Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  St Mary’s Lodge – the house at the top of the village with its unusual half-spire and clock tower. It had never occurred to me it was once a church and I’d passed by the property many times without giving it a second thought.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know who lives there?’ I asked.

  He shook his head and looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Most people are happy to open up their homes when an eminent archaeologist is interested in what their property may, or may not, have hidden within its boundaries.’

  I wasn’t sure if I understood him correctly. Was he being less than ethical and playing the ‘professional’ card? He watched me closely as I grappled with the idea.

  ‘Professor…?’

  He winked at me. ‘Young lady, you don’t think I have worked hard all these many years to secure a place of standing in the world of archaeology without being able to flex my professional muscles from time to time? Yes, I live for my work, but I do pull the odd string occasionally.’

  Well, the old rogue! Now I understood why he drove a Porsche and not some battered ‘old faithful’.

  And so it was that half an hour later, having witnessed Professor Stephens’ silvery tongue in full flow, we were welcomed into the home of Mr and Mrs Rogers. Although the property was no more than a few hundred yards from The Olde Smithy, the professor insisted on taking his Porsche: ‘To give the right impression, my dear.’ As he held open the passenger door for me I noticed Janet cleaning the front windows of the pub. I waved at her. Her jaw dropped as she watched me get in the car. In slow motion, she returned my wave. I slid onto the soft leather seat and smiled, determined to savour the three-minute drive up the street to St Mary’s Lodge.

  It transpired that Mr and Mrs Rogers had purchased St Mary’s from the church four years previously, investing a huge amount of money in renovating the property during the intervening period. It was now in pristine order and full of ecclesiastical features. A stunning stained-glass window and an original rood screen dominated the sitting room, and there were a number of Gothic mullioned archways and, of course, the unusual, ornate half-spire rising from the centre of the roof.

  The Rogers explained that the upper part of the spire had been in a dangerous state and, rather than repair it fully, they simply had the top half removed and capped with a low clock tower. Professor Stephens enthused over the clever ways they’d incorporated a home within the four walls of the church, and then explained his main interest was in the grounds, particularly the graveyard.

  Opening the French doors, Mr Rogers beckoned us to follow him down a stone path flanked either side by well-tended flowerbeds. We passed beneath a rose arbour into a less formal area of the garden and there, in the quiet solitude of a hidden tree-lined clearing, was the original cemetery. At once, I was overcome by a terrible sense of loss and despair.

  In muffled tones, as if coming from a very great distance, I heard Mr Rogers inform the professor that the headstones were mainly seventeenth and early eighteenth century and that later village burials could be found at the church in Shipton Gorge.

  ‘We are interested to see if there are any graves here belonging to former occupants of Madeleine’s cottage in the village,’ the professor explained.

  ‘You may be lucky,’ said Mr Rogers. ‘The graveyard is somewhat protected from the elements and most of the headstones are still legible. I’ll leave you to look around.’ Turning on his heels, he disappeared swiftly up the garden path towards the house.

  ‘I suggest we work our way along each row in a methodical manner,’ Professor Stephens said, surveying the thirty or so headstones. He turned away and started to walk along the lines of stones.

  I didn’t join him. I knew he was heading in the wrong direction.

  It was very peaceful in this garden of rest. There wasn’t a sound to be heard except for the occasional burst of birdsong. I breathed in the solitude and serenity, and tried to dispel the utter wretchedness that consumed me. Remaining at the entrance, I looked across the clearing. On the far side stood a headstone, larger than the others, and some older understanding told me this was the one I sought.

  As I walked across the glade a robin flitted from stone to stone, eyeing me inquisitively. A deep sense of sadness and grief engulfed me; the nearer I drew, the stronger my emotions. It was a very old gravestone and I had to fight an overwhelming urge to lie down at its foot and stay there forever. A huge sob escaped me as, through my tears, I read the epitaph carved into the stone.

  Here Lyeth

  Nathaniel Carbayne

  Farrier of this Village

  2nd March 1612 – 18th December 1664

  And Cherished Son

  Francis

  7th September 1639 – 15th October 1643

  Rest in Peace

  I began to choke and, gasping for air, pulled frantically at my collar. Suddenly a pair of strong hands gripped my shoulders.

  ‘There, there…’ Professor Stephens hugged me awkwardly.

  Despite my distress, I was aware this was a momentous act on his part. The bachelor had probably not shown such tenderness to a woman for many a year, if ever. Looking over my shoulder, he read the epitaph.

  ‘I believe we may have found an important piece of the jigsaw.’

  His large bony fingers gently rubbed my back and I breathed more easily. Soon, I was able to extricate myself from his embrace. Sobbing quietly, I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand.

  ‘Better now?’ The kindly man peered into my face with concern.

  I nodded, still unable to speak. Here lay my husband and son.

  ‘I think we may have found previous inhabitants of your cottage. Nathaniel Carbayne,’ he said. He looked at me with compassion, without understanding. ‘Farriers were very well respected in the seventeenth century, you know. Their skills were more akin to those of our equine vets today. People would ask their advice on all manner of ailments.’

  My aching heart swelled with pride.

  ‘Now, his young son, Francis…’

  Unchecked, the tears rolled down my face once again. I wondered what the professor must think but, although he shot me a quizzical look, he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Only four years old. Hmm…’ He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s see. He could have succumbed to the plague or smallpox. There was a lot of disease around in that century and there wouldn’t have been much effective medication. Mortality rates, especially amongst children, were high and sanitation was not at its best. It became more so later in the century but mid-sixteen hundreds…’ He trailed off.

  It was smallpox. The red face, the hot sweats and the rash. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to save Francis.

  As the professor walked away down the line of headstones looking for proof of further inhabitants, I recalled how distraught Nat had appeared at St Martin’s. Why was he at the church in Shipton Gorge? I looked around for something to place at the grave but there was nothing suitable, so I removed the blue glass bead necklace from around my neck and hung it from the top of the stone.

  ‘God be with you,’ I whispered. Immediately, the greatest sense of pure joy and total forgiveness descended upon me and the lump in my throat eased. From out of nowhere a warm breeze brushed my face, like the gentlest of kisses.

  ‘There’s nothing else here that relates to your cottage that I can see,’ announced the professor as he returned. He stood beside me and acknowledged my necklace hanging from the headstone.

  ‘That’s a nice touch, young lady. I’m sure that Nathaniel and young Francis are more than happy you are living in their home.’

  ‘Once more,’ spoke a voice inside my head.

  *

  That evening, as I entered the latest piece of the unravelling mystery into my laptop, I carefully considered all that had happened to me that day. I was exhausted and it seemed to me the visitations and experiences were drawing ever more urgently upon me. It felt as if something was coming to a close an
d a great sense of dread hung over me, which I couldn’t shake off. I thought of Nathaniel Carbayne and realised he was the NC inscribed on the wedding ring and I assumed that the other initials where those of Mary. But who was she? I was deep in thought when the phone rang and it made me jump. I answered it, feeling jittery.

  ‘Maddie?’ enquired a warm, female voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Helen Moore, Nick’s sister.’

  I smiled. ‘Hello, Helen, how are you?’

  ‘Oh very well, thank you. And you?’

  I said I was fine, ignoring the disquiet in my soul.

  She explained that Peter had spoken to his partner concerning the potential article about his organic smallholding. ‘Charles says he is delighted for you to pay him a visit.’

  She gave me his number and I wrote it down on the notepad by the phone.

  ‘But, Maddie, I have to warn you. Charles is a lovable rogue. He is very charming and he will love you!’

  ‘You’re painting a very interesting picture of this man, Helen,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you say that if he hadn’t been forced into becoming a solicitor he would probably be on the wrong side of the law by now?’

  She laughed. ‘A slight exaggeration possibly, but his family, like ours, is a Dorset family reaching back many generations. There have always been rumours over the centuries about members of the Bosworth family – mainly their involvement with smuggling.’

  I laughed.

  ‘Nick mentioned your uncle researched your family tree,’ I said, only too happy to be talking about him with someone who knew him so well.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. When our father died, Uncle Robert looked into the family history. I believe he traced it back to the sixteen hundreds but we weren’t Corbin then. The name has changed over the centuries. We were Carbayne then.’

  Blood pumped through my body at an alarming speed and a loud whooshing noise resounded in my head.

  ‘Maddie? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. I need to tell you something. I’ve had a very unusual experience today.’

  I took the phone through to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. I told her about my visit to the graveyard at St Mary’s and how I believed that Nat Carbayne had once lived in The Olde Smithy. She listened quietly throughout, only speaking when I had finished.

  ‘That would figure, Maddie, she said calmly. ‘We come from this part of Dorset and all the menfolk in my family have been skilled craftsmen. I have a copy of the family tree somewhere. I’ll look it out for you, if you like. Nick said you are writing a book about your cottage and it might help with your research.’

  I smiled, happy in the knowledge that he had discussed me with her. But a book… I hadn’t considered that. I thanked her and said I would be in contact with Charles Bosworth.

  Before she ended the call, she said, ‘Peter and I are off to Kenya for a month next week, but when we get back we’d love you to come over for supper one evening.’

  I wished her a good trip and said I looked forward to visiting them on their return.

  21

  Two things happened during the second week of March. I received a payment for the article in EcoWorld and although it was nothing compared to the salary from Hawkstone Media, it was all the sweeter for being the first of the freelance money coming into my account. The second was a letter from Nick; a letter I shall keep to my dying day.

  I had not slept particularly well and, surrendering to the bright daylight creeping through the crack in the curtains, I’d risen early. I didn’t bother getting dressed and padded around the cottage in my dressing gown, trying to decide what to do with the day. I was drinking coffee, looking out of the kitchen window at the early spring day, when I heard a noise at the front door, as half a dozen envelopes dropped through the letterbox onto the mat. I wandered over. Placing the coffee mug on the table, I picked up the post and sorted it into order of priority on the dining table.

  ‘Bill, no thanks. Another bill, no thanks. Credit card statement, no thanks.’

  What’s this? My heart skipped a beat as I recognised the stylised writing on the blue envelope. Sitting down at the table, I turned the letter over in my hands, not wanting to open it. Some sixth sense warned me of its content. I procrastinated and examined the two other items of post. One was from the local Cats Protection League asking me to volunteer my services; the other was a cheap car insurance flyer.

  Slowly, I returned to Nick’s letter. Fingers of ice reached up from the pit of my stomach and held me firmly in their grasp. Sick with premonition, I opened the envelope and extracted the letter. The silence in the room was palpable. I heard Storm eating from his bowl in the kitchen, but that was all. No sounds penetrated the cottage from the outside world. I was suspended in time, and time held its breath, waiting for something to happen.

  Ashton Chase Barn

  10 March

  Dear Maddie,

  I have to write this letter. Though I have a skip full of mail that demands answers and my day sheet is crammed with a mass of urgent chores and obligations that I have no hope of fulfilling, I have to write this letter. I have a very stern and hard-working conscience, which is giving me no peace at the moment. This letter may quieten its angry clamouring.

  It is to be a plea for my defence, a token of gratitude and hope for future friendship.

  First, my defence. I am not one of life’s great planners. I do not chart courses or control events. It cannot be said on my epitaph that he knew what he wanted and went out and got it. Whilst my successful friends bore across life’s oceans in pursuit of lofty goals, I bob in their wake, drifting on the tide of circumstance, admiring the scenery that chance presents. Through such aimless navigation I arrive in situations by accident. I know enchanted creeks and peaceful backwaters that the captains of their own destiny will never see. But there are perils that await the drifter, rocky shoals and whirlpools that responsible people steer clear of.

  In the same way that I don’t control my life, I cannot control my feelings. I cannot be blamed for admiring attractive scenery. That a client happens to be both charming and beautiful should simply sweeten the working day. Where I am guilty is in not heeding the signs that something was happening within. I should have corrected things and started paddling away at the start when I found myself thinking of you too often and too fondly. That I didn’t take evasive action was due to a naïve belief in some Enid Blyton Utopia where everyone exists as ‘jolly good chums’ – a world uncomplicated by the tangle of feelings, relationships, sexuality, envy and jealousy. The outcome is painful. And now I am dangerously close to being in love, if not already.

  This is where the gratitude comes in. For the enchantment that your company has brought to my life. It is a nice feeling knowing there is someone around that you really like. Dorchester, Walditch and the Blacksmith’s Arms are places that have grown a new attraction for me – that I might glimpse you. I enjoyed dusting off my peacock feathers (though I hope it wasn’t too obvious). I did not make a play for you, rather I fell for you. Thank you for briefly and unwittingly making me very happy.

  A grey dawn now fills the barn where I am writing this. It heralds a full day. I have used up all the paper trying to write this and there is no more left, and I have not said anything that I really wanted to say.

  Maddie, I wish you the greatest fortune in your life. May the gods smile upon you and bless you with happiness – and may your friendship be mine.

  Love, Nick

  Refolding the letter, I slipped it back into its envelope and refused to weep.

  *

  That night I was restless. I couldn’t get comfortable, however hard I tried, and sleep evaded me. Eventually I went downstairs, heated up a mug of milk and settled on the sofa, pulling a fleece rug over me. A delighted Storm immediately jumped onto my lap and curled up, purring contentedly. I opened Mrs McKendrick’s book and started to read. I had already skimmed through it once, but now I believed
I owed it a more thorough reading. Francis died in 1643 and Oliver Cromwell was mentioned during the ‘happening’ in the courtyard Nick had witnessed, so the era was correct. Mrs McKendrick was definitely trying to tell me something.

  During the English Civil War, Dorset was mostly Royalist. Everyone from nobility to labourers joined the 17th-century fight between Royalists and Parliamentarians, with villages often split dangerously down the middle. While Dorset had a number of Royalist strongholds, such as Sherborne Castle and Corfe Castle (both of which were devastated by fighting), many towns, such as Weymouth, were under the control of the Parliamentarians.

  By 1644 the Parliamentarians had virtual control of the entire county. The men of Dorset were noted at this time for their lack of enthusiasm for war, and Clubmen – groups of what would now be called conscientious objectors – were formed in substantial numbers.

  The hours passed, but I didn’t notice. As my eyelids grew heavy, I drifted into a broken sleep. Storm disturbed me once when he turned around on my lap and I snuggled deeper into the cushions, pulling the rug up around my neck. Soon, I was visited by a dream so vivid that when I thought about it later I wondered if I had been transported back to that harsh, unforgiving time.

  It was cold, so cold, and not just in the air; my heart was leaden. I sat astride the bay horse with Elisabeth in front of me holding tightly on to the mare’s coarse, black mane. I held a bundle of clothes in one hand and cradled my precious daughter with the other. Nat stood at Bess’s head, talking softly to her as he glanced anxiously over his shoulder in the direction of the sound of the advancing army. Bess was a cob of solid disposition, but she, too, had caught something of the electrified atmosphere and stamped nervously. We heard the marching soldiers drawing ever closer and an occasional whinny caught on the wind.

  ‘No time to waste,’ Nat whispered urgently. ‘We must away.’

  I urged Bess on and we rode across the village green towards the track leading to Shipton Gorge. Nat led the cob, keeping pace with her as we steadily climbed. We did not speak. I was sick with worry. The afternoon was quickly turning to dusk and the chill in the air – a chill of impending disaster – penetrated through to the very bone. As my daughter huddled against me, I pulled the cloak around us both. The journey was difficult in the deepening gloom but Bess was sure-footed and, despite her uneasiness, she did not trip on the rutted path.