As a direct result of this selfless attitude, Sarah always afforded Gloria her fullest attention whenever she came to the library, and Gloria was always grateful.
‘So,’ said the librarian as she stepped through to the public area, ‘what era are we in this time?’
‘The reign of Henry Vee-triple-one!’ replied Gloria with a smile.
‘Henry the Eighth? Wasn’t he the one with six wives?’
Gloria chuckled, nodding. Sarah was most knowledgeable when it came to reference books, and would instantly know the best books to look through, which was why, upon recently learning of the librarian’s imminent retirement, she had offered the affable old woman the opportunity to become her research assistant. It was an offer Sarah had wasted no time in accepting.
‘I know of several wonderful books chronicling that Monarch,’ Sarah added, leading Gloria straight to a particular section in the private reference area where she proceeded to pull one heavy volume after another from the shelves, laying them on the table. ‘I think you’ll find these are the best we have to offer.’
Gloria smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, Sarah.’ Settling herself at the table, she tentatively opened the first of the obviously very old, very expensive books, which members of the public were not permitted to remove from the premises.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Schofield?’
Gloria glanced up, smiled again and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Thank you, Sarah. You’ve already been a great help.’
‘Okay. I’ll leave you to it.’
As the librarian turned to leave, Gloria reached into her bag, withdrew her notebook and pen, and with a gasp she called Sarah’s name. ‘Actually, there is something you could do for me, if you have the time to spare?’
‘For you, Miss Schofield, I have all the time in the world.’
‘Do you think you could find a reference somewhere to a young woman called Isabella? She had black hair, lived somewhere in Sussex during Henry’s reign, and was stabbed to death.’
Sarah could not help but laugh too loud. ‘That’s a mighty tall order. There must have been hundreds of women named Isabella around at that time. It was quite a popular name in that era, and I’m sure murder was rife, too. But I shall see what I can find!’
Gloria knew it was probably a fruitless task. She was not even sure why she had asked Sarah to search for any reference to the mysterious Isabella when she had already decided the woman was just a figment of her fertile imagination.
Her own research into what life was like in the early- to mid-Fifteen Hundreds was particularly rewarding. Two of the books were rich in detail of that particular period of English history; the third book was more concerned with famous people who lived in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, what their occupations were, and who else of historical importance linked with them.
There were two indexes. One listed people alphabetically by last name, the other by first name.
She searched the first name index under the letter H, and she was about to turn to the first of the pages which referred to Henry viii, when the next column caught her attention. There were, she noted, several entries for women named Isabella, and a few variants of the name. She checked each one out.
Isabel Neville, wife of George, Duke of Clarence – Gloria noted that George was brother to Edward iv and Richard iii.
Isabella of Castile, mother of Catherine of Aragon – Gloria already knew Catherine was first wife to Henry viii.
Isabella of France, second wife to Richard ii – Gloria made a mental note that the index spelled the name wrong: it should have read Isabelle.
Isabella Neville…
Unrelated though she was to the first entry, and as unfamiliar as the name itself was to Gloria, when she read the entry, Gloria’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced up reflexively, a surprised look on her face.
Then she returned her attention to the top of the page and read the entry again.
extract from
FAMOUS PEOPLE IN HISTORY: VOLUME 2 –
Isabella Neville: 1492–1536
Isabella Neville, who should not be confused with Isabel Neville, was famous in her time for her stories, and before her death wrote two novels, which were subsequently published in 1865. With little known about her early life, what is known, however, is that the tempestuous beauty married a farmer’s son, James Trevayne, and had a stepbrother, Peter Neville, who died in 1542 at the battle of Solway Moss. Until she was stabbed to death sometime late in 1536, Isabella and James lived at her ancestral home, Neville Manor, in the Sussex village of Ashfield. While it is unclear who murdered her, Samuel Wylams, who was not a local man, was executed by order of King Henry viii the following year, fuelling much speculation about the nature of Isabella’s relationship with the King. James never recovered from the murder of his wife and was led astray by a woman the locals believed to be a witch. Both were burned alive for their ‘crimes’.
While the extract did not exactly tell Gloria much, it convinced her that the dream was indeed someone else’s memory, and not just her mind imparting a new plot.
She sat for a while, staring into space, thinking of nothing but this peculiar new twist: Isabella was a real person!
Perhaps, Gloria mused, Isabella’s spirit calls out to someone – maybe nobody in particular – to clear up the mystery surrounding her murder.
The words of the article returned to Gloria’s mind.
It is unclear who murdered her. Samuel Wylams was executed the following year.
‘Sarah?’
Immersed in a book, the librarian glanced up. ‘Yes dear?’
‘Isabella Neville. Have you ever heard of her?’
Sarah frowned. ‘That name rings a bell.’ She glanced down at the piece of paper on which she had written the titles of the different books she had looked through which had referred to various women named Isabella. ‘Ah yes,’ she continued, ‘Isabella Neville. I’ve come across several references to that name in various books.’
The pair dragged out the volumes Sarah had noted, and with feverish haste, Gloria turned to the relevant pages.
‘Try to be careful, dear. These books are long out of print.’ chastised the librarian. ‘We don’t want you damaging them.’
‘Sorry, Sarah,’ whispered Gloria apologetically as she read the different entries. They all made reference to Isabella’s step brother – though some claimed Peter Neville was her cousin – and her husband, and also to Samuel; they informed her that Isabella wrote a couple of novels which remained unpublished until long after her death. Each book gave a different account of Isabella’s death, although in each case, Samuel was executed by order of the King.
One claimed Samuel killed Isabella because she had been his lover, but ultimately refused to leave her husband for him.
One claimed James killed his wife because she had an unnamed lover, whilst another claimed James had killed her because he had a lover.
One claimed Peter killed his cousin because she was infatuated with him and would not leave him in peace, while another claimed Peter killed his step sister because he was infatuated with her, but she spurned his improper advances.
One even claimed Isabella had spurned the advances of the King himself, that he killed her out of spite, and then had Samuel Wylams executed as a scapegoat.
With so many variations of the facts, it was clear that history books were not necessarily reliable. Whatever the truth, Isabella appeared to have led an adventurous life, that much was clear, yet somehow Gloria felt certain the woman had not deserved to suffer the appalling fate that befell her.
I have to find out the truth, she thought. For the sake of my sanity, and to lay Isabella’s spirit to rest, I have to find out who killed her… and why! Where should I start?
Gloria cast a sideways glance in Sarah’s direction. ‘These books all mention the fact that Isabella’s novels were finally published in the Nineteenth Century. I don’t suppose you’d have a cop
y of each in this library, would you?’
Sarah looked thoughtful for a few moments, and then shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, dear. I could check the microfiche if you like?’
‘Please… if you wouldn’t mind. I’d like to read them.’
Sarah led Gloria to an annexe of the library where, for five minutes, she searched through the microfiche records, which listed, in various orders, every single book currently housed in the sprawling old library building. Under none of those headings did Isabella’s novels appear, not as Isabella Neville, nor as Isabella Trevayne.
Sarah silenced the quietly humming machine, ‘Of course, if we knew the titles of her novels we might possibly locate them under those listings.’ She turned to face Gloria, shrugging apologetically. ‘Her novels could have been published under a different name, especially considering that they were published so long after her death.’
Gloria shook her head. ‘That’s doubtful, since the books all call her Isabella Neville. Surely they would have mentioned if her novels were published under a pseudonym?’
Sarah stared at Gloria inquisitively. ‘Perhaps, but they also give variations of the events surrounding her death. They cannot all be right! Perhaps they just omitted it for some reason?’ She paused for a moment. ‘Although, I have to admit, the name did ring a few bells when you mentioned it!’
‘The British Library should have a copy, shouldn’t they?’ interjected Gloria. ‘I mean, aren’t they supposed to have a copy of every book that has been published?’
‘So they say.’ Sarah’s voice took on an increasingly apologetic tone with each word. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. I haven’t really been much use to you today, have I?’
Gloria smiled, patting the older woman’s hand reassuringly. ‘Oh, but you have, Sarah. You’ve been far more help than you realise.’ Glancing at her watch, she realised it was gone midday, and sighed. ‘I’ve monopolised you all morning. I really ought to be going.’
Gloria collected her things from the reference room, helped the librarian restore the heavy books to their homes, and then returned to her own, taking the picturesque back lanes that she knew so well, because they always seemed to have a calming effect upon her whenever she felt stressed.
As she parked her car outside the house, she heard the plaintive ringing of the telephone from within. Slamming the car door she fumbled for her keys, successfully opened the front door and raced into the hallway, just as the phone stopped ringing. In spite of her mild annoyance, Gloria could not refrain from laughing at such a clichéd occurrence.
Never mind, she thought, whoever it was would always ring back if it was important – it always was… and they always did.
Removing her shoes, she began walking to the kitchen, and then remembered the splinter, changed her mind, and slid her feet into her comfortably tatty old slippers. She made her way back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice before settling at the breakfast bar. She reached for the phone, intending to call directory enquiries to get the number for the British Library, and as she did so, the phone rang shrilly, making her jump.
‘Hello?’
‘Gloria, darling.’
‘Allan! Where are you calling from?’ Gloria could not keep the excitement from her voice as she heard the unmistakable tones of Allan Barncroft floating down the line. He always greeted her when on assignment, if things were all right, with their own special two-word code.
‘I’m in Berlin. How’ve you been?’
Not wanting to worry him about the strange goings on, she chuckled. ‘Oh, fine. It’s the thoughts of you that keep me going. Do you know how much longer you’ll be gone?’
‘Another couple of weeks here, and then I’m flying direct to London. Providing nothing major comes up in the meantime.’
Once more, Gloria could barely contain her excitement. ‘That’s wonderful. I miss you so much. If it wasn’t for the photos of you all over the house–’
This time it was Allan’s turn to chuckle as he interrupted her flow. ‘I know… you’d forget what I look like! Just remember–’
‘–to pack them away again before you get back. I know… you hate photos of you displayed … anywhere! So, was there any specific reason you called?’
‘Do I need a reason to call the woman I love, especially after such a long time apart?’
‘I guess not, but as a rule you don’t phone while on assignment unless you have something important to say.’
There was more chuckling from the other end of the crackling connection. ‘You read me like a book! I know it’s a little late, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, darling.’
Gloria grinned as she heard the unmistakable sound of Allan blowing her a kiss. Then she frowned at the sudden sound of static. ‘Allan?’ she called. There was no response. Shrugging, she replaced the receiver, not unduly worried, for it was not the first time she had been cut off from Allan whilst he was calling from abroad, and she was certain it would not be the last either. She wished, perhaps a little selfishly, that Allan would give up his job as roving reporter – perhaps he could get a job reporting news from England. She knew he would never do that… and she would never ask it of him. He loved the travelling, and he obviously got a buzz from the dangers he occasionally faced.
Gloria could understand and empathise with those sentiments: she got a buzz from her writing – and Allan never complained when she shut herself away in seclusion like a nun whilst working on her latest masterpiece.
She was sitting in silent contemplation when the phone rang again. ‘Hello?’
‘Gloria, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. First there was no answer, and then you were engaged!’
Gloria grinned. ‘Hello, Mother. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m in Tunbridge Wells and thought you might like to join me for lunch, though it’s a bit late for that now.’
‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods? I thought you were in Scotland till Wednesday.’
‘I came to visit Angela. She’s in hospital.’
Gloria snapped to attention. ‘My God… what’s wrong? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
Angela Burton was an old family friend who had gone to school with Rachel. At the Yorkshire boarding school of Darton Conway, a huge rambling Victorian mansion near Haworth, Angela and Rachel were inseparable and it was there that Rachel became acquainted with Angela’s older brother, Daniel, who attended the adjacent boy’s school. Though fraternising with the boys was a punishable offence, the two girls were permitted to meet with Daniel because he was a relative. After they finished their schooling, Angela and Daniel Barncroft moved down to London with their parents, and some years later, having kept in touch by writing to one another during the war, Rachel travelled down to London to be Angela’s Maid of Honour at her wedding to Andrew Burton, one of Daniel’s colleagues at the Bank where he worked. Daniel was already married to a beautiful young woman called Susan, and it was at the wedding that Rachel met another of Daniel’s colleagues, Jeremy Schofield, who soon became her husband. In time, Susan gave birth to a son, Allan, who was temperamental, screamed, and cried more than most babies. It was enough to put Rachel off having children, but a couple of years later she and Susan had daughters. Born a couple of months apart, Louise and Gloria did not really become best friends until they were six. Angela never had any children, and since her husband’s tragic death in a car crash five years ago, she spoke to few people – except the two families who really helped her through her grief.
Rachel sighed gently. ‘Nobody wanted to worry you, especially with Louise and Allan both out of the country. However, there’s no need to worry. Angela’s going to be fine; it was a mild heart attack.’
‘Is there such a thing as a mild heart attack?’
‘She’s going to be fine!’
‘That’s a relief. Maybe I should visit her this afternoon?’
The smile on Rachel’s face was almost audible. ‘I’
m sure she’d love that. Maybe we could visit together. I want to talk to you about your grandmother anyway.’
Gloria felt an icy chill begin to creep up her spine. It could not be a coincidence… her mother suddenly wanting to talk about Nana Turner, and the reoccurrence of the dream! ‘Is something wrong with Nana Turner?’
‘No… not as far as I know. Why do you ask?’
The chill went away, but not completely. ‘Oh, no reason in particular,’ Gloria muttered in a generally dismissive tone. ‘I tried calling recently, and the number was unobtainable.’
‘Well, that’s not at all surprising. Poor Mother has had nothing but trouble with the phone line since it was connected. Maybe I should speak to the phone company and get them to take a look?’
‘That might be a good idea. There’s not much point in having a telephone if the line’s always out of order. What if there’s an emergency and we can’t get through? That was the only reason Nana Turner agreed to have the phone in the first place!’
‘That’s very true. Look, I have to go, darling. Visiting time starts at six.’
‘I’ll meet you outside the hospital at six then.’
*
Mother and daughter kept the appointed rendezvous, but upon the Ward Sister’s insistence, stayed with the still weakened Angela barely fifteen minutes, and by a quarter to seven the pair were seated outside a lovely little restaurant halfway along the Pantiles, an open colonnade surrounded by paved stone cloisters in the heart of Royal Tunbridge Wells
Even at this time of the evening the temperature outside was still quite high, and since the sun still shone brightly, people made the most of whatever the decidedly odd climate saw fit to offer, knowing the temperamental English weather could change in an instant.
They opted to dine in the fresh air at one of the four externally positioned tables. The cloisters were enshadowed and cool, less stuffy than inside the airless restaurant. The still evening air was surprisingly pleasant in the shade, unimpeded by the oppressive mugginess that had marred the rest of the day.
Master of the Scrolls Page 3
