The Angel and the Sword

by Sally Wragg

  ‘He’s been in trouble with the police before. . . .’

  Reuben’s scowl deepened. The old curmudgeon had been busy. ‘Something and nothing, little more than stupid, boyish pranks. He has nothing to do with this other business; I can assure you of that, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘All the same . . . I’ll need to talk to him sometime soon. I’ll be back.’ And with that warning, he was gone, leaving Reuben staring fretfully after him. He finished his tea quickly, staring moodily down into the dregs. So, both he and Lewis were under suspicion, a knowledge causing him again to regret the crazy impulse that had driven him from the comfortable life he’d made for himself in Berlin, bringing him back here to Loxley. Loxley, where his life had always gone wrong!

  He rose to his feet, sighing heavily. But there, even he had to accept, given the swift rise of the Nazis in Germany, there was nothing so sure but that he would have had to come home sometime.

  Her mother and Roland de Loxley had taken the car to see Hyssop Manor, the childhood home of the parliamentarian, Rufus Hyssop, Nell’s husband. Hettie wasn’t sure when the idea had first occurred to her that she and Bill should take tea with her grandmother in the meantime but fuelled by the certainty that it was important to maintain the momentum of everything they’d achieved so far, she’d inveigled her curmudgeonly relative into issuing the invitation for Bill to join them whether she’d liked it or not.

  At the bottom of the stone steps, under the imperious glare of the two stone lions standing either side, Bill hung back awkwardly. ‘Are you sure your grandmother really doesn’t mind me joining you for tea?’ he asked, for the umpteenth time since Hettie had pressed him into this visit.

  She grinned. ‘She’s absolutely furious but now she’s admitted what she’s been up to, she could hardly say no. We’ve got to go for it, Bill! She can’t be allowed to get away with the havoc she’s wrought. Besides, I’ve told you, she’s sorry about it now. . . .’

  ‘But, Het . . . I can understand why she did what she did and exactly why she thought I wasn’t good enough for you. There are so many differences between us, socially speaking; I’m surprised sometimes you even give me the time of day. . . .’

  Appalled to find not only was he having such thoughts but, worse, was actually prepared to give them air, Hettie treated him to a withering stare. She hated the idea he could think such rubbish. That he had no idea how to handle her grandmother was patently clear but, there again, he wasn’t on his own there. Much as she loved her, even Hettie had to concede her elderly relative was the most awkward old curmudgeon possible. She could hardly blame him for that.

  Some of her tension relaxed. At once, Bill grinned.

  ‘Oh, Hettie, I have missed you. . . .’

  ‘Why, and I’ve missed you, too,’ she returned sweetly, perfectly aware he wanted to kiss her again. Before he should have chance, she put herself out of the way, turning quickly and bounding up the steps and inside and into the hall. Of course she knew it was wonderful they were back together again, she’d missed him like anything; but there was no denying, her trip to Europe had changed things. She’d tasted freedom and discovered she loved it and it was influencing her thoughts on what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Inside, a battle was raging and she wasn’t yet sure of its outcome, only that Loxley was and would always be a huge part of her life. She led the way into the sitting room, her mind still churning over the facts. Bill somehow complicated matters and in a way she wasn’t quite ready for yet.

  Soames had just taken in the tea and sandwiches and cakes, always served in the hall at this time to fill the gap between lunch and dinner, smiling fondly at Hettie as they passed and closing the door softly behind them. Katherine Loxley put down the plate of sandwiches she’d just helped herself to and sank down into the chair.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, stiffly, her voice full of reproof.

  Belatedly, Hettie realized that bringing Bill here and so quickly after their clear-the-air conversation, might appear, conceivably as if she was crowing. Why hadn’t she thought! The situation could have proved awkward if Bill hadn’t, unexpectedly, discovered his courage.

  ‘Please don’t mind me, Your Grace. Hettie’s invited me for tea but I won’t stay if you’d rather not,’ he said, stepping forward with his usual diffident manner but speaking with such a quiet dignity, Hettie could see that it had impressed even her grandmother. Instantly, some of the room’s tension was diffused. Graciously Katherine inclined her head and, from that point on, things might have gone swimmingly if only, just as they’d settled down and were tucking into what was proving a splendid tea, the door hadn’t opened to reveal Inspector Digby. He stood, hovering impatiently, his face alive with a barely suppressed excitement. That he had news of some importance to impart was clear.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb Your Grace but, if you’ve a moment, there’s something I’d like to show you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Katherine enquired, snappishly and yet curious despite herself. ‘Oh, very well, if I must. . . .’ Sighing pointedly, she got up and followed him out. Determined not to miss out, Hettie took hold of Bill’s arm and hustled them out after her, intrigued to see the little Inspector lead the way up the main staircase before heading, in some determination, towards the antelibrary.

  Inside, he made straight for the bookcase to the left of the door.

  ‘I did wonder how our burglar got in,’ he muttered, almost to himself, and, as his increasingly intrigued audience hovered nearby, extracted a penknife from a clutter of string and keys he pulled from his jacket pocket. Ramming the rest back into his pocket, he opened the knife, and then kneeling in front of the bookcase worked with it at the inlaid panel of wood nearest the door, prizing away a rough square of wood. He leaned forwards, slightly red-faced, to reach inside the aperture it surprisingly revealed. ‘You’d never know there was a catch here, unless you were looking for it . . . voila!’ he cried and, much like a conjuror revealing a magical trick, leapt up and back as, to their general astonishment, with much creaking and groaning, the bookcase slid away from the wall. A contraption working pretty much the same as the one downstairs in the fireplace in the main hall, Hettie imagined, if only they’d realized its existence! Katherine gasped out loud. An opening, barely wide enough for a slim person to pass through, lay revealed.

  ‘Well, I never!’ she murmured, clearly shocked.

  Hettie blew out her cheeks. ‘Gosh! How did you find it?’ she demanded, impressed.

  Digby nodded happily. ‘Once I heard about the first passageway, it seemed obvious there might be another . . . and it was only a matter of time before I found it.’ He smiled complacently. ‘The walls in this place must be of an incredible thickness. There’s a passageway between the wall cavities, leading to an almost vertical descent to the lower floor. I’ve followed it through, right out of the hall and down to the ruins! It joins the secret passageway between the New and Old Halls through a concealed door more or less undetectable from the other side, unless you knew it was there, of course. No wonder, even after the initial find, you never discovered it. Loxley is more of a labyrinth than anyone realized.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, I shall have to see it for myself!’ Hettie murmured, excitedly.

  ‘Henrietta Arabella, you’ll do no such thing!’ Katherine warned.

  It was too late and Hettie was too impetuous. Blatantly ignoring her grandmother’s orders to the contrary, she ran swiftly to light the lamp on the table nearby and, lifting it, beckoning to Bill to follow her, returned to squeeze through the opening. Inside, holding up the lamp, she whistled softly, alarmed to find she was in an unbearably claustrophobic corridor, so narrow it felt as if the walls were pressing in on her, hemming her in. Lamplight cast grotesque shadows on the walls and the smell of mould and mildew was overpowering. But how could this passageway exist when she’d imagined, in her innocence, she knew every twist and turn that Loxley had to offer!

  Breathing out slowly and deliberately, she sti
fled a rising tide of panic.

  ‘Gosh, it stinks,’ Bill said, the light mooning his face as, with difficulty, he squeezed through after her. Hettie smiled a reassurance she was far from feeling. There was no way to go, only forwards. ‘Ever onwards,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse with excitement. Holding the lamp up, leaving Bill with no option other than to follow her, she made her way boldly into the looming darkness, a journey that seemed to go on forever but, in reality, was only a few short minutes. All at once, she catapulted to a halt to stare down in a blind panic at the yawning chasm which had opened up at her feet. Cursing softly, Bill bumped into her.

  ‘Whatever now?’ he snapped peevishly.

  ‘There’s a vertical drop, that’s what!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake be careful, Het. . . .’

  He’d no need to tell her! They’d come upon the impossibly narrow, winding steps the inspector had warned them about, plunging down into blackness so any unwary traveller would have been bound to have fallen head first, no doubt breaking their neck in the process. Visibly shuddering, Hettie held up the lamp, illumining the walls around. Suddenly she gasped out loud.

  A draught flared the light upwards, drawing her attention to the wall directly above, where she was astonished to see intricately scrolled lettering chiselled into the stonework.

  But surely Digby must have seen this too? If he had, he’d failed to recognize its importance, unlike Hettie who did, at once. She held the lamp higher, peering up at it, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure even Bill must hear it.

  ‘Let’s get back, Het. Leave those steps for another time. It’s dreadful in here. . . .’ he implored.

  ‘Listen to this,’ she said, sharply, ignoring his complaints. She began to read out loud, her voice trembling with excitement, strange words of which she couldn’t, as yet, make the slightest sense:

  When Aranrhod in her greatest power

  Burnishes the Angel Bright

  Then shall mighty Aelric strike and

  Great Glory come to Loxley again. . . .

  ‘Whatever does it mean, Bill?’ she exclaimed, swinging back towards him in great animation.

  ‘Why? What do you think? Nothing at all – only the work of a deranged madman with nothing better to do – probably one of your ancestors! The Lord knows you have enough of them! I bet these old passageways are full of such rubbish,’ he returned, scathingly.

  He didn’t understand. Seizing his arm, Hettie shook it roughly.

  ‘Aelric is the sword Leon told us all about!’ she implored. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bill – don’t you realize what it means even now? It’s absolutely wonderful, it means Leon’s tale was true and I always thought it was. This is exactly the proof I’ve been looking for . . . Aelric really does exist!’

  Chapter Nine

  Hyssop Manor was a low, half-timbered manor house, nestled deep in the valley. If, on numerous occasions, Bronwyn had driven past it about her daily business, it was a while since she’d stopped. She’d been with Reuben at the time, on the way back from Lawrence Payne’s old house where they’d viewed a couple of paintings the vicar owned of Nell, the First Duchess. She’d been pregnant with Hettie at the time, she remembered, and, just as now, desperate to get away from the hall.

  The day was waning, bringing with it the first hint of autumn’s chill, reminding her how quickly time was passing. Unsurprisingly, given the theft of General Hawker’s secret papers and the trouble it had brought crashing down on the innocent heads of Loxley’s occupants, she’d neglected Roland too much of late. She leaned back against the car, smiling across at him. ‘I thought you’d like to see where our illustrious Nell’s husband grew up,’ she murmured, happily.

  ‘The Duchess who married one Hyssop and yet loved another?’

  ‘She was an ardent Royalist despite her husband,’ she reminded him.

  Roland nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I’m not being critical. I admire her and why wouldn’t I? During the Civil War, my side of the family fled to France whilst Nell, brave woman that she was, had the heart and courage to stay and fight. It couldn’t have been easy for a woman alone. But I wonder how Rufus felt, his brother slain, fighting for the wrong side, so to speak?’

  Bronwyn’s face suffused with the enthusiasm that had seen her suggest this visit in the first place. ‘They were troubled times, Roland, pitting family members against each other. I can’t think now why I’ve never tried to find out more. It’s not as if I’ve never had chance! We could do some delving together, if you’d like but I . . . I suppose you have to go home?’ This last slipped out. Bronwyn was unsure why Roland’s imminent return was such anathema to her and yet, it was. A shrug of his shoulders warned her she might not like what she was about to hear.

  ‘I can’t put it off much longer, I’m afraid. And yet, I hardly like to leave you with all this trouble?’

  ‘You mean about the stolen papers? Having you here has helped,’ she admitted and then worried that had made her sound too needy. Well, she was needy and there was no disguising it and, after all, unattached as she was, what possible harm could there be? If her relationship with Roland deepened into something they both apparently lacked in their lives, then so be it. Companionship, warmth, a shoulder to lean on . . . Roland de Loxley was an attractive man and she liked him very much, just as she knew he liked her too. At the same time, Bronwyn was wise enough to know she was still grieving over Harry and was subsequently vulnerable. She’d hate to cause herself even more pain and, in the process, cause this man pain too when she’d little idea what other troubles he might have in his life.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, Bron,’ he murmured, moving close enough so that his breath fanned her face, and her nostrils became keen to the first faint scent of his cologne. They were alone and, for once, far from prying eyes. It was a surprise, all the same, when he bent his head and kissed her, lightly, on the lips, a kiss that lasted only seconds before he pulled away, his eyes on hers, gauging her response. Enjoyable, certainly, a pleasurable kiss but did she, should she, want to repeat the experience? Unsure what she’d started, she stepped back and out of harm’s way, aware too that much as he tried to disguise it, Roland was annoyed at her reticence.

  It was a relief to get back in the car and drive home, enduring – and there was no other word to describe it – a strangely muted conversation during which time neither quite dared to say what was on their minds. Should they have kissed? Were they truly ready for the heavy baggage which came along with a physical relationship? Bronwyn sensed that, whatever his past, Roland was ready, that as far as he was concerned, that was what this afternoon’s visit had been about.

  ‘I’ve so much enjoyed this afternoon,’ he murmured, thereby proving her conjectures. They’d parked up and were walking back towards the hall. He was flirting with her and his expression left her with no room for doubt. He’d enjoyed their embrace and imagined she had too. Had she then, let things go too far, giving impression of something on offer when she wasn’t sure it was? She hated to think she was being unfair.

  For a moment, the hall appeared a sanctuary and if only, once inside, the feeling had endured but no sooner had they got through the door than Hettie, Bill in tow, came rushing down the great staircase towards them. More trouble, Bronwyn thought wearily, reading it in her daughter’s face, currently flushed with overexcitement. Not now, Hettie, she wailed inwardly, but had no chance to stop the deluge that was her daughter before she launched in.

  ‘Mother! You’ll never believe it!’

  ‘I won’t, darling, if you don’t tell me.’ Gathering her wits, clinging onto her patience only with difficulty, Bronwyn passed her coat to Soames, who, as was his wont, materialized as if by osmosis.

  Hettie was unstoppable. ‘We’ve found another secret passage-way!’ she cried out. ‘Chief Inspector Digby says it joins up with the one leading down to the ruins. There’s some sort of a riddle on the wall above the stairs and, oh boy, didn’t I just know it, it
proves Aelric really does exist . . . or did once, at any rate, just like Leon told me. . . .’

  Bronwyn hadn’t the slightest idea what her daughter was talking about and it was suddenly too much. The afternoon, Roland’s move on her and now Hettie, hardly giving her a chance to draw breath.

  ‘Aelric? Hettie, whatever are you on about now? You’re not making the slightest sense!’ she retorted, sharply, for her.

  Hettie exhaled slowly and made a visible effort to calm down and marshal her thoughts into some semblance of coherence. She started again, elucidating clearly this time. Chief Inspector Digby’s discovery of yet another secret passageway, this one behind the bookcase in the anteroom, so the canny little man had a pretty strong suspicion now how the thief had managed to get past a locked door to steal the war committee’s secret papers. ‘He says the country’s rife with spies! They’re simply everywhere and it could be someone from the village or even one of the servants living here in the Hall!’ she burst out, before the unlikelihood of this preposterousness penetrated even her consciousness. She grinned, sheepishly.

  ‘It must at least be someone with a pretty strong knowledge of the hall?’ Roland chipped in, eagerly. Bronwyn nodded uncertainly.

  ‘But what’s this about a riddle?’ she demanded. Eagerly, Hettie explained about the writing she’d discovered carved into the wall over the secret stairwell and the reference it contained to Aelric, King Edmund’s fabulous and legendary sword, struck in honour of his beautiful bride Elgiva, whose tale had first been recounted by Leon, the gypsy leader. ‘You’re not still going on about the gypsies?’ Bronwyn groaned, longing for a good soak in the bath where at least there’d be chance of a little peace and quiet.

  Katherine had joined them in time to hear this last.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ she boomed. ‘Take no notice of the child, Bronwyn. It might be helpful to know how the thief got in and stole those papers but as for the rest. . . . A few odd words written so many centuries ago, we’ll never understand their meaning now.’ The full force of her gaze came to rest on her unfortunate granddaughter. ‘Haven’t I told you already, young lady? Gypsies are full of wild tales and you’re not to believe a word they say!’ she finished, icily.