by Non Bramley
‘Do you remember her?’ I asked Johanna.
‘I never had chance to meet her.’
The second girl, Magdela - had no surname – was thought to be around seventeen and was travelling with a man she called Father. She’d last been seen safe in their room in the pilgrim house. Her father had taken a nap that afternoon, telling her to watch their bags for thieves, and when he woke she was gone. He’d stayed for a few days and then also travelled on, surmising that she’d been taken by wolves when she left the abbey to find a dark corner to shit in privacy - Maggie being a fastidious girl in some things.
‘If that man was her father,’ Johanna said wryly, ‘I’ll eat this book.’
‘Husband?’
‘More like pimp,’ she said simply. ‘She was a pretty girl, red-haired and there’s money to be made. We try to stamp it out in the pilgrim houses but we can’t be everywhere. She was here for a cure for the pox. Looked thoroughly miserable, poor child, but she wouldn’t talk to me.’
The father of the third missing woman and the grandmother of the lost child were still living within the Abbey Close. They’d stayed through a winter of starvation. The love that suggested gave me hope. People who love remember.
‘Tell me about the third woman.’
‘Anne Mercer. It’s unusual for the beautiful to be kind, but she was. Do you remember the old fairy tale? Hair as black as coal, lips as red as blood. That was Anne. She was … otherworldly. Her father, William Mercer, will be at the Mill, other side of Stone Pool. It’s best if he tells you his story but I’d go in the morning if I were you. We’ll lose the light in an hour or two and when we close the gates they don’t open again till morning.’
‘I take it the grandmother is closer to hand,’ I said.
‘Little Artie’s gran. That’s the child’s name, Artie Cohen. She’ll be in one of the pilgrim houses, weaving spells and cursing us with every stitch. Are you superstitious?’
I looked at her, puzzled.
‘You’ll find out when you get there,’ Johanna said, closing the book.
It’s my custom when trying to unravel a tangled story to start with the fact that bothers me most and follow that thread to the end. The lost child worried me, so I went to visit a witch.
First I had to get out of the church, fighting my way against the tide. Just ahead of me in the press of bodies one rat-like young man was using the chaos and confusion to press up against and grope any woman he could, protesting amused innocence when they swore at him. I made it my business to get close, and when he slipped his hand between my legs I quietly broke three of his fingers and grinned as the colour drained from his face and his knees buckled.
Trying to leave through the south door took longer than walking to the pilgrim houses that faced it. I found the grandmother all alone in the second crowded building I searched. She was sitting on the floor, unravelling some kind of knitted garment and winding the frayed wool into a ball. She took me for another pilgrim, and stealthily slid the bag containing her belongings behind her when I entered. This ancient woman had survived a winter of scant food and freezing temperatures, refusing to leave before the child was found, or her body discovered. She was bent and toothless and gave off a pungent stink, which explained why she was the only one in a room big enough for twenty.
‘Open the window, would you?’ she said. ‘Place needs an airing.’
I slid it open and sat on the windowsill, savouring the sweeter air. ‘I’m looking for the grandmother of the missing child.’
Her head snapped up. ‘You’ve found her? She’s alive?’
‘There’s no news. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m the Reeve. Prior Johanna asked me to look into her disappearance. Are you Artie’s grandmother?’
She stared at me with slick dark eyes, like sea anemones on the rocks at Calder. There was an odd red tint to them. ‘It’s not Artie, it’s Artemisia, and I’m her great-grandmother. What’s a Reeve?’ She carried on winding her thread.
‘I’m a church woman, it’s my job to bring sin to the light. I try to help people who’ve been harmed. I find thieves.’
‘And murderers? Artie isn’t dead. I’d know it,’ she said.
I nodded, but I’d heard it too often from the grieving. It’s seldom true.
‘I believe you, and I’ll do my very best to find her. Tell me everything you can remember, anything that might help me find her.’
The old woman scratched her scalp, making her hair stand up in clumps. ‘Can I trust you, Reeve?’
It was an odd question. ‘You can trust me. I just want to find Artemisia, bring her home if I can. What name are you known by?’
Her nose was running and she used her scarf to wipe it. ‘People call me Mother Cohen, but my given name is Eva. Don’t tell them though.’
‘Them?’ I asked.
She jabbed a finger towards the abbey church.
‘Your name’s safe with me. Tell me what happened,’ I said.
She scratched again, probably chasing a louse. ‘We got here October. Late, I think. Hard to tell. Come from Coventry. It’s very bad there; nearly as bad here. Travelled in a group. Too late to travel but it was bad. Lot of lone men in Coventry. Too dangerous.’
‘Who was in the group?’ I asked.
‘Just people. Didn’t speak to anyone much. We keep ourselves to ourselves and I doses those who won’t behave.’
‘Doses?’ I asked.
‘I can make ’em sick enough so we can get away if we must.’
‘And the people you travelled with, did someone need dosing?’ I said.
‘No. They didn’t come here anyway. Split off and went south.’
I nodded. ‘So you arrived here. What happened next?’
‘Been here a couple of days, stayed in this room – the both of us. I just wanted to rest for a little while. Third day I took Artie to church to hear the singing. She was so excited, bless her little heart. She loved the singing that lot do. Couldn’t get enough of it, so we went to hear them practice every day. Seventh or eighth day, most folk had left by then.’ She shifted on her bony backside.
‘Open the window, Reeve. Needs an airing in here.’
I glanced at the wall. ‘It’s already open. Why did you stay?’
‘It was stupid of me, soft. She loved the music. I thought just one more day and we’d get on the road come morning.’
‘So it was on the seventh or eighth day she went missing, and you went to listen to the singing as usual?’
Eva nodded. ‘Church almost empty, just the singers. I left her to go outside, call of nature. Most just piss in the church but I won’t do that. I piss in the big pots. Useful stuff, piss. She was stood in front of them, the choir. When I came back she was gone. I searched and screamed. You know what they tole me?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘That she’d never been there. That I came in and watched the singing on my own. Just me. Bastards are lying and I won’t leave till I find out who took her and slit their throat.’
‘She’s a little child. Could she not have been hiding behind something, or in the shadows so they couldn’t see her?’
Mother Cohen hissed through her teeth. ‘She was stood so close she could have reached out and touched them. They saw her alright. Someone in that choir took my girl and they’re all in on it.’
‘Maybe she just wandered off, wanted to explore on her own.’
‘Don’t be a bloody idiot,’ she snapped. ‘She’s blind.’
I knew then what was keeping this ancient wreck alive - it wasn’t hope.
It was fury.
I can admit now that I missed signs because of my own ineptitude. I had never before seen as many people as arrived in just one day at the abbey. It overwhelmed me – closed me in on myself. Too many words; snatches of half-missed conversations. Too many desires in the air.
I fretted at it, fearing I’d be of no use until the wheel of the year turned and the tide of people flowed away to other places.
The church choir – the Vicars Choral – were lay brethren and sistren who had not taken holy orders; their purpose being to praise God through song and beautify the Mass. They were an unremarkable little group – two men and two women, Robin, David, Susan and a middle-aged woman with faded blonde hair named Patricia. They ate together in their own little group, discussing the Eucharistic liturgy and marking the rough planks of their table with musical scores drawn with a finger dipped in ale. It was hard to imagine these greying heads making such sublime music. Susan’s fingers had an odd blue tint to them. At the time, I thought she must have some disease or condition.
That evening at dinner I joined them all at table, making their food chill with my questions. I have often found that annoyance can loosen the tongue. I was convinced that here I might find some clue, some thread that when pulled would unravel a knot.
I questioned them all, but it was Patricia who answered. She swore that they had seen Artie only once at practice. Otherwise, it was Mother Cohen on her own.
‘We thought the child was sick.’
The imminent winter had shrunk congregations at Mass to a handful of souls and the Cohens never attended services.
‘They’re Jewish, you see,’ she said without rancour. ‘We liked it when the little lass came that once. She has a real joy in song.’
Has, not had.
On the day the child disappeared, Mother Cohen had arrived to listen on her own as usual, stayed for a few minutes, and left by the north door. When she returned she’d frightened them all to the marrow, screaming curses and clawing at faces.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Patricia said. ‘We looked everywhere but there was no sign. How could there be when she’d never been there?’
Sitting on her own in a dark corner of the hall, Eva Cohen watched us beadily but showed no recognition when I greeted her. It’s not unusual for the very old to lose their memory, especially when they’re close to their end. She muttered constantly, not throwing curses but berating herself for her growing confusion.
It was heart-breaking.
The choir also worked at other labouring tasks which afforded them enough goodwill to claim a small beamed cottage to themselves along the north wall. Over the next few days I searched every inch of it. I lifted boards and made holes in hollow walls. I found nothing.
I had two truths here. Artie was both in that church, and not. I couldn’t detect the lie in either story. Not yet.
—The old get confused and make up stories, Jude. She imagined it all.
Chapter Four
I could get no further in my search for the lost child, so next I would speak to Will Mercer, father of Anne the missing beauty. Perhaps something in her disappearance would help me solve two mysteries.
A few days later I saddled Meg and rode out through the crowded south gate, turning east towards Stone Pool, the great sheet of water that lay half a mile from the abbey. The weather was warming and it was a sultry ride but the pool was overhung by willows that provided welcome shade.
The mill stood on the far side of the pool that was fed by a fast running stream, and in turn fed the abbey ditches and culvert via a system of sluice gates that looked perilously rotten. The mill had once been a church but it could have been designed with its new purpose in mind. It was a small concern, and ducking in through an open side-door I saw only one millstone turning lazily at the end of a spindle made from a stripped tree trunk that was still leaking sap. It looked like a work in progress made by a mind trying ideas out as it went along. A rough hole had been bored in in the north wall, connecting the works to the millwheel that thrashed in the stream. This stream had been diverted to run close to the walls. It would undermine them one day and the ancient structure would come down, but not yet.
I found the miller and a young girl who I assumed was his apprentice in the old transept. He was tapping on a walled-up doorway with a knuckle.
His apprentice, who was a head taller than her master, said: ‘It sounds hollow. We could have it down, clear the wall at the top and that’d be a long drop. Might work.’
The rumbling of the millwheel was loud and constant. I soon learned that there’s no such thing as a whisper in a mill. If you don’t shout, you’re not heard. So I was surprised when they turned.
‘Here’s a useful lass,’ the miller said. ‘Use that hammer and get this wall down.’
‘I’m looking for William Mercer.’
‘I’m Will Mercer. Johanna want another miracle? Get the wall down and I’ll see what I can do.’
When you’re as strong as I am you spend your life being careful. You pull your punches. Things break easily around you. I was happy to be given something to hit, so I took my hammer from my belt and swung at the wall. Brick dust puffed but nothing moved. I felt the shock of it down to my feet. It was glorious.
Will examined the wall. ‘Try here,’ he said, pointing to a weak looking joint. I did, and the brick shifted. Another blow and the block fell through. Once that wedge was out the rest fell easily.
‘Bravely done. Now get out of the light.’ He peered up the newly exposed steps. ‘They’re still there! Go right up too. God be praised!’
Will turned and I got my first proper look at him. Not tall but powerfully built, with thick hair and a dark beard that looked greying but was in fact full of dust. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now what can I do for our Prior?’
Will Mercer. A man who covered unhappiness with a white-toothed smile that lifted his sagging features and made him almost handsome. Will never stopped grieving for the loss of his daughter, and spent any time he could searching for her. He had covered as far as he could go, in every direction and found nothing. After this he’d directed his restless energy and loss into making this mill with his young helper Anice who was hounded from pillar to post by his commands, both useful and as far as she could see, useless. He told me quite simply that his heart was broken.
I believed him.
Anne was his joy. Her mother had left them when she was three years old. He had fought to keep this child alive.
‘Even at the worst times, when we were wet and cold and hungry she’d smile and the world lit up. She’s the loveliest lass. Kind to everyone and everything, even dammers. I’ve seen her cry over them out of pity. Even seen her feed them a drop of her own blood.’
Anne Mercer, twenty-two, dark-haired, sapphire-eyed and beautiful as a starry sky had arrived and simply started doing good wherever it was needed. She fed and bathed and washed the sick in the infirmary. She cleaned up the shit and gore of those poor souls stricken with the red-water pestilence, which had been bad that year. She worked in the fields and turned her life into a prayer.
Will talked and talked of her kindness, her humanity, and her empathy.
‘Another few days and we would have left. She wanted it to be just us again. If we stayed another month we’d get caught at the abbey and we’d starve, trapped for the dark days while the wolves circled. Winters are bad outside but this place draws hundreds of ’em in the dark months.’
—Do you thank God, Levi, for this beauty with the heart of a saint?
Will paused, swallowed and looked up at the roof. It was decorated with the figures of angels. ‘She’s one of them,’ he said, pointing upwards to a carved, serene face.
‘She was the third girl to disappear?’ I said.
‘She was. The little child went after Anne was taken.’
‘You’re sure she was taken? She didn’t leave?’
‘She’d never do that. It’s her and me, always.
My girl’s a saint, not like some others. She left me in our room in the pilgrim house that morning and went to the infirmary as usual, but she never got there.’
I asked him if she’d left her belongings behind, and he confirmed that she’d taken nothing. Not even her good boots.
‘And on the journey from the pilgrim house to the infirmary, no one saw her?’ I said. ‘There’s only fifty steps or so between them.’
Will shook his head.
‘Do you have family she might have gone to? Or was there a man maybe? Someone she might have left with?’
‘Nothing like that. She just disappeared. Find her, Reeve. She’s not dead – I’d know it. Find her!’
It’s always the same song.
I told him I’d do my best, and he walked with me out to where Meg was cropping the grass that grows so lushly in graveyards. Will apologised for mistaking me for a new apprentice.
‘Although God knows I could use you,’ he said. ‘They wanted a mill so I made them one. I can earn my keep this way and stay here.’
‘What did you mean, about Prior Johanna wanting another miracle?’
Will looked at his feet. ‘Typical woman. Doesn’t think about the practicalities.’
I hear this kind of thing a lot. My size confers on me a sort of faux maleness with some.
‘Where can I find you if I need to?’ I asked.
‘I’m here every day. I work. I go to evensong. I eat my meal in Vicars Hall. And they’ve found me a bed with the Vicars Choral.’
I was happy to know he was treated well. ‘I’ll find you if I’ve any news.’
As I rode back I imagined the puzzle as a scatter of woollen threads, each thread coloured for one of the missing; green for Artie, yellow for Rebecca, red for Magdela with the fiery hair, and blue for Anne. Where each thread tangled with another was where I had to look. The blue was mingled with the green. Will was staying with the very people Grandmother Cohen swore were responsible for little Artie’s disappearance.
Chapter Five
