by Winona Kent
What would come afterwards?
She paused to think.
Emmy had shared a little knowledge about her forebears with Charlie. Her ancestors had been saddlers, generation upon generation of them, until the advent of motor cars and buses had put them out of business. Saddlers going all the way back to the early 19th century, and Daniel Cooper, his very fine leather work reputed to be the best, the sturdiest, and the most well-crafted in all of Hampshire.
Jobey Cooper intended to give Daniel Robinson his name.
So if the life of Daniel Robinson Cooper had been extinguished on this night, Emmy Cooper would never have been born.
And there was something else. For if Daniel Robinson was indeed the son of Louis Augustus Duran, and if Jobey Cooper did indeed marry Eliza Robinson and adopt Daniel as his own…then she and Emmy Cooper were, in fact, also related. Distantly and rather untidily. But related, nonetheless.
It was a very odd feeling. If she had not acted, history would have been undone.
Her interference had ensured that what was to be—what she knew to be—would actually be.
And it wasn’t until she was halfway to the Village Oak that she remembered something else old Emmy Cooper had once told her, one day when they were sitting together on the bench, tossing stale bits of bread crust to the pigeons.
Emmy had told her that her middle name was Catherine. And that it was a name which had been passed down to all of the females in her family, beginning with Daniel, who had given it to his firstborn, a daughter. The reason for choosing that name had been lost in time.
Charlie now knew the answer.
And the newfound knowledge made her smile.
She had done the right thing.
At the top end of the green, Charlie could see the Royal Mail coach, getting ready to depart after its brief stop at the inn. And she realized that the colours she had dreamed about the night before—the ramshackle wagon that had been put back together—the beautiful glossy black box, the wheels and the underneath bit a brilliant scarlet, the lower half of the box a chocolate brown—were exactly the colors that the Royal Mail coach was painted.
As Charlie continued her walk past the Village Green, with the large old oak at its heart, she had a thought. She would make a note about Eliza and Jobey and the stagecoach on her phone’s To Do list. She would also make note of the murder she had witnessed on the beach.
She retrieved her mobile from the bosom of her frock, where it had been comfortably sitting for most of the day and half of the night.
She switched it on.
77% battery.
Not good. She’d have to borrow Sarah’s pencil and paper to transcribe this later.
But something else she saw on her mobile’s screen made her heart leap. Two messages had arrived. Quickly, she retrieved and read them.
They were both from Nick.
One acknowledged receipt of her message.
And the other, somewhat longer, was packed with information about her distant cousin, Catherine Collins. The woman whose identity she’d borrowed, the woman who had now given her name to all of Daniel Robinson Cooper’s future descendants.
“Catherine Collins, born in Christchurch.”
Charlie read the words aloud, making them real.
“Husband named Joseph—yes, he’s come up in conversation. Former soldier. Died in 1820 of pneumonia.”
She shook her head, sadly.
“Would have lived if they’d had antibiotics.”
She paused.
It wasn’t as if she was Catherine Collins. But the oddest thing was…she felt like Catherine Collins.
Will try to work out how to bring you back, Nick had written. Don’t panic.
Charlie switched off her phone.
Nick had mentioned nothing about Sarah and Louis Augustus Duran. Perhaps other things in the future had already been changed as a result of the circumstances whirling around her now.
But she had to know.
Composing the words quickly, she keyed her message back to Nick.
Please reconfirm Sarah Foster and Louis Augustus Duran marry 30 July 1825. Look it up. St. Eligius parish records.
Charlie paused, thinking about what she wanted to say next.
Not sure I want to come back, Nick. Convince me.
No. That would worry him.
Instead, she decided to ask another favour.
Please find out everything about Shaun Deeley. Born about 1790. Groom at the manor. Urgent. PS. Louis Augustus Duran is a complete wanker.
Smiling, she clicked Send, and watched while her phone paused—and continued to pause—for so long that Charlie began to be almost convinced that she’d imagined it all.
And then the little symbols appeared, and the signal strength grew strong, and she knew she had not imagined it. Her message was not going to disappear by some cruel whim of the universe—whichever universe it was that she happened to be occupying.
Message Sent.
Chapter 18
There was a text from Sam.
Come and see, she’d urged, and so, after finishing his supper and rinsing his dishes in the sink, Nick wandered back to the Village Green.
He discovered it had undergone something of a transformation.
News of his earlier face-to-face altercation with Ron Ferryman had obviously spread, fuelled in large part by his assertion that poison had been administered to the tree’s roots.
And Ron’s defensive rebuttal to Nick’s inferred guilt had only served to fan the flames.
In the space of a few short hours, the vigil had become an Event. There were spotlights and floodlights. And all manner of tents had been spontaneously erected.
A striped one offering kebabs and coffee, tea and cakes, baguettes and mineral water. A purple one displaying hand-made wall-hangings, silkscreened t-shirts and knitted caps (all profits donated to The Committee to Save the Village Green and Poorhouse Lane). A plain one put up by the vicar of St. Eligius, in case anybody’s soul required uplifting, saving, or simple ongoing sustenance. And a small army surplus tent in the far corner, emanating mysterious scents and peaceful philosophies, along with photocopied leaflets on passive civil disobedience.
Nick had no idea where they’d all come from. Other villages and towns, obviously. Stoneford wasn’t big enough to have created this, in such a short period of time.
Someone had lit a bonfire in a large steel barrel, and an impromptu concert had sprung up around it. Nick recognized three of the members of Jeff Lowe’s weekend tribute band, with their six and twelve-string acoustic guitars. They were joined by two sopranos and a tenor from the St. Eligius Choir, and the entire McDonald family from the grocery next door to the Indian takeaway (eight children, Paddy and his wife Moira, Nana and a Jack Russell terrier named Lola). And a man in a hat, with a tambourine in one hand and a cabasa in the other, who Nick couldn’t recall seeing before, but he seemed like a nice fellow and he knew the words to all of the songs.
At the base of the Village Oak, a group of new age hippies were offering incantations intended to infuse healing from root to leaf tip.
And next to them were a group of travellers Nick remembered had been camping on the site of the old Beckford Farm near Stoneford Bunny. They were facing a court-ordered eviction next week as the land they were occupying was on dodgy footing, its eroded overhangs deemed likely to tumble into the sea at no moment’s notice. Their presence was obviously welcomed by the new age hippies, and the two gatherings were sharing their food, drink and philosophies—as well as good vibrations for the tree.
Nick watched, fascinated, as a TV news crew set up a base with a good view of the oak, and their female reporter checked her hair and makeup in a mirror in advance of a live hit for their nightly broadcast.
“Nick!”
It was Sam, in jeans and a silkscreened Village Green t-shirt from the purple tent. And Mrs. Collins, who seemed at last to have been persuaded to change out of her Regency frock into something si
milar.
“Come and have some tea!”
Nick joined his cousins, who were sitting on the grass with their backs to the low stone wall, Mrs. Collins’ dangerous looking sword resting upright between them.
“I see you’ve come ready for combat,” he remarked, humorously, perching on top of the wall.
“She won’t let that bloody thing out of her sight,” Sam said. “You’ve started something, you know, Nick. People have been Twittering. Googling. Liking it on Facebook. The Stoneford Village Oak is trending.”
“This is a brilliant device,” Mrs. Collins added, seizing Sam’s mobile. “And I have very much enjoyed the Twitter. I have nearly one hundred followers. Is this not an excellent achievement?”
“Exceedingly excellent,” Nick replied, amused. “And you don’t mind being disguised as a boy now?”
Mrs. Collins considered what she was wearing.
“I find your clothing tolerably comfortable,” she judged. “Although what is worn beneath is rather more confining than what I am used to.”
Nick found a more comfortable position on top of the wall. The evening was cool and dewy, and it was going to play nasty havoc with his leg.
“I’ll just see if I’ve got any messages,” he said, taking out his own mobile, while Sam poured him a cup of tea from her thermos, and Mrs. Collins sent a tweet to her followers, telling them about the weather and the spag bol Sam had made for dinner.
Nothing.
Perhaps, Nick thought, it really had all been a fluke of astronomy and physics. And there would be no more messages to and from the past.
But it had worked, before. Once coming his way, and twice going back.
Perhaps there was too much interference from the TV vans, with their antennas on top of tall poles. Perhaps it was all the reporters, with their wireless mics. A group of them had just chased Ron Ferryman into The Dog’s Watch Inn, shouting questions about the disputed ownership of the two properties and the ludicrousness of sending earth-filled trucks down a cobbled lane with only inches of clearance on either side.
The idea of Charlie lost forever in time and space sent a shiver of dread through Nick. It did not bear thinking about.
He watched with amusement as Reverend Wolsley, detecting a lull in the need for immediate spiritual guidance, slipped out of his tent and walked furtively to one of the idle bulldozers behind the oak. There, with a pious acknowledgement skyward, he made a quick sign of the cross, then set about letting the air out of all four of the vehicle’s tires.
How did the oak transmit its signals, Nick wondered. Had it been charged with some kind of trans-chronometrical Wi-Fi?
Wi-Fi.
Of course.
He’d switched it off.
Nick flipped the wireless signal on again.
There was a bleep.
His heart leaped.
A message.
And it was from Charlie.
Relieved, he began to read.
And then he burst into laughter.
“What?” Sam said.
“Oh, do you tweet also?” Mrs. Collins inquired, craning her neck to try and read Nick’s screen. “Do let me see. What is your twittername? Mine is Troublemaker. A suggestion from Mrs. Palmer. Is it not both humorous and apt?”
Nick pulled his mobile away, hiding it from Mrs. Collins’ view, as he read Charlie’s message.
“Mrs. Collins,” he said, thinking he might save himself a trip to the crypt at St. Eligius, “Do you recall your cousin Mrs. Foster marrying a fellow named Louis Augustus Duran?”
“Indeed I do not,” Mrs. Collins replied. “But I have certainly heard about the gentleman, as my cousin has written to me often of his unceasing proposals of marriage.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “I can help you there. There’s a painting. A portrait. I was going to tell Charlie about it next time we met up. It’s in our attic in an old trunk that has all sorts of ancient family things in it. I was up there the other day looking for Great Uncle Percy’s collapsing telescope. I saw the portrait and thought, Charlie’ll be interested in that. It’s Sarah Foster and Louis Augustus Duran. Dated 1827. Man and wife.”
Mrs. Collins looked confused. “This news plays havoc with my sensibilities, for how can a painting possibly be dated two years hence, and yet be currently located in an attic? And worse, portray a union which I am certain has never taken place? And shall never, if my cousin has any say in the matter?”
“Can I see the painting?” Nick inquired.
“What…now?”
“Yes, please. Now. Very much now.”
“If you must.” Sam got to her feet, and helped Mrs. Collins up. “I don’t understand the sudden urgency. But anything to oblige.”
Nick quickly finished the message he was composing to Charlie, then added a little something extra, and clicked Send.
And then he slid off the top of the wall, and followed Mrs. Collins and Sam back to Sam’s car.
Chapter 19
“I’ll fetch it,” Sam said, parking her Civic in the driveway of her house overlooking the sea. “There’s only space for one person in the attic. You two can wait in the front room with Roger. He’s getting ready for a re-enactor event that’s been scheduled for next month, and he’s trying to summon up the courage to tell me about it. Since that weekend does, unfortunately, happen to coincide with our ninth wedding anniversary.”
Roger Palmer was polishing his replica Brown Bess musket, and looked up, startled, as Sam opened the door to the front room.
“Evening, Rog,” Nick said, with a wave. “Still got Napoleon on the run?”
“Evening, Nick.” Roger looked uncomfortable. “Char—Mrs. Collins. Sam.”
Nick noted that Roger had brought his entire 33rd Regiment of Foot re-enactor kit in from the garage, and had unpacked it, and spread it out over the sofa, the armchair, and most of the floor.
“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Roger said, to Sam. “Dear.”
“Nick wants to see that painting.”
“Which painting would that be?”
Sam was already halfway up the stairs. “The one in the attic!” she shouted, over her shoulder. “The one I told you about!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Louis Augustus Duran,” Nick provided, looking for somewhere to sit. Most of the places he would normally have chosen had been appropriated by the accoutrements of a 19th century soldier: red wool regimental coat, cartridge pouch, belts, scabbard, haversack, water bottle, knapsack, and assorted other necessaries including brushes, buffing sticks, mess tins, mugs and pewter spoons.
Mrs. Collins removed a dangerous-looking bayonet from one end of the sofa, and sat down with her sword.
“I think I should quite like to join you as you stage The Battle of Waterloo,” she decided. “My late husband shared many a tale with me of his skirmishes in Belgium.”
“Well,” Roger said. “I did enjoy our excellent dinner conversation this evening, Mrs. Collins. You are, surprisingly, quite an expert on the Cavalry. And its weapons.”
“And the First Duke of Wellington,” Mrs. Collins supplied. “Also known as Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, whom I had the great honour of meeting some years ago. I do believe he will one day become Prime Minister of this country.”
Roger gave Nick another very uncomfortable look.
“I understand your Napoleonic weekend’s going to clash with your wedding anniversary,” Nick said, humorously, changing the subject.
“Sam tell you that? Bloody hell. I’ll be hoovering all of downstairs for the next two months to make up for that.”
“The family name was Wesley,” Mrs. Collins continued. “Irish. It was changed to Wellesley in 1798. I may also reveal that, based upon personal observation, he possesses an uncommonly large nose.”
“Found it!” Sam shouted, clattering down the stairs, rushing into the front room.
She propped the painting up on the sofa, and stood back.
“There. Happy now?”
Th
e portrait, inside an ornate gold frame, was of middling size, about two feet long and one foot wide. It had been painted in oil, and had not been particularly well cared for, which was a shame, Nick thought, as the result was a webwork of tiny cracks that crinkled over its entire surface.
He studied the painting at length, and the note affixed to its back. Monsieur and Madame Louis Augustus Duran, 30 July 1827, on the Occasion of the Second Anniversary of their Wedding.
“Handsome couple,” he remarked. “Even if he is a complete wanker.”
“Wanker?” Mrs. Collins inquired. “An entirely new word which I confess provokes my curiosity. Is it some form of local commerce? Does wankering involve the extrication of juices and animal matter?”
“Something like that,” Nick replied, trying very hard not to laugh.
He snapped a photo of the portrait with his phone, and then another for good measure.
“Now, would either of you mind giving me a lift back to Stoneford…?”
At the Village Green, the hippies were debating whether or not to chain themselves to the oak. And one of the TV crews, alerted by their rather impassioned discussions, were in the process of setting up an interview with their leader, a dreadlocked 52-year-old who was performing a shaman-like incantation which had, apparently, the week before, successfully brought round his youngest daughter’s very ill pet rabbit.
Nick found a quiet spot beside Ron Ferryman’s deflated bulldozer. Keying a message into his phone for his cousin, he attached one of the portrait photos, and touched Send.
“There you go, Charlie,” he said. “Proof of nuptials.”
Returning to his house, and addressing his computer, Nick got back to his theory. What he needed was a concise history of Stoneford, the Village Green, and the tree at the centre of it. And he knew exactly where look.
During quiet moments at the museum, Charlie had compiled a website. She’d mined newspaper clippings and old brochures, printouts from historical archives and minutes from meetings. Photographs she’d discovered in squeaky wooden office drawers and falling-apart boxes in forgotten-about cupboards.
