by Winona Kent
Obligingly, the greater Monsieur Duran seated himself upon a wooden shelf within, which contained a suitably placed opening.
“You do not find this too assaulting to your delicate constitution?” the lesser Monsieur Duran checked, turning to Charlie.
“Not in the least,” she assured him.
“Very good.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran’s eyes grew bright, his own constitution aided considerably by the laudanum he had ingested with his wine.
“Imagine you have deposited your contribution. It will be there.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran here directed Jane, another housemaid, who had been summoned from her own lunch, to open a hinged door beneath the shelf. Obligingly, his father parted his legs, to reveal a receptacle made of glazed and fired clay. Not unlike, Charlie thought, the chamber pot under the bed in Mary’s room at the cottage.
“In there?” the greater Monsieur Duran inquired, peering down between his legs.
“It is in there, yes,” his son replied.
“And…?”
“And here, we have the water.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran turned a small spigot which was affixed to the brick wall behind the wooden bench, and a trickle of water could be heard travelling along a pipe.
“And where is it this water comes from?” the greater Monsieur Duran inquired.
“It is stored in a cistern outside the rear wall.”
“And it finishes its journey there?” the greater Monsieur Duran asked, indicating the glazed clay bowl.
“Indeed it does,” his son replied, with a good deal of pride.
“And so my contribution is contained in a bowl with the addition of water. And then…?”
“And then,” the lesser Monsieur Duran replied, “at the end of the day, the maid removes the bowl and discards its contents into a pit some yards hence.”
He turned to Charlie.
“It is very clever, is it not? Madame Foster will consider herself fortunate, should she choose to alter her name to the Countess Duran.”
“I cannot help but think,” the greater Monsieur Duran mused, “that there may be an additional step to this. Which you have not yet invented. Or considered.”
“I cannot imagine what that might be,” his son replied, a touch indignantly. “Come, let us return to the house. I have drawings of the cistern which may impress you more.”
Chapter 21
It was Saturday afternoon, and at the Village Green, the new age hippies and the travellers had been joined by a troop of South American musicians who were touring England with their charangos and pan pipes.
As well, Nick observed that three politicians who had travelled down from London were now holding an important meeting with the Parish Council in the St. Eligius tent, temporarily vacated while Reverend Wolsley conducted an afternoon wedding in the nearby church.
There were reporters from several regional newspapers, and two tabloids, and three more television crews had arrived with their satellite vans, cameras, lights and microphones.
Nick negotiated a path through the villagers, the hippies, the travellers, the musicians, reporters and TV crews, to the tree. There, he found Mike Tidman, on his knees on the ground, delicately coaxing tiny spadefuls of contaminated earth out from around the oak’s damaged roots.
“Anything new?” Nick asked.
“Well,” Mike replied, “we’ve identified the poison. Hexazinone. Not even approved for use in this country. Kills the leaves repeatedly until the tree’s strength is sapped and it dies. Whoever saturated this old girl’s roots knew exactly what they were doing.”
“The Ferrymans always know exactly what they were doing,” Nick said, glaring at Ron and Reg, who had granted an interview to a sympathetic business reporter from one of the London papers. “Can you save her?”
“I’ll certainly give it my best shot,” Mike promised. “It’ll involve digging down at least three feet to excavate all of that contaminated soil. Then we’ll surround the roots with charcoal and microbes to help break down the herbicide. And then we’ll have to replace what we’ve removed with clean topsoil. And there’s no guarantee it’ll work. But it’ll put a stop to any more damage. After that, it’s up to this old girl.”
Mike gave the tree’s massive trunk a reassuring pat, then stopped. Something was poking out from between two of the oak’s gnarled and ancient roots.
Gently, he coaxed the object free.
It was a stoppered glass bottle, old, its glass runny, attesting to its handmade origins. Nick could see that inside there was a folded piece of paper, brown around the edges and most certainly fragile from having been buried in the earth for a good many years.
“Is there a historian in the house?” Mike mused.
“There is,” Nick replied. “But she’s not here. Charlie Lowe. You spoke to her the other day.”
“Ah yes,” Mike said. “Perhaps she should have the honours, then. Something for the museum.”
He gave Nick the bottle.
“She’ll like that,” Nick said.
But as he was considering whether or not to open the bottle to see what had been stuffed inside, he was accosted by Ron Ferryman, fresh from his interview with the business reporter.
“I believe we own the rights to whatever is found here,” Ron said.
He removed the bottle from Nick’s hand.
“Could auction this off for a tidy sum at Reg’s pub,” he mused. “Unopened, intact. Good publicity for The Poorhouse Lane Development. Exploiting Stoneford’s sense of history and all that.”
And he walked away, whistling, dropping the little glass bottle into the jacket pocket of his Savile Row suit.
As the carnival atmosphere on the green continued, Nick took up his accustomed place beside the stone wall, and constructed another message to Charlie.
I know you know, he wrote, thoughtfully, but just in case. I have to caution you about interfering. Remember the Butterfly Effect. Would hate to think flapping your wings Over There would cause a hurricane Over Here. And wipe out the entire population of Stoneford.
He paused, and smiled.
To more serious matters.
Still working on a way to bring you back, he wrote. Looking into that virus on your laptop. Hopefully have answer in the next day or so.
Nick paused again.
Try and save your battery, he added, and then: Might not be too many more opportunities to chat.
He clicked Send.
Chapter 22
Charlie had taken her leave.
And had altogether dismissed an offer from the lesser Monsieur Duran that he should accompany her down the hill and to the front door of Sarah’s cottage.
“It’s a pleasant day,” she said. “I shall come to no harm walking by myself.”
“But you will convey to Madame Foster my fondest wish that she herself should accept an invitation to lunch? You cannot fail to have been impressed by the fare. I am very wealthy. There will never be a famishment at my table.”
“I will convey what I have observed to Mrs. Foster,” Charlie promised. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Duran.”
But as she made her way down the cart track, she was distracted, momentarily, by a sharp twinge of pain in her right side.
“Ow!” she exclaimed, surprised, pressing her hand to the spot.
Was it a cramp?
No. It was in the wrong place entirely.
A twisted muscle?
Indigestion? Too many raw egg yolks?
Her hand remained where it was.
The twinge was going now.
There.
Better.
She made her way back down to the village, and the Village Green, to see if there were any more messages from Nick.
Her phone was down to 68%. How could that happen? She hadn’t used it for anything. Annoyingly, it was using up battery power by virtue of its mere existence.
But there were two replies from Nick. And the attachment he had promised
, the portrait of Sarah and Louis Augustus Duran.
“Mrs. Collins!”
She glanced up, and saw Mr. Deeley, walking across the green towards her, from the direction of The Dog’s Watch. Quickly, she switched off her phone and hid it.
“Mr. Deeley,” she said, standing up.
“I am delighted to discover you here, Mrs. Collins. And happy to report that Mr. Rankin has mastered your song. He looks forward to playing it for you at the earliest opportunity. I trust lunch was not too disagreeable?”
“I am now well-acquainted,” Charlie said, “with the lesser Monsieur Duran’s abiding passion.”
“As are all of us who are employed at the manor,” Mr. Deeley replied, humorously. “Do you suppose there is any future to it?”
“I suppose there is,” Charlie said. “Though not, perhaps, the exact design which Monsieur Duran has come up with.”
“And what brings you to the green?” Mr. Deeley inquired. “Have you been bothering the hedgehogs again?”
Charlie smiled. “No. I have been having a conversation with the Village Oak.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Deeley. “I confess, I often hold similar consultations. And at night, discussions with the moon and the stars. Has the Village Oak imparted anything useful by way of advice?”
“Nothing yet,” Charlie replied. “Although I am upset by my cousin’s sudden misfortune and loss of income. If only she still had possession of the deed to the land she inherited. Do you happen to know anything about how Mr. Foster came to be parted from that? This village is small enough that, surely, there must be someone who knows the name of the person he owed the debt to.”
Mr. Deeley was deep in thought, his brow furrowed.
“It is curious that you raise the subject,” he said, “as this very afternoon Mr. Ferryman attached that same deed to the wall of the inn, so that it now occupies pride of place behind the bar.”
“And what is Mr. Ferryman’s explanation of how he comes to possess this most important piece of paper?” Charlie asked.
“He related a tale to those gathered at the bar,” Mr. Deeley replied, “which involved a game of cards, a wager, and the result of the wager being the forfeiture of the document by its original owner.”
So. That was what she had seen Lemuel Ferryman removing from the body of the smuggler on the beach. And that was how it had come to be in the Ferryman family’s possession. One illegitimate transaction, followed by an even more illegitimate transaction.
“This mysterious ‘original owner’ was not the original owner at all,” Charlie said, “but a rogue who stole it under very similar circumstances from Mr. Foster.”
She stopped. It was best not to say anything more. It was best to keep quiet about what she had seen last night, lest she run the risk of becoming the next victim to disappear by the hand of Lemuel Ferryman.
She had another thought. “Do you think it possible, Mr. Deeley, that Mr. Foster did not accidentally fall into the sea…?”
“I would not like to say,” Mr. Deeley replied, carefully. “There was a gale which resulted in very high waves. And there were many questions left unanswered about Mr. Foster’s intent when he went walking upon the rocks that night. Some say he had arranged a meeting. Yet it seemed to others an inhospitable and unlikely location for a conference.”
Charlie pressed her hand to her side and winced, as another twinge shot through her middle.
“Are you unwell?” Mr. Deeley asked, his face showing sudden concern.
“I have a pain,” Charlie said. “Here.”
She showed him, with her hand.
“I know of a surgeon in the village. The lesser Monsieur Duran consults him often, as he suffers greatly from bad blood, and requires a vein to be opened at regular intervals in order to release the malaise.”
“I believe I am feeling less unwell now,” Charlie answered, hastily.
And then, in the brilliant sunshine, and quite unexpectedly, Mr. Deeley kissed her. On the cheek. With impetuousness. Causing her to catch her breath in a way that she had not since the beginning of her relationship with Jeff, when their love was impulsive and dangerous and unlike anything she’d ever felt about another person.
“Until this evening, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley said, with a highly satisfied smile. “I shall call for you at seven.”
“Until this evening, then, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie agreed.
She watched as he walked away, jauntily, his hands in his pockets.
And then she took out her phone again, and at last clicked on the photo that Nick had sent.
Sarah Elizabeth and Louis Augustus Duran. On the occasion of their second wedding anniversary, the 30th of July, 1827.
The tiny portrait was formal, what one would expect from its time. She was sitting uncomfortably and stiffly on a chair in her best frock. And he was standing by her side, his hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, near her shoulder.
Charlie made the picture bigger, zooming in.
It was Sarah. Her likeness was impossible to dispute.
But the “he” of the couple…the “he” was most definitely not Louis Augustus Wanker Duran.
“Mr. Deeley!” Charlie shouted.
Mr. Deeley, who had nearly reached the road that ran along the west side of the Village Green, turned around, his face a question mark.
“Does Monsieur Duran—the greater—share exactly the same names as his son?”
Charlie held her breath for the answer.
“They are both known as Louis Augustus Duran, yes,” Mr. Deeley replied, with absolutely no inkling of the importance of his answer. “But the greater Monsieur Duran prefers to be known informally as Augustus. Why?”
Charlie’s heart was in her mouth.
“And is there a Madame Duran?”
“There was a Madame Duran,” Mr. Deeley supplied, “but ten years ago she became an invalid, and took to her bed, never to recover. Some say her untimely passing is the reason why the lesser Monsieur Duran carries such bitterness within himself. They were, by all accounts, very close.”
So. There it was.
The answer. The answer.
History didn’t need to be changed at all…
Only nudged.
“Mr. Deeley,” Charlie said, excitedly. “Tonight we must absolutely ensure that my cousin is introduced to the greater Monsieur Duran!”
Chapter 23
The gown Monsieur Duran had sent Sarah was nearly a perfect fit.
“This does not surprise me in the least,” Sarah remarked. “I am certain he watches me when I am in the village. I would not put it past him to have an eyepiece of some sort, mounted in a convenient upstairs window, so that he may spy upon my every going and coming.”
“Never mind about him,” Charlie said. “It is his father you must seek to impress.”
She admired her own reflection in Sarah’s dressing table mirror.
The bags that had come with Catherine, from London, had contained a frock which would not have been out of place at a society tea, or, indeed, a grand country dance. It was a deep indigo blue, and made of heavy silk, with red and gold embroidery and beads around the hem that reminded her of something Oriental, or Indian. The gown was finished with a simple satin ribbon, also deep blue, which was meant to be tied in a bow at the back of its high waist.
“It is very elegant,” Sarah judged.
Charlie turned around.
“Will you tie the ribbon for me?”
Sarah obliged, and then looked in the mirror herself.
“It has been an age since I have had need to attend to my hair,” she said, “or to contemplate a little extra colour for my face. I think a touch of cochineal and a fine dusting of talcum powder should suffice the cheeks. And another touch of red upon the lips. I have never been one to make a fuss over artifice.”
“Nor me,” Charlie assured her. “Although I have always been at a loss where my hair is concerned.”
It was true. At home, in the 21st ce
ntury, she washed her hair and ruffled it with a towel, and that was the extent of her attention. It wasn’t laziness. Just a distinct lack of caring enough to bother.
“Then you must let me pin it up for you,” Sarah decided.
She stood, and gestured to Charlie to take her seat in front of the mirror.
“When my husband was alive, he was very much taken with my skills at hair dressing. And I think a little posy of fresh flowers would not be amiss here, behind your ear…and some curls, I think, to show off your pretty face to Mr. Deeley.”
It was as much a surprise to see Mr. Deeley in his formal attire, as it was for Mr. Deeley to behold the two ladies he was escorting to the Grand Summer Ball.
He cut, Charlie had to admit, a rather dashing figure, in white breeches and a white waistcoat, a white linen shirt and a dark coat, a neckpiece tied jauntily under turned-up collars, and fawn kid gloves.
“My compliments to the ladies,” he said, as Charlie and Sarah departed the cottage, amid much waving and cheerful encouragement from Tom, Mary and Jack.
“Thank you, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie replied. “Our compliments to the gentleman.”
Mr. Deeley laughed. “Your presence will be brilliant lights during what might otherwise have been a very dull evening for me.”
The Great Reception Hall had been decorated with fresh flowers and cuttings of English ivy from the manor’s gardens. And there were hundreds of lit beeswax candles, in several large chandeliers, along the walls, and in silver candlesticks placed on tables in strategic locations. The entire room was bathed in a warm yellow light.
“Monsieur Duran hired an artist from Southampton to chalk the floor,” Mr. Deeley revealed, as they joined the ladies and gentleman who had already assembled inside.
“What for?” Charlie asked.
“Is it not the fashion in London?” Sarah replied. “The wood is chalked with elaborate and pleasing designs, so that the soles of our shoes will not slip as we dance.”
“Of course,” Charlie said. “Yes. I had forgotten. It has been too many years.”
