The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  He was very interested in the Wine Cellar, which is so full of stone and waste as can barely be seen at all. The tower bases still have pieces of the panels which were so famous, and I had great Pleasure in explaining to Mr. Cushing how they had been built and how they looked before being pulled Down.

  When the sun had got too High to paint the tree, I directed Mr. Cushing to my Easel and proposed we return to Spar-wefeld. A terrible Occurrence followed, for when we came to the Inner Court, Mr. Cushing was taken with a great Sickness. His features were very Red and he sweated much and would have Swooned had I not held him up. . . ."

  "Andrew! My God, the same symptoms!" Timothy set his glass down so hard that liquid splashed on the table. "Unbelievable," he muttered as he wiped at the mess.

  "Well, they had to be right where I was," said Andrew, looking up from the diary, "right over the chancel in the old church, though of course, they didn't know it, for there were only ruins, no excavations to be seen. Probably at that time some of the cobblestones were still in place. Here's what she says happened next."

  "I became so Concerned with Mr. Cushing's condition, I helped him away very quickly. At the tree where my Easel was, he became more Normal—and, in a few moments, felt quite at Ease, though very listless and, I think somewhat fearful—though he did not wish to show it. We went back to Spar-wefeld at once, and there was much Humour with Aunt Rosa, who had sent Mr. Cushing to the ruins knowing I would be there. It seems he has brought from the Colonies a portrait of our ancestress, Chloe Cuddington, for whom I was Named. Everyone says we look exactly alike. They think it is quite Re-

  markable. But I do not wish to be like her. I think her taint has escaped me . . . thanks be to God!"

  "Her taint?" Hodge asked. "What was that? Jesus, Andrew, this is beginning to sound like one of those serials on the telly."

  Andrew was regarding the diary with a furrowed brow. "That's something that hasn't surfaced yet, but if it's in these pages, believe me, I'm going to find it. You know, Tim, I was really ready to leave London last Friday—all set to look up my friends here, catch some shows, maybe even run down to see a colleague who has a house in Cornwall—and then go on to Vermont for a few weeks. Then I read that bit about Julian Cushing experiencing the same symptoms I did—and at exactly the same place in the ruins. You know, it's like a who-done-it that gets better with every chapter! There are still boxes of stuff in the attic—I don't think that family ever threw anything away—and Rosa Caudle tells me the Sparrow Field attic's the same. Somehow, I'm sure there's an answer to the whole mystery. I've got the original Chloe Cuddington hanging in my bedroom, too, and you've got to come and see her. She's at the center of this whole story, Tim, I'm convinced of it. Sometimes I even think if I just wait long enough, she'll tell me everything herself." Andrew smiled at Timothy's raised eyebrows.

  "I won't read any further from the book right now, Tim, but what happened in essence is that they went back several times. Julian in his own Journal says they went back a fourth time to look for the Lure. But they avoided the spot where he'd been ill, and as long as they did, there was no trouble. His Chloe apparently believed something called the Lure was there—and what the Lure is, I haven't the faintest idea. But it had something to do with a Dr. Dee. Do you know a Dr. Dee who might have lived at that time?"

  Timothy Hodge was already peering in the well-filled bookcase lining one entire end of the room. He extracted a small volume, thumbed some pages, then said, "Here it is, Andrew: 'Dr. John Dee, English astrologer, born London, July 13, 1527, died, Mort-lake, England, 1608.' That's a pretty good age for those days, Andrew—eighty-one the old boy was. So he was alive during the reign of Henry and all the subsequent Tudors, and he outlived Elizabeth herself. Here's what else it says: Tn early life, he devoted much time to mathematical, astronomical and chemical studies and in 1548 rumours began to prevail that he was addicted to the black

  arts. They were probably well founded/" Hodge read on silently. "There's a lot more, but the gist of it is that he went abroad to still the rumors, came back later and ingratiated himself with William Cecil, Queen Elizabeth's great minister. Dee was greatly favored by her for the rest of his life. It says he cast a chart to find an auspicious day for her coronation, and he rose so much in her esteem that in 1594 she gave him the Chancellorship of St. Paul's and a year later the Wardenship of Manchester College, which he held for nine years. He continued his interest in the occult, however, and his work was published posthumously in 1659."

  "'Greatly favored.' That reminds me of what was written opposite Chloe Cuddington's name in the family's genealogy," said Andrew. "It said she was 'a great favorite of the Quene.' Perhaps Dee even knew the original Chloe? Certainly the rest of the Cud-dingtons didn't care much for him and considered him a 'fakir' as Julian's Chloe wrote, saying he had Tioodwinked the Quene.'"

  "That was probably his reputation during his lifetime," Hodge agreed. "Undoubtedly he had his detractors. You may be sure, Andrew, that anyone with influence on royalty always provokes jealousy. I wonder what the Lure was?"

  "Tim, I know you're going to think me crazy"—Andrew put the diary aside—"but will you come with me to Nonsuch tomorrow? We'll walk the route that Julian and Chloe took and see what happens." He was silent for a moment, as if reliving his previous experience. "I'm not exactly looking forward to it, but I won't feel so uneasy if you're there. Let's go early if you don't mind. Oh, damn it, I forgot that's a working day for you."

  "Well, you're in luck, old buddy, because tomorrow just quite co-incidentally happens to be my day off." Hodge settled back in his chair, sipping his drink. "But are you sure you want to go back there, Andrew? You've got me intrigued as hell with this whole thing, I must admit, but there might be some risk. . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "I wouldn't go on my own, Tim. Not for money. But if we go very early and if you're with me—well, I'm prepared to face whatever demon is there . . . and that god-awful nausea and terror, too. I just want somebody to verify that it isn't just me. It gave me quite a turn to find that Julian had experienced the same thing. But I want you to see it; then we'll take it from there."

  "Surely, if I can help. I certainly don't want you to go back by yourself."

  Andrew gathered the books and papers together and said in a relieved voice, "Well, for now let's go out and talk about everything and anything except Julian Cushing and Nonsuch. I'd really like to catch up on the last year or so with you, my friend."

  Hodge was on his feet, draining the last of his drink. "And I'll be around to pick you up in my car at eight o'clock sharp."

  They were at the Nonsuch site by eight forty-five. As Timothy drove by the red-brick wall, Andrew pointed out the backyard of Sparrow Field, where he could see Mrs. Williams hanging out an early wash. A few moments later they left the automobile at the parking lot inside Nonsuch Park and walked the few hundred yards to the site. It was a beautifully cool morning, and in the shady spots along the path the dew still lingered. The air was fresh with the earthy smell of new-cut grass; it was so still the early-morning activity of flocks of birds nesting in the trees overnight continued. They swooped in great numbers from tree to tree, greeting the visitors with raucous cries. Andrew pointed out the tower bases and the crumbling foundation still showing traces of a tiled floor.

  "This was once the Privy Garden," he told Timothy, who appeared impressed with the vast expanse of palatial remains spread before him. "Here's where the 'Falcon Perches' and the obelisk were." They walked on toward the inner court, where a few workmen were preparing to dig. "Now," he continued, "it's my own private theory that when the builders got to here—the inner court part —they found the basements, the vaults and the crypt of the old Cuddington church that had been previously leveled. Rather than excavate and clean up the mess, which included several graves, they simply built on top of it, which accounts for the inner court being higher than the outer. Here, in the middle, was a white marble fountain supported by brass dragons. It w
as built directly over the old church's chancel."

  "And that's where our demon lives?"

  Andrew grimaced. "Well, Tim, let's get the damn thing over with. . . . Come on." They walked past mounds of excavated dirt and rubble. No one disturbed them.

  About fifty feet from the chancel site he began to feel uncom-

  fortable. As the sensation intensified, he touched Timothy, who put a supporting hand at his elbow. Slowly and deliberately, taking a few steps at a time, they reached within five feet of the chancel. Andrew felt engulfed by a sticky warmth. Perspiration beaded his forehead. He hadn't taken off his coat, and underneath, his shirt was beginning to feel wet. His mouth was parched, while his tongue seemed to thicken. There was a noticeable weakness he hadn't experienced before. It was almost as if a force stronger than he were intent on taking over not only just his body, but his mind too. He stumbled and would have fallen but for Hodge's restraining hand. "Careful, old man, do you want to go on?"

  "Yes, damn it." Andrew could barely mutter the words. He was sweating profusely now, and nausea churned in his throat. He had purposely remained breakfastless and was now glad of it. Upchucking on old Henry's inner court would be a fine thing—he hoped the humor might divert him from his discomfort. Yet the nausea gnawed at him, and his head felt as if it were being bludgeoned. Suddenly, his mouth constricted and tightened. He felt he couldn't go on—his tongue seemed to fill his mouth. He felt something dragging at him.

  "Jesus, Andrew, that was a near thing!" Timothy was fanning him with a newspaper he'd pulled from his pocket, and Andrew could see through a murky blue that he was now safely away from the chancel area. He had no memory of having walked the last few steps, and he lay now, propped against a tree, while Hodge loosened his tie, removed his coat and sat on the ground beside him. "Andrew, that's the goddamnedest thing I've ever seen in my life. I'd never have believed it! I still don't know whether I do believe it. But, Jesus, look at you!" He rattled on in what Andrew wished he had the breath to say was a typical hodgepodge way. But he didn't have the strength. He supposed Timothy must have pulled him, half-conscious, from the site to the base of the tree. He'd never have made it alone. He knew, as well as he'd ever known anything in his life, that if Hodge hadn't been with him, he'd have died— quickly and terribly—by strangulation on the old chancel site.

  Qhapter £fix

  Despite a quick recovery and Andrew's desire to rummage in Sparrow Field's attic, Timothy insisted on their immediate return to London. They arrived at Hans Place shortly before eleven o'clock to the chagrin of Mrs. Hall, the charwoman. She had just arrived from an apartment on the upper floor and told her employer she was "about ready to have a good go at the place, sir." Instead, she was dispatched to the nearest market to choose whatever she might cook for luncheon. Mr. Moffatt had had a bit of a turn at Ewell, Timothy explained. Privately, Mrs. Hall—who knew Andrew of old —thought he looked a bit done in. She bustled out as Timothy suggested Andrew removed his shoes and stretch out on the sofa.

  They'd both remained silent on the short ride back to London, preoccupied with their own thoughts on the near-disastrous occurrence at Nonsuch. It clearly had to be discussed, but neither knew where to begin. As Timothy handed Andrew a generously filled brandy snifter, he said, "I don't often prescribe such strong medicine so early in the day, old man, but you need this. Down the hatch—it'll warm your stomach for whatever Madame Hall brings back. . . ."

  They sipped their drinks for a moment, and it was Timothy who broke the silence. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "You bet I do"—Andrew sighed—"but there are so many missing pieces! That's why I wanted to go to Sparrow Field. There's supposed to be a lot of family memorabilia in the attic."

  "Another day," Timothy advised. "I don't think you realize just how close a call you had." When there was no reply, he continued.

  "Andrew, yesterday you said—if I remember your words—'I think I know what's there. . . .' Well, after your experience today, I wish you'd tell me what it is. It's not just personal curiosity. I'd like to know—for medical reasons—what you exposed yourself to."

  "Okay." Andrew shifted upright, glass in hand. "The nearest I can come to it is that in several letters I found in the Cuddington House attic, a reference is made to a legend.' It somehow seems to have been started by or connected with Dr. Dee. It's about something called 'the Lure' that's supposed to be buried at Nonsuch. It was buried, presumably, before the palace was even built. Which would place it in the late 1530s—when the Cuddington manor house, the church and the priory all were leveled. Something—God knows what—was placed somewhere on the site. What I don't know, and where I don't know. Is it in the chancel area, and was it perhaps cursed? Anyway, the Cuddington family legend' has it that the Lure was connected with Chloe Cuddington—my gorgeous lady of the portrait—and with Dr. Dee. The palace was built over the hiding place, and the legend evolved afterward. I feel even more strongly after what happened today that it's something hidden in the chancel area and that the curse—if there is one—still has the power to torment."

  "Damned near killed you."

  "Well, I wouldn't be the first." Hodge's eyes widened in astonishment as Andrew hurried to explain. "In a letter written in 1730 from one Cuddington to another—an otherwise innocuous letter actually—the death years ago of someone prowling in the ruins is mentioned. Seems he was found dead from strangulation near, as the letter describes it, 'the site of the great fountain.' Of course, that's all they knew was there in those days—it wasn't an excavated area, you remember."

  "My God! Incredible!" Timothy was aghast. "So you think at the site of the old chancel there lives or exists an evil force capable of murder?"

  "Sure seems that way." Andrew sipped his brandy reflectively. There was the sound of Mrs. Hall's return, and she called out cheerily that she'd found "a nice pair of plaice, sir, and a few veg —it won't be long." Timothy went to his desk, took out a long yellow legal pad and began to make a few notes.

  Andrew walked to the window to look at the charming old circle of Hans Place. Quiet and remote, a small London enclave only a

  few minutes' walk from busy Knightsbridge, Sloane Street and the back door of Harrods, the red-brick terraced buildings retained a faded Victorian elegance. The leaves at the top of the great cluster of trees in the center were touched with an early turning of color. A fine mist had begun to fall; Andrew could visualize the workers at Nonsuch packing it in for the day. It was never any good digging in the rain, though he'd done it plenty of times, sloshing around in water well over his ankles. He wondered if the chancel site was clear enough to hold water. "Drown the goddamned thing that's there, I hope," he muttered to himself, as Mrs. Hall summoned them to lunch.

  " 'Tis all set, gentlemen, do come while it's hot." She'd set a little table between the windows overlooking the small parklike circle outside. Andrew was hungry; he remembered now he'd had no breakfast. He was doing full justice to Mrs. Hall's excellent cooking when Timothy broke the silence.

  "Andrew, I've got an idea. I've just made some notes. I'll read them to you if you want, but I don't think I have to. It's all so simple; just let me itemize. Julian Cushing sees portrait of girl and falls in love. James Cuddington asks him to return the picture to family in England, as he knows he's too old ever to get home. He tells Julian of family tradition—of names, of resemblance—and perhaps hints or tells him outright that a young lady resembling the one in the portrait now lives near Nonsuch. He pays Julian's passage and sends him to the family at Number 18, where he meets Rosa Cuddington. She sends him to Sparwefeld, where, as she says, 'he will find things little changed. . . .'"

  Timothy consulted his notes, then continued. "Then he goes to Sparwefeld. He meets Chloe. Probably he was told on arriving that she was out painting at the Nonsuch site, and he goes there to find her. How anxious and excited he must have been! Apparently, they got on very well indeed, and while walking around, they hit on the same spot as you. Although
it wasn't excavated at the time, Julian had a similarly distressing experience. They must have then returned to Sparwefeld. But we know from Julian's Journal that they went back a fourth time, for Chloe insisted the Lure still had to be there. They were looking for it, no doubt of that. But, my God, what a task! They'd have had to dig— the ruins were aboveground then."

  Andrew shook his head slightly. "Remember they were both very young. It was probably as good an excuse as any other for them to be alone together. The early 1700s was a romantic era. Can't you just see him in some foppish coat and trousers and a tall topper and Chloe in a flowing dress with a large hat with ribbons? Probably he was carrying her easel, and they were planning to spend a day among the ruins . . . maybe they even brought a picnic. They might not have done as much looking as they did lovemaking—or whatever they called it in those days."

  "I've been meaning to ask you about that," said Timothy. "Did she finally accept Julian since he was so unhinged by her? And did they live happily ever after?"

  'That's one of those frustrating lacunae, Tim. The family genealogy lists her birth as 1682—so she'd have been about seventeen when she met Julian. She died, still Miss Chloe Cuddington, as far as I can make out, in 1708. Age, twenty-six. God, that's too young to die. . . ."

  "And Julian?"

  "Who knows? His Journal ends about three weeks after he arrived. There are a few notes at the back, and I have a feeling he just stopped writing in it. That in itself is unusual—he'd been so faithful before. Something happened to their romance. Maybe she wouldn't have him or didn't want to live in Williamsburg. And Julian had to return, remember—there was nothing for him in England. Or maybe she didn't have a dowry. Maybe Julian even recognized that while it had all been exciting and pleasurable, they really weren't meant for each other. Although, somehow, they seem so right together, don't they? Anyway, I assume he went back to the Colonies—probably married a girl he'd left behind and lived to a ripe old age. Believe me, when I get back to Williamsburg, I'm going to look him up. There must be something—a death certificate, a marriage license."