want to.” He and Awena having had one close call in that regard, Max felt he knew what he was speaking of.

  “I’m going to live to a very ripe old age and so are you,” said Awena briskly. “But not if we don’t have our dinner soon. I’m famished, aren’t you? However, tonight’s meal is a bit of a failed experiment, I’m afraid—the main course is from one of the recipes I’m trying to adapt for my book. I think I’m starting to dream in Middle English—I’m so steeped in this ‘Ye Olde’ project—but the onion and mushroom tart just isn’t right. Some of the spices for it either hadn’t been discovered or weren’t common in England in the Middle Ages. It will taste all right, I think, but I do need it to be more authentic than that.”

  “I’m sure it will be grand,” said Max absently. Awena had never offered him a bad meal since he’d known her. And “authentic” should have been Awena’s middle name.

  She disappeared momentarily into the kitchen and reemerged carrying Owen’s little dish. “But the fennel soup with ginger turned out well,” she continued. “And there’s braised spinach with roasted courgettes as a side dish, and the last of the runner beans.”

  “Wonderful,” said Max, taking Owen’s meal from her and placing it before him.

  “I’ve spent untold hours in the London archives reading up on all this. And as it turns out, Lord Duxter has quite a good collection of books on the history of food and agriculture and cooking and so on in his library. Jane Frost has been good in helping me find what I need. She’s taken up cooking as a hobby, too, I gather. The problem I’m finding is that vegetables were often frowned upon back in those days. Anything that grew out of the ground was considered to be peasant food, suitable only for those who had to grub about for a living.”

  “I’m glad Jane has been of help,” said Max. “She appears to be rather a good-natured sort and she may welcome the distraction. Not everyone could put up with Netta Henslowe with such patience.”

  Awena looked at him. “Do you think so? I suppose Jane is good-natured around you. Most women are, Max. They want you to like them.”

  “How
extraordinary,” said Max.

  Awena smiled. “Personally, I’ve always found Jane to have a bit of an edge, but it’s understandable, given her situation there at Hawthorne Cottage. Rather trapped, yes? She’s nice, but sometimes it seems rather forced—a bit of an effort. As if she had to remind herself how to behave around other people.”

  “Ah.” Max had found this to be not uncommon. Despite Awena’s warm and accepting nature, which won most people to her side, there were women in the village who were, well, envious. That reaction never lasted long after meeting her but it was painful to see while it did last.

  “I don’t suppose she’s having an easy life with Colin gone so much,” Awena added. “I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone for months at a time. It was bad enough when you were crime solving in Monkslip-super-Mare, and you were only away a few days.”

  “I can never wait to get back home, even after just a long day at the vicarage.”

  “At least the book is coming along nicely with Jane’s help, although with Colin’s return I may have less to do with her than before. I’m really having to scrounge to create a casserole for the modern palate using only what would have been available to the medieval cook. I rather regret agreeing to the whole project, but Lord Duxter was persuasive. And he offered a generous advance.”

  “Well, whatever you create will be delightful, as always,” said Max, whose knowledge of casseroles had been limited to the frozen Sainsbury’s varieties before he had met Awena. “If there are leftovers, could I take them over to Destiny’s? I know she’s working late tonight. I’m afraid that despite my best intentions, much of the drudge work of the parish is falling on her shoulders.”

  “Better yet, why don’t you invite her over to join us? I’ll just put Owen down and we’ll have a proper grown-up meal for a change.”

  “What a good plan. I’m sure she’ll welcome the break. I’ll ring her now.”

  Chapter 5

  THE HIGH PRIESTESS

  Was there a sound more inviting than the cracking of firewood in the first fire of the season? Max breathed in deeply of the aroma as he stood from his chair to add a few small logs to the flames. Thea, his Gordon setter, lolled as near the hearth as she dared without having her black-and-tan fur burst into flames.

  Max, Awena, and Destiny were having a late dinner at a small table Max had set before the fireplace, Destiny having gratefully accepted the last-minute invitation. Owen had gone down without a fuss and was fast asleep upstairs in his room. Awena had had to wait until he’d drifted off to remove the lamb bib. She’d rinse it out tonight and have it dry for him to wear tomorrow; the child suddenly could not be parted from it.

  Destiny had quickly become a mainstay of village life, someone on whom Max increasingly relied to help run the parish churches in his care—two in addition to St. Edwold’s. In recent years, more duties within the Anglican Church fell on fewer shoulders, and every priest of his acquaintance was stretched thin, trying to balance pastoral care with many other practicalities of day-to-day life in a parish. Destiny’s arrival as his assistant felt like a literal godsend.

  “You don’t drive the car to Wooton Priory?” Destiny asked Awena, accepting a glass of red wine. “When you go to use their library? It must be a walk of what—three miles?”

  “Unless I’m carrying a lot of heavy books for my research, I walk. I’m used to it. I generally put a thermos in my knapsack and have my tea at the Girl’s Grave.”

  “Well, that sounds rather grim. The what?”

  “It’s the local name for a spot near the pond in Prior’s Wood,” Max informed her. “It’s been called the Girl’s Grave since I’ve lived here, certainly. But you’ll not find it on any map. An exception being a map in Frank Cuthbert’s Wherefore Nether Monkslip—the original unreliable source.”

  Destiny was an even more recent arrival to the village than Max. Max had noticed that only Nether Monkslippers who could claim ancestors going back several generations were not considered newcomers. Like Destiny, Max would always be a bit of an outsider. Even Awena had been born in Wales, not in the village, and while she was greatly loved and admired, she, too, was tarred with the outsider brush. The “real” villagers closed ranks when and as it suited them.

  “The woods are vast and dense, with trees that come right up to Wooton Priory,” Max continued. “Those woods used to be rather a hangout for local teens.”

  “They still are,” said Awena. “And that’s a tradition that goes back many centuries.”

  “Where does the girl of the name come from?” asked Destiny. “Who’s in the grave, I mean?”

  “It’s a bit of a misnomer,” said Awena, leveling honeyed slices of the fragrant onion and mushroom tart onto their plates. “There was a young girl who went missing in Prior’s Wood. If she’s buried there, no one ever found her. It’s just assumed she’s there—somewhere.”

  “All of this happening at some time in the last century?” Max reached for the bread, which was still warm from the oven.

  “Yes,” said Awena. “Meaning of course the eighteen hundreds, not the nineteen hundreds. That’s so confusing, isn’t it, when we are so newly into this century.”

  Max, using small wooden tongs to lift runner beans onto his plate, paused. “There seems to have been a great deal of that sort of thing going on in these parts. Missing women, I mean. The young nun who was murdered in Nunswood up on Hawk Crest, for example.”

  Awena nodded solemnly. “The Crest has its own tales, its own secrets.” She knew her husband was thinking also of the suicide committed up there, not that long ago. He counted it as one of his failures, although there was nothing he could have done to prevent its happening. “And there was another nun found dead in the Wooton Priory church, her body covered with an altar cloth,” she continued. “This one was also some time in the Middle Ages, when the priory was still a religious house. She’d been stabbed.”

  “I remember hearing something about this,” said Destiny, nodding her acceptance of a serving of vegetables from Max. “A priest did it, right?”

  “Yes,” said Awena. “It turned out she’d been killed by a rogue priest in a failed attempt to cover up their affair. Her ghost still walks the night.”

  “Awena, listen to yourself,” said Max, but he was smiling. “‘Walks the night.’ It’s just an old folk tale that the nun’s been seen in those woods. Lucky thing she was a novice wearing a white habit. A ghostly nun in a black habit would melt into the trees.”

  Awena smiled, the gentle, forbearing smile she used when dealing with skeptics. The “none so blind as those who will not see” smile.

  Max went on, heedless, spearing a small nib of carrot from the mushroom tart with his fork. “Sadly, that sort of carry-on in religious houses wasn’t rare. Not nearly so rare as it should have been. It was common in those days for a girl to be handed over as a postulant, sometimes as a sort of tribute or offering by a pious family, and sometimes as a punishment for a teenager who was difficult to control. The hope, then as now, was that the nuns might be able to straighten her out. It was along the same lines as sending a troubled boy into the army, hoping to make a man of him. It was often a recipe for disaster, of course. The girls would rebel against all the rules and strictures, as teenagers will do, and often they became the source of scandals that plagued the monasteries for decades. Centuries.”

  “You mean sex scandals,” said Destiny, reaching for the cruet of olive oil.

  “Is there any other kind? Well, all right, there were financial scandals as well, although nothing electrifies the populace so much as a nun who turns up pregnant after a visit from an itinerant monk or priest. And it goes without saying, young boys also were sent into monasteries at a too-tender age and fell into trouble there or invented trouble where none was before. By our standards, and even by theirs, these were children thrown into an adult world, unprepared for it. There is no question the system too often became corrupt—corroded by weak leadership, and by recruit
ing and promoting the wrong sorts of people in the first place.”

  “So what happened in Prior’s Wood?” asked Destiny. “The Girl’s Grave?”

  “It’s funny but Max and I were talking about this not long ago,” said Awena. “A local girl went missing during the Beltane festivities. Not a nun but the daughter of a prosperous Victorian landowner with holdings near Chipping Monkslip. She was sixteen years old and she vanished off the face of the earth. The story that was put about was that she had run off with the gardener. But the boy turned up later and swore he knew nothing about her disappearance. No one else was missing from around Chipping Monkslip—no likely young man, I mean—and the authorities at the time grilled everyone who might have known something, in an ever-widening circle of suspects. The son of the lord of the manor was questioned—handled with kid gloves, of course. Villagers always thought he may have been involved—jealous or simply drunk, you know the sort of thing. She never was found. Her name was Viola. It’s such a beautiful, old-fashioned name, I’ve always remembered it.”

  “I think I’ve heard that story, or some version of it,” said Destiny. “And a song—some boy was singing it and strumming his guitar at the last Harvest Fayre. Is it true?”

  Awena shrugged. “Most of these stories that get handed down have at least a kernel of truth, like the legend of King Arthur. Viola is one of the stories told to frighten children into staying out of those woods at night and never going there alone, because it’s dark and dense and easy to get lost. The murdered novice also does a good job of frightening them into steering clear.”