“Altar,” said Kit. “She’s buried under the altar.”
He was on his feet and down the aisle before Perdita had even closed the burial book.
“Can you see anything?” she called, hurrying after Kit who was now on his knees, the torch in his hand, crawling across the ancient slate slabs leading up to the altar table. Perdita joined him, flicking on the torch on her phone, going from stone to stone, finally hoisting up the corner of the altar cloth.
Although the chapel was in the process of restoration, repair and cleaning, the area under the altar table was thick with dust. The air current caused by her lifting the corner created small eddies and whirls making Perdita sneeze.
“Bless you,” called Kit.
Perdita smiled but did not reply, instead she shone the thin beam of light from her phone across the floor. She was about to drop the cloth back into place when a glimmer directly below the golden cross on the altar above caught her eye. Perdita edged towards the glittering surface. As she drew closer, she realised one stone square was slightly lower than the rest of the floor and it was etched with gold. Cursing the fact she had none of her usual dig equipment with her, she reached into her pocket for a tissue to try and wipe away the dirt, but to her frustration it ripped within moments.
“Kit!” she called from her prone position. “Have you got a handkerchief?”
“Yes, here,” he replied appearing at her side. “What have you found?”
“Not sure yet, maybe nothing,” she said, taking the purple and white striped handkerchief and beginning to wipe away the layers of grime and dust. With Kit shining his powerful torch, Perdita painstakingly revealed a square of soft green local slate. Neither of them spoke, but as she worked, Kit altered the angle of the beam, keeping the light on the engraving that was rising to the surface after centuries in the darkness.
Finally, Perdita sat back and Kit shone the light on to the newly revealed grave marker:
Lady Catherine Howard, 1525 – 1552.
Rhosyn heb drain.
Underneath was an engraving of the odd pattern that proliferated around the walls of Marquess House, two interlinked rings with an oval between them, surrounded by tiny swimming mermaids.
“She’s here!” whispered Perdita looking at Kit, her eyes shining with tears. “Catherine is here and she was even younger than we thought.”
She could not explain why she was so relieved that Catherine had survived the birth of her children. It was visceral, primal, the relief at the survival of a woman of whom it had always been thought had suffered a violent end. Yet, here she was, hundreds of miles from the site of her supposed execution, in a grave that had been created with love and care.
“She’s here, Kit, she’s here.”
They sat together gazing down at the green stone.
“What does the inscription mean?” he asked.
“It’s Welsh, I think,” replied Perdita, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, before tapping it into a translate app on her phone. “Oh my goodness, look!” She held up the screen for Kit to see and they both stared at each other in amazement. “Rose without a thorn. It was what Henry VIII called her, his rose without a thorn. It’s definitely her.”
Once more they stared at the stone in an awed silence. Then Kit spoke: “You realise this proves Henry VIII’s marriage to Katheryn Parr was bigamy. He married her in July 1543, didn’t he?”
Perdita nodded, then unable to help herself, she reached forward and traced her finger along the name.
“If she was a ‘rose without a thorn’, why isn’t there a rose here?” asked Kit. “Why is there this strange emblem and more mermaids?”
He shone the torch on Perdita’s fingers as they caressed the stone. She stared down at the headstone and suddenly, as though a voice had whispered in her ear, she understood.
“It’s the two ruby rings,” she gasped. “The jewels Anne of Cleves had made so they could safely pass messages.”
“And the oval between them?”
“Her silver locket,” she said. “The mermaids, though, Kit, we were right.”
“They’re not simply decorative then?”
“No, they’re Catherine,” she whispered. “According to the book of legends and the final chapter of Granny’s manuscript, the name of the mermaid was Catherine. She was the woman who inspired the myth, she was the Llyn Cel mermaid. This was Catherine’s emblem. She was the secret and now we’ve found her. She’s been safely here all along.”
Perdita’s fingers snagged on more lettering, almost worn away with time. Using Kit’s handkerchief, she dabbed at the small indentations until three more words were revealed: Spe et nereidum.
“It’s Latin,” said Kit. “It means hope and mermaids.”
“Hope and mermaids,” said Perdita. “It’s written throughout the codex.”
“It’s on the carving in the Great Hall opposite the rose window too,” said Kit, although his voice sounded tense.
“Which can also be known as a ‘Catherine window’,” said Perdita, her excitement growing. “Kit, it places her here even more convincingly. The mermaids all over the house, the legend of the Llyn Cel mermaid: they were all down to Catherine Howard. It’s her, Kit, she came here after she’d escaped from her marriage to Henry and she gave birth to twins on the island. It all fits. All we need to discover now is what happened to her children. Why were they written out of history? And why was Catherine forever more portrayed as a good-time girl who had an affair?”
Sitting back, she gazed down at the grave, wondering about all they had discovered. Oh, Granny, she thought, I wish you were here, you’d know what to do next.
“We should tell Dad about this,” said Kit, breaking into her thoughts.
“Good idea,” she murmured. “Do you think he knew about the grave?”
“I doubt it. If your grandmother had never made the connection, Dad wouldn’t have known either,” he sounded nervous. “We should tell him though, this is a huge discovery.”
She nodded. Kit stood and was already turning back towards the aisle, eager to return to the house to inform Alistair. Perdita was more reluctant to leave, she felt connected to the grave, to Catherine. She was not sure if she was ready to share the information immediately. Her instinct was to tell Piper first. Picking up her phone, she took a series of pictures of their discovery so she could send them to her twin. Then, because Kit was hovering at the beginning of the aisle, she turned to rearrange the altar cloth so it looked untouched.
It was as she crouched down untucking and straightening the folded hem, the image caught her eye. On the panel to the immediate right of the altar was the engraving of another mermaid. It was faint but it matched the mermaids on Catherine’s gravestone. Staring at it, Perdita felt her heart thud, partly with nerves but also with a conviction that this discreet carving must the mermaid Mary had mentioned in the last chapter of her manuscript. It was obscured by the brick that jutted out of the wall above it, casting it in shadow. If she hadn’t been kneeling down, she would never have noticed it. Was this the entrance to the tunnel to Llyn Cel island?
“Kit, wait!” she called, her voice urgent.
“What have you found now?” he asked.
“A mermaid,” she said, and glancing over, saw him roll his eyes.
“Another one?”
“I think it could be the entrance to the tunnel.”
“Oh, Perds, try not to get your hopes up,” he said, hurrying back to where she had squatted next to the carving. “Meggie, Stu and I spent most of our summers searching. We pushed every panel and carving in here and the house. It’s a myth.”
“No, it isn’t,” snapped Perdita. “Granny and Bethan Bridges discovered it when they were young. They used it as their secret hide out. The two girls swore a blood oath about keeping it a secret. Granny didn’t even tell her younger sister, Cecily, where to find the entrance they took their bond so seriously.”
“But she told you?”
“No, not exact
ly, it was in the final chapter of her manuscript. There were notes too. They were the last thing she ever wrote,” said Perdita, her voice quivering. Turning to Kit, she looked up into his blue eyes. “The night before she died, she made a connection between the Penelope Fitzalan letters and a fireplace sketch that was drawn in one of them. It’s the same as an image in the book Penelope Fitzalan wrote. Granny still isn’t sure how Penelope is involved but she wrote: ‘Passageway? Will ask Kit to explore the tunnel with me in the morning. Fireplace!!!’. Kit, she planned to show you where the tunnel entrance was hidden. She wanted you to help her retrieve a ‘token’. I think she and Bethan found something hidden down there when they were children and I suspect it was the ring.”
“But, Perds, if that’s the case, why did Mary never retrieve it before?”
“I’ve no idea, Kit. Perhaps she’d forgotten all about it. Perhaps while she was writing, her memory was jogged and she wanted to see it again in case it was connected to her research,” spluttered Perdita, frustration bubbling inside her. “I know she trusted you though, she wanted to let you in on the secret, and I think this might be the way in.” Perdita pointed to the faint carving. “Have you ever tried pushing this image?”
Kit bent down beside her and a look of excitement spread across his face as he shook his head.
“No,” he admitted. “This one eluded us. Unbelievable, I thought we’d covered every inch of this place. It must be because the protruding stone above throws it into shadow.”
“I only saw it because I was at ground level straightening the altar cloth,” admitted Perdita.
“Did Mary leave instructions on how to open it?”
“You push the stone above the mermaid,” replied Perdita. Kit raised his eyebrows and she grinned. Then taking a deep breath, she placed her hand on the jutting brick. Closing her eyes and sending up a small prayer to her grandmother, she pushed with all her might. To her amazement, there was a click and the panel next to her moved inwards. She pushed again and it opened fully. It was a small doorway and it revealed a stone staircase that led downwards.
Kit was staring at the entrance in amazement. Getting to her feet, Perdita took the torch from his hand.
“Let’s see what other secrets Granny’s been keeping,” she said and stepped through the door into the darkness.
Perdita flooded the spiral staircase with light.
“It’s a long way down,” she said as she hurried down, Kit fast on her heels. “Will you tell Meggie and Stu?”
Kit laughed.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You found the tunnel, it’s your secret to tell, not mine. Do you think you’ll tell Piper?”
“Of course. I think Meg and Stu should know too,” she said and voiced something that had long been on her mind. “If Mum had never died, we’d have all been brought up together. The quest for the tunnel would have belonged to us all…”
“Unless Mary had told you,” interrupted Kit.
“I don’t think she’d have spoiled our fun,” replied Perdita, certain this would have been the case. “She and Bethan discovered the tunnel alone, she would have left us to work it out for ourselves. We would all have been running about tapping panels and pushing bricks. It seems only fitting that all five of us should know because we should have been able to look for it when we were children. Together. Instead, Piper and I missed out on our childhood here.”
They had reached the bottom of the tight, winding staircase. Kit touched her arm before she set off along the tunnel.
“If it helps,” he said, “the three of us used to pretend you and Piper were here.”
“Really?” she whispered, astounded.
“Yes, poor Meggie, she always used to say that if the two of you were here, it would have been me and Stu who were outnumbered. You may not have been at Marquess House or even known we existed, but we knew about you and talked about you all the time. It’s why it was so peculiar when you finally moved in and you didn’t have a clue who any of us were. We felt we’d known you all your lives.”
Perdita was surprised at the sadness that clouded his face.
“We’re here now,” she said and he smiled, before she continued. “Come on, let’s see what else we can discover. We need to finish what Granny started.”
They were standing at the beginning of an arched passageway. It was cool and dry. The air was fresh, indicating it had been properly constructed with some form of ventilation. On the walls were brackets that had once held torches. Periodically, there were shadowy alcoves and small rooms leading off the central footpath.
“What do you think it was used for?” asked Kit as Perdita flashed the torch into the shadows.
“It must have been part of the priory,” she replied, her eyes sweeping the ancient walls, looking for mermaids or for the motto: spe et nereidum. “The rooms look as though they could have been the nun’s cells. Maybe it wasn’t secret then, it was a normal conduit. I wonder why it was closed up?”
“Probably when the priory was dissolved,” suggested Kit. “What are we looking for?”
“A mermaid symbol like the one at the entrance to the tunnel or the three-ringed design from Marquess House or the words spe et nereidum,” said Perdita. “Granny thinks it might be in or near a fireplace. There was supposedly a sketch of it but I haven’t seen a copy of it.”
“Let’s start checking all the rooms with fireplaces, then,” said Kit, and together they set off down the ancient subterranean space.
The first room was tiny, a former nun’s cell, and in the corner was a small fireplace. It was barely more than a hole in the wall with a flue to take away the smoke. There was no surround, no mantelpiece. Nevertheless, Perdita flashed her torch around the pitiful space, sweeping the beam from side to side, then knelt on the floor to examine the hearth itself and the chimney. The opening was so narrow, it took only moments to search.
“Nothing,” she called.
“Nothing here, either,” said Kit, who had been scanning the walls above it.
“It’s grim, isn’t it?” said Perdita, taking in the bare walls, the earth floor and the minute dimensions of the cell. “There’s hardly room to lay down.”
She shuddered.
“Let’s try the next one,” said Kit and headed back to the passageway to continue the search. But, by the seventh room, with no luck, Perdita could tell Kit was having serious doubts. Yet, somehow, the fact they were being made to search so comprehensively for their prize was bolstering Perdita, making her even more convinced they would soon find the ‘token’, which she knew would be the ruby ring.
“Eighth time lucky,” called Kit from the doorway of the final room. Perdita smiled and followed him in.
A sixth sense told her immediately that this was it. The room was larger and more luxuriously appointed with the remains of wooden panelling on the walls. A dust-covered table stood in one corner with a crumbling chair leaning drunkenly against it, and in the centre of the back wall was a proper fireplace with a mantelpiece. Fireplace. This must have been the one her grandmother meant.
Her heart pounding, Perdita fought to control the sudden tremble of excitement that ran through her hands. Moving swiftly, she focused her attention on the fireplace and its surround. Beginning on the left-hand side, she swept her torch across it looking for any of the telltale markers. Nothing down the left side. She scanned the area around the mantelpiece — nothing — then switched the angle of her beam and illuminated the right side of the fireplace.
“Here!” she shouted, her voice unexpectedly loud in the tense silence. Kit turned.
“What is it?”
“A mermaid, give me some light while I see if this brick moves.”
Carved on the jamb to the side of the mantel was the faintly traced but familiar figure of the mermaid. Pushing it, as she had the entrance to the tunnel, the brick remained immoveable, so it was not a mechanism. Kit moved forward to help.
Perdita felt around the edges of the brick, using her fi
ngertips she wiggled it.
“It’s been moved before,” Kit said, pointing at the crumbling mortar surrounding it. Perdita reached forward and brushed away the crumbling cement.
“We need to be careful,” she said. “We don’t want to damage anything. Damn, I wish had some tools.”
Kit fished around in his jacket pocket and handed her a Swiss Army penknife.
“Perfect,” she said and, selecting a tool, began to chip away at the edges of the brick, until she had created a space large enough for her fingers to grip.
Wiggling and tugging, taking as much care as she could, it gradually began to move. Finally, with one last tug, the brick gave and fell out into Perdita’s hand. Handing it to Kit, she shone the beam of the torch into the dark cavity.
“Oh my…” she gasped, reaching in and removing an aged, mottled wooden box.
“On the table,” said Kit, unwinding the scarf from his neck and laying it across the dust begrimed top, his voice full of excitement.
“Let’s see what the mysterious Penelope Fitzalan hid in the tunnel four centuries ago,” grinned Perdita, placing their treasure on the centre of Kit’s scarf.
“Do you really think the ruby ring is in there?” asked Kit, leaning forward, his voice eager.
“I hope so,” said Perdita.
“Ready?” she whispered, and Kit, his eyes wide, nodded.
The box was approximately the size of a greeting card and roughly ten centimetres in depth. It was dark with age but its storage place had been dry and there were no speckles of damp, only the marks of centuries of dust and grime. It was hinged down one of the long sides and there was a clasp, delicately engraved and shaped like wings but it had been rusted to powdery verdigris.
Perdita searched through the tools on Kit’s knife until she found a long, slim screwdriver. She would have preferred to have had her roll of jewellery maker’s tool that she found invaluable when examining finds, but this would have to do instead. With great care, she lifted the clasp and opened the box.
Perdita’s breath quickened as she looked inside, gazing upon what was unmistakably a faded, mottled, dark green leather jewellery case. Suddenly, she hesitated, aware that, like Pandora’s Box, this could release more evil into the world, endangering herself, her sister and the Mackensies, whom she was fast beginning to view as the family she had never had. The tale of the Greek myth returned to her and the knowledge that when Pandora opened the box, not only were all the miseries of the world unleashed, but so was hope. It was hope she needed now. Hope of a resolution to this search, of a way to prove her grandmother had been correct, hope that they would continue to stay one step ahead of MI1.
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 39