The Phantom Tree

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘You met Thomas Fenner during the English Civil War?’ Adam leaned forward. ‘At Middlecote?’

  ‘We were strangers,’ Richard said. ‘I saw him in a tavern, gambling one night. He was reckless; he offered the sand glass as a prize. I wondered about him then, how it had come into his possession, whether he, like me, had used it to travel from one time to another. I could see he never thought he would lose it. He was lucky with the cards. But I was luckier and I won it and then I knew he did not wish to give it back.’

  ‘Thomas needed it,’ Alison said. ‘He needed it to go back to find Mary Seymour. She was in terrible danger. Will Fenner killed her that night.’

  She felt rather than saw Adam move sharply at her side but he did not speak. He, like she, was watching Richard, seeing the lines of grief and unhappiness deepen on his face.

  ‘So that was why Fenner fought like the devil,’ Richard said. He closed his eyes briefly, as though absorbing the horror of it. ‘Dear God, if only I had known.’ He looked up, his gaze shadowed with pain. ‘The glass took us both back to his time but I wrenched it from his hand and it brought me back here.’

  ‘And in the process it broke,’ Alison said, looking at the wicked little crack that ran down the side. ‘The sand had all but run out.’

  ‘Time had all but run out,’ Richard said. ‘Thomas Fenner was too late to save his Mary.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Why gamble with something so precious?’ he burst out. ‘Why risk losing everything?’

  Alison was not sure whether he meant the sand glass or Mary. They had been beyond price and Thomas had lost them both.

  ‘Thomas wanted money so that he and Mary could wed,’ she said. She touched Richard’s hand lightly. ‘Do not reproach yourself. You didn’t know.’

  It did not seem that her words could reach him. There was a shadowed, inward-looking expression in his eyes, the heaviness of spirit of a man who had perhaps seen and done too much.

  Adam shifted a little beside her. ‘I’m very sorry to hear Mary was killed,’ he said gently, to her.

  Alison nodded jerkily. ‘I am too,’ she said. ‘I’m going to find her, though. I won’t let that vile man Will Fenner erase her life as though it never happened.’

  ‘Arthur first, then Mary,’ Adam said, with a wry smile. ‘I’m proud of you, Alison Bannister.’

  Hector yawned widely, got up, and stretched. Alison looked at Adam and stood up too. ‘I think Hector wants his tea,’ she said. ‘Monty as well, I expect. And we need to get home.’ It all felt so odd, so prosaic, after everything that had happened. She looked at Adam again for support. ‘We’ll come back soon, Richard,’ she said. Then, hesitating, ‘You will be all right?’

  ‘Dear child.’ Richard smiled as he eased himself to his feet. ‘Of course I shall.’ He kissed her; shook Adam’s hand.

  ‘Come back on Saturday,’ he said. ‘We can talk some more.’

  They went out through the gallery. The bright colours of the paintings were muted and everything was a monochrome. It fascinated Alison that Richard had embraced modernity so wholeheartedly. One day, she thought, she would ask him about that. There was so much she wanted to ask: Why he had never chosen to go back when he was the one of the three of them who could have done so? What had been the origins of the two sand glasses… She stopped walking so abruptly that Adam almost cannoned into her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve just remembered something I wanted to ask Richard about. I’ll only be a second.’

  She hurried back through the office and up the stairs. Her hear was beating hard. She felt breathless, as though she had been running. The same thought kept hammering through her mind.

  Reginald had had one of the sand glasses. Thomas had had the other. Yet she had seen a sand glass on the table in the White Hart Inn, and it was that one that had taken her forward and back through time.

  The power of three…

  From long ago, Mary’s whisper reached her.

  ‘Light the other candle, Alison. The strongest magic is summoned by the power of three.’

  Even in her haste she still paused to knock on the closed door of Richard’s sitting room. There was no response and no sound from within. She opened the door. It looked exactly the same: the lamps lit, a dent in the seat of the chair in which Richard had so recently sat. Hector wove around her ankles, purring. Monty dozed on the rug.

  ‘Richard!’

  Alison’s voice sounded shrill in the quiet. A moment later, she heard a step on the stair and felt a rush of relief, but it was Adam who was hurrying to join her and even as she saw the question in his eyes she knew he knew the truth and he knew she did too.

  Richard had gone.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Do you think he’ll ever come back?’ Alison said.

  It was the morning after and they were driving up the M1 towards Northamptonshire. Monty was in the back of the Land Rover, curled up and snoring contentedly. They had left Hector behind in Marlborough in the care of the landlady of the White Hart, who had seemed very excited to be looking after him. Hector himself had appeared unmoved.

  ‘Richard?’ Adam looked up from his phone. ‘I’m sure he will when he’s ready.’ He reached for the map. ‘I’ve texted Charles for you and asked for a couple of days off on your behalf. I’ve implied—’ he grinned ‘—that it’s for romantic reasons. The whole office will be agog.’

  ‘What it is to be a celebrity,’ Alison said, sighing. ‘If I’d asked him for some time off he would have told me to get straight in there.’

  ‘It’s not far now,’ Adam said, checking the satnav. He shot her a look. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alison’s hands tightened on the wheel. ‘I’m fine. But Richard—’ She came back to the thought that was troubling her. ‘I mean, where has he gone? Why has he gone?’

  ‘Ali.’ Adam’s voice calmed her. ‘We talked about this last night. Richard’s always been travelling, ever since I’ve known him.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘That bloody gallery was closed so often it was a family joke. We just didn’t realise where it was he was going.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alison felt a little reassured. ‘I suppose that he has had plenty of experience at it.’

  ‘A few hundred years,’ Adam said dryly. ‘I almost wish he had taken Rob and me with him when we were kids. That would have been better than teaching us how to build sandcastles.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Alison said, without rancour. She sighed. ‘I just wish I knew where he was—’

  ‘You’re worried he’s going to do something that may alter the course of history,’ Adam said, glancing at her sideways. ‘Something to do with Mary, or indirectly with Arthur?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Alison admitted. ‘He seemed so gutted when he realised what had happened to Thomas.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said, ‘and I think you’re right. Richard went back to make his peace with Thomas. But that’s between the two of them and I doubt he would do anything foolish. Richard knows all too well the dangers of tampering with time.’

  They had left the motorway behind and were travelling down a lane between two high, bare hedges. A sign at the side of the road welcomed them to Harper’s Cross. It was a new village and seemed to have sprung up close by the original abandoned village of Harper’s Green. It was a busy place with a school, village shop and tearoom. The pub, festooned with Christmas decorations, proclaimed itself one of the few remaining bits left from the original settlement, the second oldest inn in the county and a hotbed of plotting during the English Civil War.

  They parked in front of the Co-op and took the dead-end road that led towards the canal, Monty plodding along with true dogged spirit behind them. The hoar frost hung from the trees that surrounded the ruin of the Tudor hall. It looked impossibly romantic, the jagged walls stark against the pale blue of the winter sky, the tumbled chimneys, the empty hearths. Ivy cloaked the ruin, stealing the shape of the original Elizabethan manor, transforming it into something dark and stran
ge. Holly trees stood sentinel all around.

  There was a barbed-wire fence surrounding the site. It ruined the atmosphere.

  ‘Private land,’ Adam said. ‘That’s a pity.’

  Alison stood with one hand resting on the gate. Through it she could see the overgrown path to the front door and the stone carving above the lintel. There were the initials ‘WT’, a date of 1575 and a coat of arms, too eroded for the shape to be clear.

  ‘Walter Tercel,’ she said. ‘He built the manor house here during the reign of Elizabeth I.’

  She had read as much as she could find about the Tercel family but still she had not found any mention of a child called Arthur in connection to them. This was her last hope, coming here to see what she could find.

  ‘It could do with some TLC,’ Adam said. ‘Maybe one day, when I make a fortune, I’ll buy it and do it up.’

  Alison poked him in the ribs. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  The church was set across the field from the manor on a footpath that led down to the canal. In the summer, Alison imagined it would be the sort of place for picnics beneath the willows. Now, the houseboats were locked up and frost-bound. Everything looked cold.

  The church was cold. It felt like stepping into a freezer, encased in darkness. There was no friendly vicar here to give a potted history of the place, no light, nothing that felt living at all. Never had Alison felt so disconnected from the past.

  She had read on the Internet that the Tercel family graves were here and, looking around, she could see the dark humps and bumps of the monuments. There was some ancient-looking stained glass too and wall paintings that still retained their bright colours despite the damp and the cold, but the whole place looked in desperate need of restoration.

  ‘Amazing triptych,’ Adam said. He flashed his torch in her direction. ‘Come and see this.’

  Alison joined him in the side chapel, where a three-panelled monument commemorated Walter, Lord Tercel and his family. He and his wife lay side by side, sons kneeling to the right of their parents, daughters to the left, ten of them in all.

  To the left of the triptych was a square stone plaque in the wall. Alison read it once casually to herself and again, this time out loud, with a sudden rush of disbelief:

  ‘“Near here lies the body of Sir Arthur Browne of West Woodhay, knight, beloved cousin to the Lords Tercel and beloved husband of Anne Paget of Blakemere, three times Lord Lieutenant of Northamptonshire, soldier, builder and philanthropist, known as the Knight of Woodhay for his renown. 1560–1645. Audax at fidelis.”’

  Adam was standing at her side. ‘“Bold but faithful,”’ he translated softly. ‘That’s quite a tribute. A long life and one of great renown.’

  ‘Just as Thomas said,’ Alison whispered. She felt herself trembling and slid down to sit in the nearest pew. A sob bubbled up from her chest. She could not catch her breath. She pressed a hand against her mouth to try to quell the tears but this time she could not. The weeping came, great, undignified gulps of sobbing that seemed to wrench her chest and tear her apart.

  Adam said nothing. He sat beside her and wrapped his arms around her and let her soak his coat with her tears. He was stroking her hair and murmuring words of comfort to her, and she felt such a blazing tangle of emotion, of grief and loss but also of such pride. Eventually, she caught a steadying breath and got to her feet.

  ‘I expect I look a state,’ she said, unsteadily.

  ‘I won’t lie,’ Adam said, ‘you’ve looked better.’ He kissed her.

  Alison held his hand tightly as she reached out to touch the lettering of the plaque, feeling the hard edges of the carving against her fingers. ‘I wonder where they buried him,’ she said. ‘It says near here, not where.’

  Adam was holding a dog-eared guide to the church. It drooped, looking as though it had absorbed the damp of centuries, just as the building had. ‘It says here that Sir Arthur Browne is buried in the graveyard.’ He paused, reading. ‘He requested that he be interred outside of the church, “beneath the green earth and the tall trees, where the winds blow and the spirit is free”.’ He looked up and smiled at her. ‘That’s rather nice, isn’t it? Poetic. I like the fact that he didn’t want to be hemmed in. It feels as though he inherited your wanderlust.’

  It was sunny outside now. The frost was melting on the grass. The graveyard was neat and tidy, well kept. Adam stood with his hands on the wall, looking out over the fields whilst Alison wandered amongst the stones, looking, searching. She knew he had sensed she had to do this alone, to say a final goodbye. She walked along the rows of stones, some upright, others fallen, all worn by wind and time. There in the grass beneath the yews she found a plain white stone, a name, dates. Alison knelt down in the grass and shielded her gaze from the low morning sun.

  Arthur Edward Banestre Browne, 1560–1645.

  She caught her breath sharply. ‘Banestre,’ she whispered. ‘He knew. How could he know?’

  She felt joy and lightness of spirit spreading through her entire body.

  ‘Perhaps he searched for you,’ Adam said. He had walked over to join her and she looked up at him, smiling through renewed tears, of happiness this time. ‘I imagine he wanted to know his mother,’ Adam said. ‘And when he found out who you were, he was proud to take your name.’

  Alison looked down at the stone, at the clear edges of her name carved with such care and pride. Arthur had known of his ancestry and had added her name to his. Arthur had known about her.

  She closed her eyes and touched the warm stone of Arthur’s grave. Sleep well. We will meet again one day. Until then, all my love, always.

  Adam drew her to her feet, tucking her hand through his arm, pulling her close. For a moment they stood, heads bent, looking at the grave of Sir Arthur Banestre Browne and then they walked together down the path into the sunlight, as high above a peregrine circled against the cold blue winter sky.

  ‘We’ll come back,’ Adam said. ‘As often as you like.’

  ‘We’ll get to know the pub quite well then,’ Alison said, ‘just like Arthur probably did. We’ll walk in the places he walked.’

  Adam’s mobile rang.

  ‘It’s Richard,’ he said, checking the caller ID. He pressed to take the call. ‘Hello, Richard. Where are you?’ Alison thought he sounded extremely calm but then she supposed his godfather was hardly going to be calling them from the seventeenth century.

  ‘Right,’ Adam said, listening intently. He glanced across at Alison. ‘Yes, I’ll tell her. We’ll see you later. He wants his dog back,’ he said, as he ended the call and slid the phone back in his pocket. Monty wagged his tail enthusiastically.

  ‘Where has he been?’ Alison grumbled. She felt a mixture of relief and anxiety.

  ‘He wouldn’t say. All he would tell me was that he has something for you.’ Adam took her hand. ‘Let’s go and find out what it is.’

  *

  ‘You came back!’ As soon as Richard emerged from the office at the back of the gallery Alison threw herself into his arms. ‘I was so worried!’

  ‘Dear child.’ Richard seemed rather amused. He patted her back gently. ‘Of course I did. There was never any chance I would not. Do you think I would have let Monty and Hector starve?’

  ‘Humph.’ Alison wiped away a surreptitious tear. ‘You could have told us there was another sand glass.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Richard didn’t sound as though he meant it at all. His eyes twinkled. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I worked it out,’ Alison said. ‘Maths isn’t my strong point but I realised that you had a glass, Thomas had a glass and I had a glass all at the same time. Plus, there were three hourglasses on your memorial in the church at Kingston Parva. The power of three.’

  ‘What’s the power of three?’ Adam asked.

  ‘It’s natural magic,’ Richard said vaguely. ‘The number three has special powers.’ He ignored Adam’s disbelieving snort. ‘Not your sort of thing, dear boy, not at all. Now.’ He
drew them over to an artist’s easel that stood beneath one of the bright spotlights. ‘I wanted to show you something. I went to Middlecote to fetch this for you.’

  It was a map. It reminded Alison of the seventeenth-century county map she had studied on the Internet, quaintly drawn, the writing almost impossible to read, illustrations as well as names scattered across the parchment. But this looked much older than the map she had seen. It was also beautifully preserved, jewel bright in the spotlight. She could see a house that looked like a child’s lopsided drawing, and the huge spreading branches of a tree. There was a church, a wide blue river and even a windmill.

  ‘But that’s—’ Adam fell silent, looking up at his godfather in disbelief.

  ‘The Middlecote Map,’ Richard said. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘What is the Middlecote Map?’ Alison asked.

  ‘It was one of the first estate maps drawn in England,’ Adam said. ‘It dates from the mid-sixteenth century and—’ he glanced at Richard again ‘—it was lost during the English Civil War.’

  ‘Just think what a stir the rediscovery of it will create,’ Richard said contentedly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Adam burst out. ‘You can’t just claim to have found this!’

  Richard looked affronted. ‘Of course I can’t, dear boy,’ he said, ‘but you can. It will make up for your debacle with the portrait. Besides,’ he added, ‘it was found at Middlecote, so where’s the harm?’

  Alison took in his deadpan expression and Adam’s explosive one and tried not to laugh.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘you’d better get it authenticated properly this time.’

  Richard’s lips twitched. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘Although strangely enough I didn’t bring it here so that you could perpetrate a historical hoax.’ He turned to Alison, his expression sobering. ‘I understand that it is important to you to discover Mary Seymour’s resting place,’ he said. ‘If Will Fenner truly did murder her and conceal the body then it would be likely to be close by, on the estate. Since there is no record, all we can do is search.’