The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  At last, three hours later, the words ended on a sob. Andrew, smoking a cigarette soon destined for the overflowing ashtray, gulped at the scotch he'd made as Timothy had changed the second tape. With disheveled hair and tired eyes, he looked battered and oddly defenseless. He stamped out the cigarette, ran his fingers through his hair and said, "Tim, this is unbelievable. If it were anyone but you, I'd hoot. God, what to make of it all! What can I say? Do you think it's true?"

  "Absolutely, every word—at least as Julian Cushing saw it." Timothy removed the last tape. "Frankly, Andrew, I've never had such a success. You may not think so, but this is quite remarkable. Often people founder—they forget dates they didn't remember even

  long ago! Their recall of events is sketchy; they mix up names and places. But you— sweet God, you remembered everything! You gave the name of the ship your ancestor wrote in his Journal! You gave the name of the ship Julian took to England and recalled what London Bridge looked like in 1700I You remembered the Indian methods of catching fish and hunting! All these things can be checked. There certainly must be a record of the Cushing family— they were evidently prominent. There are so many, many instances we can prove—or disprove."

  "What do you think happened to the boy at the wine cellar?" Andrew rose and made himself and Timothy a drink. "Why in hell wouldn't he say?"

  "Julian Cushing was an obstinate young man, and he didn't want to talk, obviously," Timothy replied. Then, with a hint of humor: "Any more than one can get you to talk today if you don't wish to."

  "Well, I'm sure I had me reasons." Andrew's voice was an excellent imitation of Julian's colonial speech. Suddenly, the bizarre aspect of their conversation struck them both, and tension disappearing, they roared with laughter.

  "And now, Julian-Andrew—now that we've got all that information, what in the name of God do we do with it?"

  Andrew drew on his cigarette reflectively. "First, Tim, let's be serious a minute. I'd like to clear up a few things. You, obviously, have been through this before, and you must have some idea of what happened at the moment when I told the story of Merrylegs. But what happened to me then? What happened when you suggested going back to the beginning of the eighteenth century and I told you my name was Julian Cushing? Where was 7—the real me? Where was Andrew Moffatt?"

  "That's only a name just as Julian Cushing is only a name," Tim replied. "Essentially you're one and the same person in a new body at a different period of time."

  "That's reincarnation, isn't it?"

  "That's what it's called, for want of a better word. Unfortunately, there's an element of the sensational about it, but we've never come up with a better term. Forget the terminology, Andrew. In essence what happened when I put you under was this: your conscious mind was completely put aside. Remember, I told you that was the everyday mind you live with that makes your decisions, that plans and strives and so on. Once you put that aside, your subconscious

  mind can emerge. That—you remember I told you—is the mind that retains all impressions, suggestions, thoughts and experiences, that have ever been put into it, not only now, but forever. It is, I'm convinced, eternal. Everything that has ever gone through it is remembered—no matter what the century—or who you happened to be then. It does not die, but please don't ask me where it goes when the physical body dies. I don't know! Heaven? Hell? Perhaps. It could be what some people call a 'soul,' but I don't think that's so. I think it's part of the soul— the thinking, intelligent, independent part that retains an identity. Such identity is subordinate to the time in which you lived. And if you can be regressed to that time, your subconscious has total recall—if there was anything to recall."

  "In other words, it's like a computer printout—all stored and retrievable, but someone has to tap it."

  "Exactly—a good comparison, Andrew! Perhaps the subconscious mind is all that remains of us that is immortal. The body dies, but that part of you—the subconscious—seems to remain alive, in some other state, and can, supposedly, be reborn again. And I'm convinced in each incarnation we reap what we have sown in former lives. And what we do in the present incarnation will most assuredly determine what we reap in a future life. Maybe not here, maybe on another planet." As Andrew's eyebrows shot up in amazement, Timothy laughed. "Who the hell knows, Andrew? A generation ago people would have thought it impossible for men to walk on the moon! Is it so incredible to believe that a mind couldn't incarnate on another planet in a different guise from the body it wore here? If a mind can travel through thousands of years in a medium where time doesn't exist, why can't it travel through thousands of miles in a medium where perhaps space doesn't exist. Who knows?"

  "Unbelievable, absolutely fantastic and unbelievable," was all Andrew could say. "How many others have you regressed, as you call it?"

  "Quite a few," Timothy replied, "but none—none whatsoever-like this. Some of them are quite dull, with vast periods of blankness and lives bordering on idiocy. Some people, as I've said, live very much on the surface; there isn't much that ever goes into their subconscious. Now Julian, God rest his soul, had something to say. He was alive, compassionate, loving, with a fantastic memory, talented and artistic. Actually, Andrew"—Timothy jabbed a fore-

  finger in his friend's direction—"you haven't changed, old boy. You're all the things you were then—you've got everything Julian had—even including that attraction and love for England. But you've taken it several steps further. Your career, for instance, is certainly the result of Julian's interest in art, travel and history."

  "Tim, there's more here than that, and you know it." Andrew stubbed out his cigarette. "I've not only reincarnated—and I feel fool enough in saying that!—but I've followed Julian's footsteps almost completely from the time I was young. I had wonderful parents, perhaps a gift from whoever runs this road show called life for losing my Cushing parents so early. I've never had to worry about money as Julian did, and I've pursued the interests he was forced to give up because of his economic circumstances. I love architecture and art, traveling and design, sketching and writing. He'd have been good at that, too—think how well he recalled everything for you: not a dull moment! We both have had a minor catastrophe at Nonsuch. My God, I even ended up in Williamsburg! I wish I knew the Francis Street house that belonged to old Cuddington. I know them all well. Cuddington probably didn't live in it long enough to have his name cling. Actually, Williamsburg's real prominence didn't occur for another fifty to sixty years after Julian left. He was there at the very beginning, when it was being built."

  "And remember, something led you to his Journal"

  "That's what I mean when I say there's something more to all this. But what is this 'something? It led me to the Journal It led me—via a travel folder—to Cuddington House and to Rosa Caudle, who 'just happened' to have all that stuff in the attic to which I was given easy and immediate access."

  "I admit, it's uncanny"—Timothy rubbed a chin and drained his glass—"even to having Sparwefeld—or Sparrow Field Farm—virtually intact for you to visit. And here's a puzzler: you as Andrew had the 'vision' of Domino outside the manor house that Julian actually never saw himself, for it was Chloe who saw it and described it to Julian. It tallies, though, with the description and sketch you gave Rosa Caudle. I agree, Andrew, it is remarkable. And more-much more—than mere coincidence. I wish I could describe what's taking place here, but frankly, there's nothing in my experience to give it a proper tag. Fate? Destiny? Fortune? I don't know."

  "Or Karma?" Seeing Timothy's look of surprise, Andrew laughed. "Listen, Tim, I've worked in India and know the Indian belief in

  reincarnation. Karma is something you build up—for good or bad— during all the soul's reincarnations on earth. I know the Indian who is born to a comfortably wealthy life as one of the higher castes—or one of the lower castes who has fantastic 'luck'—is supposed to have earned a good Karma. By contrast, the poor old sot who grubs for food in the alleys and trash piles—and there are millions
of them!— has inherited or earned a bad Karma. I'm simplifying, obviously."

  "You're right, however," Timothy replied. "Reincarnation and Karma have been a Hindu belief for thousands of years. But the belief's not limited to them. As a matter of fact, reincarnation as a doctrine is accepted by much of mankind. Only we in the West are a bit stubborn about it. I guess we don't like to admit we're not always efficient masters of our own fate. Yet even philosophers and statesmen like Cicero, Virgil, Plato, Caesar, literary geniuses like Donne, Goethe, and Milton believed in reincarnation. Your own countrymen, Ben Franklin, Oliver Wendell Holmes and Longfellow and Whitman—even General Patton!—were believers. Why, even a recent Prime-Minister of Canada admitted his belief! Like hypnosis, it's attracted some kooks and frauds, but always, throughout recorded time, there've been a score of sincere believers, and it's growing. Even world-renowned professors are interested, and some colleges in your country, Andrew, have endowed chairs to study it! Would you believe it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Yes, I think yours is a classic case of something similar to Karma, with a single difference: it's not a superficial reaping and sowing from a previous existence. Here it's more a reliving and a reenacting the scenes, with the same principals. And I don't know what the end is. It would have been helpful if Julian had gone further."

  Andrew glanced at his watch. "Tim, Madam Hall's luncheon is now only a fond memory. I've been on quite a journey since then, and—if I may borrow your bathroom for a shave—I suggest we take this conversation to that good little restaurant over on Sloane Street." As Timothy rose to clear away the glasses, Andrew thumped him on the back. "And while we're enjoying one of their overpriced vintages, I want to talk seriously about going back to Nonsuch—particularly, to the wine cellar."

  Andrew spent the following two days at Hatchards Book Store in Piccadilly, the London Library, the British Museum and the book-

  store at Westminster Abbey. Timothy had lent him the tapes, and in the privacy of his room, lying on his bed in the semidarkness, he'd replayed them. All the while, as he listened to Julian Cushing recount his love for Chloe Cuddington, the enigmatic dark-eyed original gazed at him from the wall. As Julian discussed his love, she seemed almost to come to life. It was a moving experience, and Andrew, more emotionally involved than he'd anticipated, found it difficult to stop the tape and jot down the names, places and dates— anything traceable—that Julian mentioned.

  Armed with his list, he spent the next day researching the time needed to cross the ocean in 1699, the names of seventeenth-century ships, the road one might have taken to Ewell, the villages in Southwark and the buildings in existence on London Bridge. One book in particular, Old London found in the Abbey bookstore, was a treasure trove. Destined for the tourist trade, it was, nevertheless, a remarkable compendium of sketches, drawn from contemporary sources, of every part of London considered important during the Tudor era. One section, entitled "Ludgate from the West," clearly depicted the way Chloe and Julian had ridden to London Bridge. There were the Fleet Ditch waters lapping at Blackfriars exactly as Chloe had pointed out. And the next sketch showed a frost fair on the Thames in the year 1699 with people skating, roasting their meals on bonfires or buying refreshments from stalls set up on the twenty-foot-thick ice.

  Lloyds of London supplied a list of all seventeenth-century ships owned by the London Company, and in the British Museum, Andrew found that the Susan Constant sailing from Blackwall in 1606 carried the name "Amos Cushing, yeoman" among its passengers. He also discovered John White's sketches of the Virginia Indians which were considered most valuable. And in 1649 the passenger list of the Duke of York carried the name of "James Cuddington, gentleman." On a hunch he checked the passenger lists at Lloyds for all ships docking from the New World, and in the spring of 1700 the name of "Julian Cushing" was listed aboard the Sovereign of the Seas.

  He also did some firsthand research. He crossed the new London Bridge and, hiring a taxi at Southwark Cathedral, directed the driver through Walworth and Newington. Sure enough, as they neared the river, Lambeth Palace was clearly visible. Hedged in now by developments and St. Thomas's Hospital, it was no longer

  girdled by the vast trees, gardens and orchards that had so impressed young Julian. Andrew paid the driver at Lambeth Bridge and walked across, emerging about where Julian would have landed from the horse ferry. The street was named, appropriately enough, Horseferry Road. He walked up Millbank, toward the Abbey, imagining the boy's wonder could he now see the vast Houses of Parliament where before he'd seen only the rotting remains of Westminster Palace.

  It all checked out. However much he might, with his twentieth-century skepticism, disdain the thought that he'd lived before, the fast-growing pile of notes he'd made for Timothy proved otherwise. One thing surprised Andrew. As the notes confirmed the tapes, much of his reluctance to accept disappeared. He'd been brought up and educated to respect things that could be proved and that-above all—were irrefutable. But it did surprise—and intrigue—him that the fact that so many of his previous beliefs and values were in danger of being destroyed or at least altered seemed really to matter very little. What was important was that he discover the truth.

  And then there was the matter of Chloe Cuddington herself. She was as much a mystery as the Lure. And what had brought him to England and Cuddington House? And what was the seemingly malign force at Nonsuch that could kill?

  At the end of two days of visiting all over London, he went to Timothy Hodge's apartment and, over an excellent meal which Mrs. Hall remained to cook, laid his notes out for his friend's inspection. Timothy was gratified at Andrew's findings. "Not that I expected anything else," he said, pouring an after-dinner coffee. "Our friend Julian was not a liar."

  "Well, our friend Julian left several things unsolved, however," Andrew replied, "and here's what they are. First, what happened to him? He couldn't just disappear. I checked the ships' passenger lists until 1702—no great task, for there weren't that many—but no Julian Cushing is listed as returning to America. I don't really think he ever went home. Second, was the Lure ever discovered? The legend hasn't persisted to this day. Does that mean it was found? And that whatever was found was hushed up? Or was the legend allowed to die a natural death? That probably would have happened in a generation or so, especially as the ruins deteriorated even further. One thing I'm absolutely certain of, Tim, is they are all connected with each other and with Chloe Cuddington."

  Several books on the coffee table with paper slips in various places testified that Timothy had also done research. "And right in my own bookshelves, too. Here, Andrew, you won't believe this! It's such a small coincidence—but this is the sort of thing researchers consider much more valid than a name, a date or a place. Listen to this—it's from a Short History of Ewell and Nonsuch by an estimable gentleman named Cloudesley S. Willis, whom, believe it or not, my father knew. Old Willis died just a few years ago. Here's what he writes: 'A cowman named Pilgrim who worked at Nonsuch Park and lived in Ewell one night left his home and walked across the fields to visit a sick cow. It was two o'clock in the morning. When he got to this field, there was a high stile on which he sat. There in the hollow, he saw a funeral. He gazed at it and remembered that people said that a church once stood in the dell. He was too frightened to go on and turned back, leaving the cow to take her chances. He told the story to Mr. Gadedsan, who looked in a book and said there had been a church in that dell in the time of the Romans' "

  "Just as Rosa Cuddington told Julian," said Andrew.

  "Right. And in this book, which is most explicit, Queen Elizabeth's Elm, the Banqueting House, each and every description of Nonsuch that Julian Cushing gave tallies completely. He might have taken it from this book—except, of course, he didn't. It wasn't written until 1931."

  Andrew was silent, mulling over Timothy's words. They didn't surprise him; he'd developed a compelling respect for Julian Cush-ing's veracity. And there was a strong conviction growing in him that the story had
to have an end-and that he'd been brought to England to end it.

  "Tim, I'm sure the answer is not here in London. I think it's at Nonsuch."

  "You're not to go back there, Andrew! I warn you, there's nothing there for you except something rotten and evil. I thought so before the tapes, and now I'm convinced. I won't be responsible!"

  "I won't go to Nonsuch without you, Tim. Jesus, we'll take a policeman if we have to." The thought—so incongruous—struck them both, and they laughed heartily. Andrew poured them a brandy. "Now don't worry, old chum. I have no desire to meet up with the Nonsuch demon, but oh, God, I do want to find the Lure! It will somehow justify Julian and his Chloe. That's what they wanted, too

  —to find the Lure. We've left it all hanging midair." He set his brandy down. "Tell you what. I know your patients can't do without you, but I'm going to ask my Artless Charmer if I may have the hospitality of Sparrow Field Farm." He could see Timothy's protests forming. "I promise not to go to Nonsuch unless you're there with me. Also, I'm anxious to have a chance at that attic! Think what I found upstairs at Cuddington House. Now Julian didn't stay there very long, but he was at Sparrow Field off and on for three weeks. There must be something of his visit there that we could trace. How about those manuscripts he read? How about the Book of Hours the child Chloe so loved? People don't throw those things away. Granted they won't tell us anything we don't already know, but if they exist, then something else might still remain. Something else that will tell us what happened to Julian—and if he ever discovered the Lure"—and then, almost as an afterthought—"and what happened to Chloe, too."