‘Do we need permission go in?’ Grace whispered, pushing open the tall wrought iron gate.
‘We’re only looking,’ Amelia replied in a hush and cradling Grace’s elbow with her hand she spurred her on. She pointed to a distant wall at the outer edge of the cemetery. ‘Why don’t you start over there and work your way back to me?’
Amelia stood and watched Grace until she had reached the perimeter wall and began weaving in and out of the gravestones. Amelia started her search nearer to the church. Here magpies chatted in nearby hawthorn hedges and above her noisy crows nested in a tree. Buttoning up her cardigan to keep warm she began to walk along the path, stopping every now and then to read an inscription on a gravestone. The year 1837 appeared repeatedly and she saw how in the summer of that year, numerous people – babies, children, middle aged and elderly had died – and whatever it was that claimed their lives had had no preference as to gender. Footsteps on the path jolted her into the present and Amelia turned, expecting to see her sister. A man wearing a white dog collar, black slacks and sweater was hurrying towards her.
‘Hello!’ he called out as he neared.
‘Hello,’ Amelia returned, and to justify being there she pointed to Grace who was making her way back towards them. ‘My sister and I are having a look around. Should we have asked first?’
‘Not at all, I’m David Lanceley very pleased to meet you.’ The vicar took Amelia’s hand and shook it. ‘Over there is the vicarage. When you’ve finished, call in for a cup of tea. You’ll be most welcome.’ He pointed to a large house half hidden by a high brick wall covered in ivy.
‘I’m Amelia, and thank you.’ Amelia couldn’t take her eyes away from the vicar’s attractive face. At five feet seven inches in bare feet herself, it was nice to look up to a man for a change. Not only was David Lanceley tall, he was also strikingly good looking. Auburn hair, trimmed neatly above his collar, curled around his ears and framed his cheekbones. Dark blonde eyebrows and thick lashes were in stark contrast to his red hair, but rather than look insipid, which can often be the case with such colouring, they enhanced his pale green eyes. The golden setting sun created a halo of light around his head, and to Amelia the vicar looked more like an angel than a mere mortal. He smiled at her, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and she realised she was still holding his hand.
‘I’d be glad of the company actually,’ he said, slowly disentangling himself from her grip.
‘We’d love to come. My sister, Grace, and I recently moved into the area and we would be interested to know more about Woodbury.’
‘I’ll look forward to your visit then. Shall we say in about ten minutes?’
‘Yes, all right, and thanks again.’ Amelia watched him carry on along the path towards the vicarage. In the space of a moment she wondered if he was married. Feeling light-hearted and girly all of a sudden, Amelia turned to continue her searching and came face to face with Grace.
‘When you’ve quite finished flirting with the vicar you may be interested to know that I’ve found it.’ Grace stood on the path, hands on hips, watching her.
Amelia blushed. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Long enough,’ Grace replied, leading the way back along the path. She stopped beside a square granite headstone. Lillian Farrell’s name was carved into it, and underneath were the dates 1898–1991.
‘Great aunt Lillian was fourteen in 1912,’ Amelia stated, after doing a quick calculation.
‘I can’t find any other headstones marked with the name Farrell, but there are a lot of graves that are just mounds. Our gravestone could belong to any one of them.’ Grace hugged herself, feeling cold and disappointed. ‘Coming here hasn’t achieved much, has it?’
‘Great aunt Lillian lived in Woodbury all her life and she must have had friends in the village so maybe we can find out from them who A Farrell was,’ Amelia stated positively.
‘Will any still be alive though? Lillian must have been ancient.’ Grace suddenly remembered Doreen, the old lady she’d met, and she told Amelia about her.
‘We’ll speak to Doreen then, but in the meantime we may find out more from the vicar. Come on.’ Amelia led the way along the path to the vicarage. ‘We’ve had an invitation for tea.’
Grace looked astonished. ‘Gosh, you don’t waste any time, do you? I’ve never heard of anyone being picked up in a graveyard before.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Amelia sniffed feeling her face flush.
Chapter 6
A doorknocker in the shape of hands in prayer was secured by one screw and it clung desperately onto the vicarage’s weathered door. Amelia took hold of it and banged it against the wood. They heard the clamour echoing inside.
‘He’s gone out,’ Grace stated after they had waited for a few minutes.
‘No, I don’t think so. He invited us for tea, so he wouldn’t.’ Amelia banged the knocker again, willing him to be in.
‘Well, he must be deaf not to have heard that.’ Grace gave her sister a funny look.
At the sound of movement from behind the door Amelia smiled triumphantly. ‘I knew he’d be in,’ she whispered.
After a few minutes, bolts were drawn and Reverend Lanceley appeared in the doorway. After welcoming them, he led them into his sitting room. ‘You haven’t been waiting long, have you? I should have mentioned it. My parishioners normally use the back door, which is always open.’ He looked sheepishly at them, and they warmed to his friendly manner. Amelia introduced Grace, and after the formalities were over he disappeared into the kitchen, from where a chorus of ‘Fight the good fight’ was accompanied by the sounds of a whistling kettle and the clatter of crockery. A large tabby cat stalked into the sitting room to escape the noise.
‘I’m allergic to cats,’ Grace said, pulling a face. The cat must have heard her, because it changed direction and made for Amelia and settled comfortably in her lap.
Reverend Lanceley returned carrying a tray laden with steaming mugs and a plate full of biscuits. Purposefully he put the mugs on coasters on a low coffee table. ‘I see Fidget has introduced himself.’ He smiled at his cat snoozing on Amelia’s lap. ‘Well now, when I saw you earlier, you appeared to be looking for something or someone.’ The vicar pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead and settled in his chair, not noticing the look that passed between Amelia and Grace.
Amelia felt it important to make a good impression and began to feel foolish, wondering what he would think of her. Think of them, when they told him what they’d found in their garden and Grace’s belief that their home was haunted.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ mumbled Amelia.
‘Start at the beginning; that always works,’ the vicar advised, leaning forward and dunking a ginger biscuit into his tea.
‘I mentioned we’ve recently moved into the area,’ Amelia said, shifting in her seat. As soon as she moved Fidget anchored himself by digging his claws into her jeans, adamant about staying on her lap. Amelia resigned herself. The cat wasn’t about to move any time soon, so now and then she gave it a gentle stroke.
David Lanceley watched her approvingly. ‘Yes, you did. Where exactly?’
‘Primrose Cottage, it’s on Marsh Lane, do you know where I mean?’ Amelia said. ‘The cottage used to belong to our great aunt Lillian, and we inherited the cottage. Sadly our parents are dead.’ Amelia hesitated. An unfortunate accident was the way the local newspaper had put it, when their father’s old Rover was found five years ago, crumpled up against a beech tree on a bend on the A542. Going where? They still didn’t know. Amelia was twenty-two then, Grace sixteen.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’ Reverend Lanceley’s eyes held Amelia’s briefly and then dropped to rest on his cat, who had settled and gone to sleep.
‘Thank you.’ Amelia looked at Grace. She was staring out of the window, her expression unreadable. ‘Anyway, Lillian’s brother inherited her estate, so when he died it passed to us,’ Amelia concluded.
‘You still haven’t said what you were looking for,’ Reverend Lanceley said smiling at them.
Amelia wondered if she should confide in the vicar and sensing Amelia’s reticence, Grace took over.
‘We wanted to see where our great aunt was buried,’ Grace told the vicar. ‘Also, while trying to sort out our garden, which has become very overgrown, I found an old gravestone. It’s in amongst a group of trees, almost hidden by brambles. We’re assuming there’s a grave there too.’ Grace looked at Amelia for support and smiled vaguely. ‘It was a bit of shock to be truthful. Are any of your graves missing their headstone by any chance?’
‘Having a grave in your back garden is a bit creepy, don’t you think?’ Amelia added with a half-hearted laugh.
Reverend Lanceley looked puzzled. ‘Is there a name on it?’
‘Yes, there is: A Farrell, with the date 1912 underneath,’ Grace answered.
‘Farrell,’ Reverend Lanceley repeated, almost, Amelia thought, as if he had already come to that conclusion. The vicar tapped a forefinger on the white band around his neck and studied the plate of ginger biscuits. His sudden silence stretched uncomfortably between them and Grace cleared her throat to remind him they were there. At last he looked up. ‘Of course, your Great aunt was Lillian Farrell.’
They waited for the vicar to elaborate, but when he didn’t Amelia tried again. ‘We’d like to find out more about her. Did she have many friends? Maybe there’s someone still living in the village who knew her?’
‘What about the people who rented the cottage after Lillian died? Grace added earnestly.
Before replying David Lanceley picked up his mug and took a quick sip of tea. ‘Lillian had two lady lodgers and your grandfather kindly allowed them to continue residing in the cottage after Lillian had passed away. Then due to their increasing age, they decided to move into a local residential care home.’
‘I bet it’s the same one Doreen is in,’ Grace said, brightening.
‘Doreen? Do you mean Doreen Brock?’ Reverend Lanceley sounded surprised.
‘I met an elderly lady in the village. She lives in a nursing home called Tapscott Manor,’ Grace replied.
‘There’s only one Doreen living there as far as I know. It’s a coincidence really because she was one of the ladies who lodged with your aunt.’
It was Grace’s turn to be surprised. She slumped back into her chair, recalling the elderly woman’s behaviour. ‘Do you think she’ll know how the gravestone came to be there?’
David Lanceley put down his mug and straightened himself in the chair and as if preparing to give a sermon he cleared his throat. ‘A few years ago we had a spate of thefts in Woodbury and around that time some of the headstones went missing from the church graveyard. People use them after burying their dead pets in their garden. You know a sort of pets’ cemetery. There’s no accounting for taste these days. I think that’s the likely scenario, so I wouldn’t get upset by it,’ he said, dismissively shrugging his shoulders.
‘It isn’t in your garden though, is it?’ Grace said, exasperated by his flippancy.
Amelia caught her sister’s sarcasm and stepped in. ‘Did Lillian have a pet then?’ It was such an obvious explanation she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.
‘But surely if a pet is buried there, then its name, Fido, Fluffy or Floppy, would be carved on the stone, not an initial and surname,’ Grace responded, refusing to accept such a lame reason. ‘Anyway, there’s something else.’
Amelia interrupted quickly. ‘It would be interesting to know Primrose Cottage’s history. According to our solicitor it dates back to the mid nineteenth century and was once a tied cottage belonging to the local manor house. Is there any way of tracing who lived in it before great aunt Lillian. Parish records for instance?’ Amelia probed ignoring her sister’s raised eyebrows.
‘All the land in this area used to belong to the Deverells, and Tapscott Manor, now a nursing home, was where they lived. Gradually, over the years, bits and pieces of their land have been sold off.’ The vicar glanced towards the window, frowning; a disapproving note edged his words and Amelia waited patiently for him to carry on.
‘The parish records are available at the County Records Office in Chester,’ he said at last, and then looking at Grace he added, ‘I’ll check the register for births and deaths too if you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace smiled, thinking him not too bad after all. ‘The date on the headstone is 1912, but maybe we should start at the turn of the century; it would give us a wider picture.’
‘Fine, I will get onto it first thing in the morning. You know you could try the local library in Chester and of course there’s the internet.’
‘Oh yes,’ enthused Grace. ‘That’s a good idea. By the way, are there any gypsy campsites locally?’ She was determined to ask.
‘Not that I know of, no.’ Reverend Lanceley stood abruptly, as if he had suddenly remembered something he needed to do. Immediately the cat jumped off Amelia’s lap and padded back into the kitchen.
Amelia finished her tea quickly then attempted to brush cat hair off her trousers. Reverend Lanceley showed them the way to the rear door, and Amelia wondered why the vicar had cut their visit short. She lingered by the door, hoping he would suggest she call again. He didn’t. He’d appeared so friendly one minute and now couldn’t get them out of the house quickly enough.
If Amelia was surprised by David Lanceley’s transitory friendship, Grace wasn’t. She’d experienced censure of the name Farrell before today, and she remembered clearly Mrs Brownlow’s tight-lipped expression and Doreen Brock’s scowl. Grace linked her arm through Amelia’s and made up her mind to find out why.
1911
June
Amy finished her work in the laundry at Tapscott Manor early and while she waited in the yard for her mother, Ellen, who worked in the kitchen, she did her best not to get in anyone’s way. Amy made sure to keep away from the horses when the grooms led them out of their stalls and across the yard into the paddock. She steered clear of Molly, the kitchen maid, who stumbled from the cowshed towards the kitchen door, carrying two heavy pails of fresh milk. Dora Stoakley, Tapscott Manor’s current housekeeper and cook, usually gave Amy a mug of warm milk after she had finished work, so she followed Molly to the kitchen door expectantly.
Amy reached the kitchen just as Sir Edmund Deverell’s son Leo came round the corner of the main building. Whistling a catchy tune he sauntered towards Amy, apparently unaware of her. As always his mocking air of confidence was accompanied by a swagger. Today Leo wore an olive green riding jacket, and the soft ruffle of his cream silk shirt caressed his throat. High brown leather boots gleamed below his woollen riding breeches, which outlined his muscled thighs. The earthy tones complemented his auburn hair, which hung loose and curled about his neck. Arched eyebrows and disapproving thin lips established Leo’s disposition at an early age and had ingrained his face with a permanent disdainful expression.
Amy slipped into the shadowy crevice of the open kitchen door and pressed her body against it, wishing herself invisible. Over the last few weeks Amy had noticed Leo looking at her keenly, although his eyes never met her own. Instead they roamed the length of her body, lingering as though able to see the nakedness underneath her garments. His scrutiny unsettled her. After working in the laundry all morning, Amy looked dishevelled, and her hands and clothes smelled of carbolic soap. Her apron was covered in splashes of emerald green, splattered in her efforts to dye the material that Lady Deverell, Leo’s mother, wanted to use for new cushion covers. As Leo drew nearer Amy edged further into the crevice of the doorway.
Still whistling Leo swaggered passed the kitchen towards the stables, then stopped and turned towards the kitchen door. ‘Is that Miss Amy Farrell I can see hiding?’ Leo said, looking straight at her and raising a quizzical eyebrow. Amy emerged shyly and ran over to where he stood and gave the handsome man a small curtsey.
‘Good morning, Mr Leo,
sir.’ Amy smiled shyly.
‘Why are you hiding from me?’ Leo asked, continuing to walk towards the block where his horse was stabled. To keep up with him Amy almost had to run, taking three small steps to his one long stride.
‘I wasn’t hiding from you. I’m waiting for my mother,’ Amy replied.
Leo looked at Amy and contemplated a ringlet of bronze hair which had worked its way loose from under her bonnet. He stopped and pulled it gently. Like a spring it bounced back then lay spiralled against the hollow of her throat. His eyes met those of the sweet young girl and he smiled down at her fondly. Fingering the curl, he asked, ‘How old are you now, Amy?’
‘I was sixteen in April. Don’t you remember, Lady Deverell gave me this?’ Amy touched the tiny butterfly brooch pinned to the collar of her blue cotton frock. Blushing, Amy looked down, aware again of the excited feelings Leo stirred inside her. Of Sir Edmund Deverell’s twin sons, Leo was her favourite. Laurence, the elder by a few minutes, was dull and serious, a young replica of his father with bullish features and a florid skin. Amy had heard rumours that Laurence was destined for great things, politics and religion being his forte. Leo had inherited his mother’s strongly defined features and fair complexion and to Amy he was the handsomest man in the world. The brothers were not identical in any way other than their red hair and height.
Mrs Stoakley had informed Amy’s mother, who had then told Amy, that Leo was engaged to be married to a Miss Sylvia Davenport, only daughter of wealthy Lord and Lady Davenport, who lived in a grand house in Derbyshire. Amy pushed Sylvia out of her mind and lifted her head slightly to look up at Leo.
Leo smiled into Amy’s wide innocent eyes and brushed his hand against her cheek. Gently he traced the curve of her jaw, following the line of her throat, and Amy gasped at the stirring of emotion she felt deep within her. She swayed slightly towards him and felt his strong hands on her shoulders. Leo glanced around the yard. It was empty but he could hear stable boys working in a stall nearby. Smiling down at Amy, Leo lowered his head and breathed in her soapy smell. Instinctively Amy tilted her face upwards, closing her eyes as if expecting a kiss. Leo’s lips gently brushed her ear. ‘Not yet, my little one,’ he whispered, pleased by the girl’s willingness.
A Grave Inheritance Page 3