Thus I found myself alone and I knew that if ever I was going to make that tour of investigation I must do so now.
I left early in the morning and as the train carried me to Bury St. Edmunds I asked myself whether I was being impulsive in what I was doing. What if I came face to face with him? What would be my excuse for seeking him out? He had come to Canterton, hadn’t he? Yes, but this was different. He had shown quite clearly that he did not want to continue the acquaintance…friendship…or whatever it was. It was not very good manners to seek him out therefore.
No. But I had no intention of calling at Compton Manor if I found it. I would go into a nearby inn and ask discreet questions. If the people of Suffolk were as fond of a gossip as those of Sussex, I might find out what I wanted to know, which was, I assured myself, merely to find out whether there had ever been a man called Edward Compton, so that I could rid myself of this absurd notion that I had been suffering from some sort of hallucination.
It was a bright cold morning—rather bracing—and as the train carried me along I grew more and more excited. We were in on good time and I was elated when, asking how I could find my way to Croston, I was told there was a branch line with a service every three hours, and if I hurried I could just catch the next train.
I did so and congratulated myself as we puffed along through the pleasant but flat countryside.
Croston was nothing more than a halt. I saw a man who might have been a railway official and I approached him. He was oldish with a gray beard and rheumy eyes. He looked at me with curiosity, and it struck me that he did not see many strangers.
“Is Compton Manor near here?” I asked.
He looked at me oddly and then nodded. Again my spirits rose.
“What do you want with the Manor?” he asked me.
“I…er…wanted to go that way.”
“Oh, I see.” He scratched his head. “Take the footpath. It’ll take you into Croston. Then through the street and bear to the right.”
It was working out very easily.
Croston was one short street of a few thatched cottages, a village shop, a church and an inn. I bore to the right and walked on.
I had not gone very far when I saw an old signpost. Half of it was broken away. I looked at it closely. “Compton Manor,” I read.
But which way? It must be up the lane for the only other way was where I had come from. I started up the lane and turning a bend I saw a mansion.
Then I gasped in horror. This could not be the place. And yet there was the signpost…
I approached. It was nothing more than a shell. The stone walls were blackened. I went through an opening in those scorched walls and noticed that there were weeds growing among the grass where once there had been rooms. Then the fire was not recent.
This could not be Compton Manor. It must be farther on.
I left the blackened ruin behind me and found the road. There was nothing before me but open fields, and because of the flatness of the land, I could see for miles ahead and there was certainly no house there.
I sat down on the grass verge. I was baffled. Seeking to solve the mystery, I had plunged farther into it.
There was nothing to do but retrace my steps to the station. There would be about two hours to wait for the next train to Bury St. Edmunds.
Slowly I walked into the town. My journey had been fruitless. I came to the church. It was very ancient—Norman I guessed. There were very few people about. I had been rather silly to come.
I went into the church. It had a beautiful stained-glass window—rather impressive for such a small church. I approached the altar. Than I was looking at the brass plaque engraved on which were the words “In memory of Sir Gervaise Compton, Baronet of Compton Manor.” I looked about me and saw that there were other memorials to the Compton family.
While I stood there I heard a step behind me. A man was coming into the church carrying a pile of hassocks.
“Good morning,” he said, “or rather afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied.
“Taking a look at our church?”
“Yes. It’s very interesting.”
“Not many visitors come. Though it is one of the oldest in the country.”
“I thought it must be.”
“Are you interested in architecture, Madam?”
“I know very little about it.”
He looked disappointed and I guessed he had wanted to give me a lecture on Norman versus Gothic. He must be a church warden or verger or something connected with the church.
I said: “I have been looking at that burned-out house along the road. Could that be Compton Manor?”
“Oh yes, Madam. That was Compton.”
“When was the fire?”
“Oh, it must have been nigh on twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago!”
“Terrible tragedy. It started in the kitchens. The shell of the place is left. I wonder they don’t rebuild or something. The walls are still sturdy. They were built to last a thousand years. There’s been talk about it but nobody ever does anything.”
“And the Compton family?”
“It was the end of them…they died in the fire. A boy and a girl. Tragic it was. People still talk of it. Then there was Sir Edward and Lady Compton. They died too. In fact the whole family was wiped out. It was a big tragedy for this place for the Comptons were Croston at that time. It’s never been the same since. No big family to take the girls into service and take care of the interests of the village…”
I was scarcely listening. I was saying to myself: How could he have been Edward Compton of Compton Manor? They are all dead.
“They recovered most of the bodies. They’re all buried in the churchyard here…in the special Compton grounds. My father remembers the funeral. He often talked of it. ‘Croston’s day of mourning’ he called it. Are you interested in the family, Madam?”
“Well, I saw the house…and it is a terribly sad story.”
“Yes. They were Croston all right. Look round this church. You see they’ve left signs everywhere. That’s their pew in the front there. No one’s used it since. I’ll show you the graves if you’d like to step out.”
I followed him to the graves. I was shivering slightly.
He said: “Chill wind springing up. We get some rough winds here. It can be pretty biting when they blow from the east.”
He wended his way through the tombstones and we came to a secluded corner. We were in a well-tended patch where several rose trees and laurels had been planted. It must look very pretty in summer.
Then he said: “That’s Sir Edward. You can see the date. Yes, it was just over twenty years. All these graves…victims of the fire. That’s Lady Compton and that’s little Edward and Edwina his sister. Poor little mites. They never had a life. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it. He was two years old and Edwina was five. They come into the world and then are taken away. It makes you wonder…If they could look down and see what might have been…”
“It’s very kind of you to show me,” I said.
“A pleasure. We don’t get many interested. But I could see you were.”
“Yes,” I said, “and thank you very much.”
I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think. This was the last thing I had expected to find.
I was glad of the long journey back during which I could ponder on what I had seen and try to grasp what it could possibly mean; but when I reached London I was no nearer solving the mystery.
Could it really be that the man I had seen was a specter…a ghost from the past?
That theory would explain many things. Yet I could not accept it. One thing was certain—there was no Edward Compton of Compton Manor. There had not been for more than twenty years!
Then who was the strange man who had made such an impression on me, who had looked at me—yes, I would confess it now—with admiration, and with something which indicated to me that we could have a closer relationship and that was w
hat he was hoping for.
How could I have imagined the whole conception? He had been in the forest. Was it possible that in that forest which Lydia always said was a little spooky—the same word which Aunt Patty had used about the Abbey school—strange things could happen?
I must forget the incident. I could not allow it to go on occupying my thoughts. It was one of life’s strange experiences. They did happen from time to time. I had read of them and there was no explanation.
I was sure I should be wise to try to put the entire matter out of my mind.
That was impossible. When I shut my eyes I could see that tombstone. Sir Edward Compton…and that of the little boy, another Edward.
It was mysterious…rather frightening.
Oh yes. I must certainly try to put it out of my mind.
The Abbey
It was a lovely spring day when I arrived at Colby Abbey station. I had been enchanted by the countryside which I had glimpsed through the windows of the train—lush green meadows and wooded hills and the rich red soil of Devonshire with the occasional glimpse of the sea.
The sun was warm although there was a slight nip in the air as though to remind me that summer had not yet come. I had said goodbye to Aunt Patty and Violet with much laughter, a few tears and constant reminders that we should all be together in the summer vacation. It was exhilarating as starting a new life must always be, and I was extremely fortunate in having Aunt Patty. Her last injunction had been: “If Madam Hetherington doesn’t treat you with the right respect, you know what to do. But I think she’ll behave herself. She knows that you are not exactly hers to command like some of those poor girls who have to toe the line or wonder where their next meal’s coming from.”
“You’ve always been a bulwark in my life,” I told her.
“I hope that’s not meant to be taken too literally, dear. I know I’m overfond of good food, but bulwark…no, I don’t like the sound of that.”
That was how we parted. The last I saw of her from the train window, for she and Violet had come to London to see me off, was a smile though I knew the tears were not far off.
So here I was arrived at last, and as I stepped out of the train a man in smart livery came toward me and asked if my name was Miss Grant, for if so, he had come to drive me to Colby Abbey Academy where I was expected.
“The trap’s in the yard, Miss. Be this your bag? ’Tis just a step or two…nothing more.”
I went through the barrier with him and there was what he called the trap—a rather smart two-wheeled vehicle drawn by a gray horse.
He took my bags and stowed them away.
“Reckon, Miss,” he said, “you’d be more comfortable up with me.”
“Thank you,” I said when he helped me up.
“It be a nice day for coming, Miss,” he said. He had a black beard and dark curly hair—a stocky, middle-aged man, who spoke with that burr with which in time I should become familiar.
He was inclined to be talkative. As he whipped up the horse he said: “The young ladies ’ull be coming next Tuesday. It’ll give you time to settle in, Miss. Bit different when they’m all here, eh? Some of ’em stays at school this time of year though. It’s only at Christmas and summer we have a full turnout. Too far for some to go home, you do see?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do ’ee know Devon at all, Miss?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“You’ve got a real treat in store. God’s own country. A little bit of heaven itself.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“It be true, Miss. There’s songs about it. Have ’ee ever heard of Sir Francis Drake?”
I told him I had.
“He were a Devon man. Saved England from them Spaniards, they do say. It were a long time ago though. Glorious Devon they call it. Devonshire cream and cider…They do make songs about it.”
“Yes, I have heard some of them.”
“You’ll see the big house in a minute. The Abbey’s a good three miles on.”
“Is that the home of the Verringers?”
“Yes, that be the Hall. Look, there’s the graveyard by the church.”
Just at that moment a bell began to toll.
“There be the funeral today. Funny time to arrive, Miss, if ’ee don’t mind me saying so. Her ladyship going out like and you coming in.”
His beard shook. He seemed to find that rather amusing.
“Whose funeral did you say it was?”
“Lady Verringer’s.”
“Oh…was she an elderly lady?”
“No. She’m Sir Jason’s wife. Poor lady. Not much of a life. Been invalid for ten years or more. Fell from her horse. They don’t have much luck…them Verringers. They do be cursed, I reckon, like folks say.”
“Oh?”
“Well, it goes back…right a long way. And the Abbey and all that. There’s stories about them. There’m folks as think it was either Abbey or Verringers and it ought to have been the Abbey.”
“It sounds mysterious.”
“Oh, it goes back a long way.”
We had turned into a lane so narrow that the bushes from the hedges brushed the sides of the trap. Suddenly my driver pulled up. A carriage was coming toward us.
The driver of the carriage had pulled up too. He had no alternative and the two men were glaring at each other.
“You’ll have to back, Emmet,” and the driver of the carriage.
My driver—Emmet apparently—remained stubbornly stationary. “You’ve less far to go back, Tom Craddock,” he said.
“I b’ain’t going back,” said Tom Craddock. “Look out, Nat Emmet. I’ve got Squire here.”
I heard a voice shout: “What in God’s name is going on here?” A face looked out of a window and I caught a glimpse of dark hair and angry dark eyes.
“’Tis Nat Emmet, Sir Jason. He be bringing the new young lady to the school and he’s blocking the road.”
“Get back at once, Emmet,” cried the imperious voice and the face disappeared.
“Yes, sir. Yes, Sir Jason. That’s just what I be doing…”
“Be sharp about it.”
Emmet got down and we started to move back, and finally reached the wide road.
The carriage came out at a sharp pace and the driver gave Nat Emmet a victorious grin as it went past. I tried to catch a glimpse of the man inside the carriage but he was out of sight.
The funeral bell started to toll once more.
“He’s just come from burying his wife,” said Emmet.
“So that’s Sir Jason himself. He seemed a bit choleric.”
“What’s that, Miss?”
“He seems a bit quick-tempered.”
“Oh, Squire don’t like anything to get in his way…like his poor lady. There’s some as say she was in his way. But I’m talking out of turn. But there’s things folks don’t keep quiet. And why should they?”
We went quickly through the lane.
“Don’t want to meet no others,” said Emmet. “Not that I’d go back a second time…except for Squire and we’re not likely to meet him again, are we?”
We trotted along while he made observations which did not interest me greatly because my thoughts were with Squire and the lady who had been in his way and for whom the dismal bell was tolling.
“If you look when we turn this bend, Miss, you’ll be getting your first view of the Abbey,” Emmet told me.
Then I was alert…waiting.
It lay ahead of me, grand, imposing, tragic, a shell encasing past glory. I could see the sun glinting through the great arches which were open to the sky.
“That be it,” said Emmet, pointing with his whip. “It be quite a sight, b’ain’t it? In spite of being nothing but an old ruin… ’cept the part that ain’t. Well, folks seem to think a lot of our Abbey. Wouldn’t let it be touched. It was a good thing they did their bit of building in days gone by.”
I was speechless with a kind of wonder. It was i
ndeed a magnificent sight. Away to the hills the trees were in bud; the sun glinted on a brook which was wending its way across a meadow.
“Look over to the right of the tower, Miss, and you’ll see the fish ponds. That’s where the monks used to catch their supper.”
“It’s wonderful. I had not imagined anything quite so…impressive.”
“There’s folks as won’t go near the place after dark. Miss Hetherington her don’t like us to say it, but it be true. She thinks it will frighten the young ladies so they’ll ask to be took away. But I tell you there’s some as say they can hear bells at certain times of night…and monks chanting.”
“One could quite believe that.”
“You’re seeing it in sunlight, Miss. You want to see it by the light of the moon…or better still when there’s just a few stars to light the way.”
“I daresay I shall,” I said.
We were getting nearer.
“It be comfortable enough in the school, Miss. You’d hardly know where you was to. Miss Hetherington, her’s done wonders. Just like a school it is inside…and when you hear all them young ladies laughing together, well, you forget all about them long dead monks.”
The trap had drawn up in a courtyard. Emmet jumped down and helped me down.
“I’ll see to your bags, Miss,” he said.
I was facing a door in a gray stone wall. Emmet pulled the bell and the door was immediately opened to a girl in uniform.
“Come in, Miss Grant. It be Miss Grant, b’ain’t it? Miss Hetherington said as you was to be took right up to her the moment you arrive. She’s just having tea.”
I was in a large hall with a vaulted ceiling. It looked like a monastery; there was a coldness in the air which I noticed after the warmth of the sun outside.
“Did you have a good journey, Miss?” asked the girl. “It seems the train was on time.”
The Time of the Hunter's Moon Page 7