by Winona Kent
Curiously, Nick opened the message.
It wasn’t from Charlie at all.
It had, however, been sent from her phone.
“I’ve received something,” Nick said, “from your past. Look.”
Charlie stared at Nick’s mobile.
It was a photo of the assembled members of a wedding party, standing on the steps of St. Eligius Church. There was Augustus. And beside him, Sarah. And there were Tom, and Jack, and Mary, in their best Sunday clothes, beaming. And there was Mr. Rankin. All were waving at the camera.
“Oh,” Charlie said, as her heart fluttered, and then leaped. “But it was always going to happen, wasn’t it, Nick. Because I’m here now. And I wouldn’t be, if all this hadn’t taken place.”
“Also,” Nick said, consulting his phone, “I’m to tell you that Jack has learned to sew buttons on his shirt. Tom has been apprenticed to the manor, as a stable boy. Mary has made friends with a young man named Richard Tamworth, the son of the village surgeon, and is teaching him to turn cartwheels. And Mrs. Collins, who apparently took the picture, has found herself enamored of Mr. Rankin, and, as the attraction is mutual, she has decided to remain in Stoneford as plans for their own marriage are now being made.”
Charlie smiled. She contemplated the birdbath, perched atop its stone pedestal, which bore the inscription about Stoneford’s first suffragette, Mrs. Mary Tamworth.
Mary Tamworth.
Of course.
“One more thing.”
Charlie dragged her attention back to Nick.
He read the message aloud.
“I have been guided by the clever idea you devised to deliver the deed to your cousin. I have borrowed a tin box from Mary. She was using it to collect buttons, but assures me she will find another. If you will investigate the ground between the two largest roots of the oak tree, on the opposite side to where we buried your bottle, you will discover the box. It will contain the device I am using to send this message, as it tells me there is only 5% battery power left, and it will shortly cease to function. I will also include a letter, written by my hand on this day, which will provide some further news.”
Nick switched off his phone.
“Shall we dig…?”
Chapter 39
The tin box was ancient and rusty, and its corners were crumbling. But it was where Augustus had promised it would be, and it was intact.
Charlie sat alone at her ancient desk, almost afraid to look inside. The box’s retrieval had been something of an event, with the editor of the Stoneford Village Post wanting to write a story around the idea of buried treasure, and Natalie, from the museum, suggesting that if it contained anything of historical value, she’d be happy to put through a requisition to purchase it for a display.
Charlie had no intention of sharing any of it.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the lid.
There was her phone.
In very good shape, all things considered.
She switched it on.
Nothing.
She’d expected that. The battery had been dead for more than 200 years.
She attached it to its plug, and watched, amazed, as a graphic appeared on the little screen, indicating it was preparing to charge.
And, as promised, underneath the phone, there was a letter.
With great care, Charlie lifted it out, and unfolded the paper. There were several pages of script, handwritten with a quill and ink.
Captivated, she began to read.
My dear Mrs. Collins (though this seems to me to be a form of address which is no longer appropriate, as you have explained to me that you are in fact Charlotte Duran, my descendant, and therefore not Mrs. Collins at all),
I bring you news that will allow me to close the chapter on what have been the most extraordinary days of my life time. And perhaps the facts as I describe them will allow you to gain some knowledge as to what happened once the midnight clock ceased its chime, and I ceased to disbelieve what my eyes had, at that most astonishing moment, beheld.
You will recall that, with the assistance of Mr. Wallis, Mr. Rankin and Mr. Cole, the keeper of the keys, Mr. Ferryman, was rendered incapable for some minutes leading up to the aforementioned events.
I am sorry to say that this indisposition was only temporary.
Understanding that they might be accused of causing grievous harm to Mr. Ferryman’s person, Mr. Wallis, Mr. Rankin and Mr. Cole thought it best to repair elsewhere, quickly and with my blessing. They had spoken no words during the execution of their duties. They left nothing behind which might allow Mr. Ferryman to recognize them.
For my part, I remained in the kitchen of the cottage belonging to Mrs. Foster (who is now my dear wife, and may call herself, entirely without regret, Mrs. Duran).
As I first observed the sitting room, I feared that nothing whatsoever had happened, other than a peculiar effect on my sight which had lasted mere moments, and which had ceased as quickly as it had begun.
There was Mr. Deeley. And there you were. Although your circumstances were very much altered. Both of you wore clothing which to me was unfamiliar. Additionally, you were armed with a sword, which I did not recall at all.
It was Mr. Deeley who convinced me that a great change had, indeed, taken place. His eyes grew wild as he beheld his surroundings. He looked at you (although it was not you, as I now know), and then at me. And then, with a roar, he fled from the room, and ran through the kitchen, into the night.
And there, my dearest granddaughter, I am sorry to say, he was discovered by Mr. Ferryman and Mr. Reader, wandering without aim, the victim of a windblown tree branch landing squarely upon his head.
Dementia has now ensued.
He speaks nonsense, and insists he does not belong to this time. He demands to be addressed as Mr. Ferryman. He denies all knowledge of the circumstances of the fire, does not recognize any of his friends, and is a most disobliging individual to all he encounters.
He has been returned to the gaol, where he has been examined by the surgeon, Mr. Tamworth. There will be no trial, as it is Mr. Tamworth’s learned opinion that this unfortunate soul should be sent to London, there to be housed in the asylum for the insane, for the rest of his days.
Charlie put down the letter.
The historical documents weren’t wrong, after all.
She smiled at her Dali clock, which was ticking round to midnight.
She turned the paper over.
And lastly, I will tell you about my son. I have excellent knowledge of this event, as I was present when it took place.
You will recall that Lemuel Ferryman’s establishment is so far damaged by the fire that it requires restoration. This continues apace.
In the meantime, Mr. Ferryman’s regular custom has repaired to The Rose and Crown.
It was there, some days ago, that you might have observed my son, Louis, seated at a table, addressing a tankard of ale.
His mood was, I would judge, foul. I had arranged for a gentleman of my acquaintance to meet with him, to discuss his sanitary invention, and the gentleman was, alas, proving to be exceedingly late in arriving.
Rising from my chair, I offered to look outside, to observe whether our friend could be seen upon the road.
Once outside, I did not encounter my friend. However, there were four other gentlemen riding into view upon some very fine horses.
One of the villagers—Algernon Oldbutter, who I have been told arranges funerals—was standing beside me as we observed these four horsemen. He took his leave very quickly, and went inside The Rose and Crown, and with apparently well-understood remarks, let it be known that Conquest, War, Famine and Death were about to descend.
Therefore, by the time the four gentlemen themselves had reached the front door of the inn, most of those inside had exited by way of the door at the back. The exceptions were the elderly, the lame, a consumptive, the publican himself, and my son.
I did not acknowledge the four, although in
truth I will tell you that I have had a longstanding acquaintance with the first, Mr. Samuel Brown. And I will admit to you, for I know my words will go no further, that I had engaged him in a close conversation a few hours earlier.
“Good evening, sirs!” the publican said, greeting them honestly.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Brown. “You are unlucky this night, Mr. Marsden. Your custom is diminished.”
“No thanks to you,” Mr. Marsden replied, without any hint of disrespect. “What will you drink?”
“Four of your best,” the second horseman replied. “And one more for the gentleman at the table beside the window. He seems lacking in social congress.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” Mr. Marsden answered, pouring and delivering the tankards, as the four gentlemen invited themselves to my son’s table.
“Good evening to you, sir,” Mr. Brown said, by way of a friendly introduction.
“Is it,” my son answered, unhappily, as he had descended into quite a foul mood, which the consumption of alcohol had only enhanced.
I sat in my chair again, and inquired after the nature of their business in Stoneford.
“I am acquainted with your son,” said Mr. Brown, revealing no hint that he knew me as well. And then, to Louis: “You must remember me, sir. We were introduced at your Grand Summer Ball. I am a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Montagu, from Bournemouth. You invited me to share a drink with you should our paths ever have occasion to cross in the village. I am Samuel Brown.”
My son, who had by then consumed the better part of four ales, was confounded, as he did not recall an introduction to Mr. Brown at all.
“No matter,” said Mr. Brown. “I see you have brought drawings with you. Are these the plans for your sanitary device?”
“You know of my invention?” Louis inquired, with a good deal of surprise.
“But of course!” Mr. Brown said, with assurance. “Word of your invention has spread as far as Southampton in one direction and Bournemouth in the other. I might venture to say the Duran Cistern and Water Closet will be a permanent fixture in households well into the next century. Come, sir—show me the drawings!”
It was while my son was explaining his sketches to Mr. Brown, and engaging him in the most engrossing details concerning pipage and effluent, that the second horseman, whose name was Lucas Adams, went to the bar. There, he requested another round of drinks. And as the drinks were carried from the bar by Mr. Marsden, Mr. Adams dropped a coin into the tankard meant for Louis.
This action, witnessed by me, did not go unnoticed by Mr. Marsden, nor by the several elderly gentlemen sitting nearby, nor by the consumptive in the corner. For their part, the other three horsemen barely looked, and if they did see what he had done, they showed no sign of recognition or acknowledgement.
Mr. Marsden placed the cups upon the table.
“Drink up, my fine friends,” Mr. Brown suggested. “The long day is ending, and the merry night is before us.”
I drank from my tankard.
And my son drank from his.
I will end this letter now, my dear granddaughter, as I believe you will surmise what fate had in store for Louis. I entertain the hope that you will not think any the less of me for my interferences. Indeed, where you are now, you may have more knowledge than I concerning my lamentable son’s adventures. It will do him, and the village of Stoneford, some tolerable good if he sees more of the world in the years to come.
I remain, with affection and respect, Monsieur Louis Augustus Duran (the Greater).
Chapter 40
Dressed in her 19th century frock, Charlie was once again immersed in her role as the museum’s Historical Guide and Interpreter. Although, since the successful sale of her now-complete deck of antique Tarot cards by Sotheby’s in London, she had no real need to keep working. Her job description had reverted to that of enthusiastic volunteer.
She had shared some of her windfall with the museum, which had allowed them to create a new Nautical Display that explored Stoneford’s links to its seafaring past. And she had donated a substantial sum to the Village of Stoneford, so that the square of unoccupied land at the end of Poorhouse Lane could be turned into a garden, with trees and grass, meandering paths, flowering shrubs, a playground for children and seats in the shade for the elderly. It was going to be called Emmy Cooper Park, and the grand ribbon cutting was tomorrow afternoon.
This morning, however, she was explaining the new Nautical Display to a group of curious seven-year-olds on a day excursion from school.
“Two hundred years ago, when your great great great great—”
Here Charlie paused, and drew in a deep breath.
“—great great…how many great’s is that?”
“Six!” the children shouted, in clever unison.
“…great grandparents were alive…life was very hard for the sailors. They had to deal with terrible food and really brutal working conditions. So it wasn’t surprising that nobody ever volunteered to join up.”
Charlie picked up a pewter tankard from the plank board display table.
“But the Royal Navy needed able-bodied men to crew its warships, and so they resorted to press gangs.”
She held out the tankard so that the children could observe its see-through bottom.
“Now—what do you think you might drink out of this cup?”
“I know what my Granddad would drink!” a small boy with red hair and a face older than his years piped up from the back, to much giggling.
“These press gangs went into the pubs,” Charlie continued. “They were especially well known in one of Stoneford’s inns, the old Rose and Crown. There, they plied their targets with ale until they were drunk.”
Charlie feigned falling to the floor in a hazy stupor, to more gleeful giggling.
“And the next thing they knew,” she said, in a loud whisper, peering up over the edge of the table, “they were guests aboard one of His Majesty’s warships.”
“But why’s the cup got a see-through bottom?” the small boy with the red hair persisted.
Charlie got to her feet.
“Well,” she said, confidentially. “I’ll tell you, shall I? While our poor would-be sailor was distracted, someone from the press gang would drop a coin into his cup.”
Charlie picked up a big brown 1d coin the museum had saved from the 1960s and plinked it into the mug.
“He’d drink his ale—and by doing that, unknowingly, he’d signal that he was accepting the King’s Shilling. And whether he was aware of it or not, he’d now officially volunteered for service.”
Charlie held the mug up so that the children could see the coin inside.
“Publicans everywhere became so concerned about losing their customers that they introduced glass-bottomed tankards. That way, people could discover what else was in their ale before they drank it down.”
“Wouldn’t help my Granddad!” the red-haired boy from the back piped up. “He’d be so rubbered he’d forget to look!”
Charlie smiled, and led the children to the second part of the display, The Smugglers and Pirates Den, in what had once been Reverend and Mrs. Hobson’s bedroom.
“Here you can see,” she said, “some of the caskets the smugglers used to bring illicit liquor ashore. One of their favorite landing spots was just down the beach, at Stoneford Bunny. And this is what the living quarters were really like if you were an ordinary sailor aboard a pirate ship. Pretty grim, really.”
Charlie waited while the children explored the below-decks mockup. She then took them to a collection of posters she’d researched and sourced online. Not the originals, but very good reproductions.
“And this is a poster, printed about 1830, warning villagers all along the south coast about a particularly troublesome pirate, Louis Duran.”
“Never heard of him,” said the red-haired boy, who, Charlie was convinced, likely knew the names of every raider and rover in Hampshire. And was likely descended from one.
/> “He wasn’t very well known to historians,” she replied. “Although he was, in his life before going to sea, quite well known here in the village. He once lived in the manor on the hill, which you’ll be visiting later.”
She perched on one of the upended casks to continue the tale.
“He was one of those unfortunate gentlemen who ended up being press-ganged into the King’s Navy,” she said. “And his protests that he was a citizen of France were completely ignored, as he’d chosen England as his home. But, after some years of service, Louis Duran decided he’d acquired all of the knowledge he’d need in order to mark his place in history. So, on a sunny morning in June, 1830, this sailor, who was destined to become known as the slightly dreaded Petit Pirate Barbu—he was quite short, and had by then grown a rather unruly beard—grasped a stout rope in his hands and swung to the main deck of one of the King’s ships, off the coast of Jamaica. He seized the vessel, spearheaded a mutiny, and cast the Captain and several obstinate but loyal crew members adrift in a small boat.”
“What happened to him?” the red-haired boy asked, his eyes wide with a renewed spirit of adventure.
“We don’t know,” Charlie said, darkly. “He terrorized the seas for some years, caused a good deal of alarm in Stoneford when it was rumoured he might return to avenge a perceived, but long forgotten, wrong…and then…he disappeared. Although there was a possible reported sighting of him in Australia, where a gentleman answering his description was observed trying to interest the locals in his something he’d invented…a variation on what you now know as the flushing loo.”
Charlie stood up. The red-haired boy was giving her a sceptical look.
She smiled.
“Come along outside,” she said. “And we’ll continue the tour.”
The other project Charlie had financed was the one she’d dreamed about since she’d first discovered the ancient wagon in the ramshackle shed at the back of The Old Vicarage.
The wagon had been restored. It was truly magnificent now, painted in the colours of the Royal Mail. The upper part of its box was a beautiful glossy black, its wheels and underneath bits were a brilliant scarlet, and its lower half was a chocolate brown. And with the help of a local farmer, Horace Inkersby, the museum had launched a horse-drawn tour that took children around the village, to all the historical sites, and then up Manor Rise, for a picnic.
