As I studied the Reformation, I found my interest shifting from the experience of priests to that of ordinary people. I was particularly intrigued by the problems of recusancy, the refusal by many ordinary Catholics to attend Church of England services. It was a dangerous path to tread. The penalties could be severe, ranging from fines through confiscation of land to imprisonment and even death. Much depended on which part of the country they lived in, what kind of influence they had…
But I suspect I have passed the point where I have even the smallest hold on your interest. Let me press on.
During Elizabeth’s reign, security was overseen by her Secretary of State, Francis Walsingham, whose network of agents and informants was a potent weapon against Catholic conspiracies, both real and imagined. One of his lieutenants collated details of every recusant family in the country and, through the good offices of Dr. Coldstream and Father Dominic, I obtained access to these papers.
There was much fascinating information and the more I read, the more I resolved that here was my most rewarding line of research. The great noble families mentioned had doubtless been well trawled over during the last couple of centuries, but there could still be a treasure trove of journals and records lying undisturbed in those of the lesser houses which were still occupied by the same families four centuries on.
I set about discovering which fell into this category, approaching my task alphabetically so it was almost done when I came across a name which rang familiarly.
Woollass.
I had quite forgotten Father Simeon Woollass and the odd coincidence of my own scrawled name in his papers. Now I quickly established that the Woollass family still occupied Illthwaite Hall. A little further digging confirmed that Father Simeon was indeed a member of the family, the son of a cadet branch then residing in Kendal, now defunct. Walsingham’s records of the pursuit and capture of priests on the English Mission told me only that his presence was known from the 1580s and he was taken up in 1589 by Francis Tyrwhitt, a lieutenant of the notorious pursuivant, Richard Topcliffe.
Do you know of Topcliffe? No? Why should you? He was Elizabeth’s chief priest-hunter, a monster. His devotion to his work was such that he applied for a license to set up a torture chamber in his own home, which meant that he could pursue his interrogations with minimal disruption to his domestic life. When the dinner gong rang, he could toss another shovelful of coke on to the hotbed under the griddle on which his latest victim lay, then pop upstairs for his well-done sirloin.
By all accounts, Tyrwhitt was the right servant for such a master. He was a cousin of Sir Edward Jolley, a Protestant judge whose sentences, especially against Catholics, were infamous for their severity. He allowed Tyrwhitt to use the dungeons of Jolley Castle, near Leeds in Yorkshire, as his interrogation center and it is alleged that in those airless depths he matched Topcliffe in zeal, and outdid him in brutality.
It was into this monster’s hands that God placed Father Simeon.
And it was this same monster who let him go.
So what happened?
As we know from the annals of World War II, officially sanctioned psychopaths are usually meticulous in their records, so I was fairly optimistic when I began to investigate, but all I could find was a reference in the Walsingham archive to Simeon’s arrest, followed by a bald statement that he was put to the test, and subsequently released.
I shared my difficulty with my supervisor, Max Coldstream, who is hugely experienced in the complex detective work of research. He knew all about the Woollass family’s obsession with proving Simeon innocent of crimes he’d never been formally accused of. This seemed to have been resolved about forty years ago when Dunstan Woollass received a papal honor. In the accompanying encomium listing his merits and those of his family, particular reference was made to the noble part played by Father Simeon in the English Mission of the sixteenth century.
So it seemed the slate was clean. Max warned me that the Woollasses might not take kindly to anyone trying to scribble on it once more, but as my interest was personal rather than scholarly, I asked him to see if he could dig anything up.
He immediately suggested it might be worth looking at the archives of the Jolley family. A few days later he rang me to say that we were in luck. Jolley Castle is now a National Trust property and the family’s somewhat chaotic records are being cataloged. An archivist called Tim Lilleywhite, a former pupil of Max’s, had undertaken the task, and he confirmed that there were references to Tyrwhitt and also some personal records the man made of his interrogations. He promised to look out for any mention of Simeon.
Meanwhile I put all this to the back of my mind and set about contacting the dozen families I hoped might be able to help with my researches. Within a week I had received three downright refusals and four expressions of regret that time, accident, or carelessness had destroyed any papers the family might have had.
I was beginning to think my bright idea might not have been so bright after all.
And then I got Woollass’s reply.
I am not a fatalist but I heard the voice of fate in this.
I wrote back at once accepting his invitation to come for an interview.
My mother was pleased I had found an occupation, less pleased when she saw the car I bought myself for my trip up to Cumbria. She described my lovely Mercedes SLK as a teutonic sardine tin, totally unsuitable for bumpy mountain roads, and with internal dimensions that would put my recovery back by months every time I squeezed into it.
I retorted that I needed things to help me conquer my disability, not things to help me be comfortable with it. And I tried not to limp as I strode away into the house.
She apologized later and said of course I was quite right, it was my choice.
But as I slipped into the car to start my journey north a couple of days later, I noticed she had put my walking stick on to the passenger seat. I waited till I was out of sight of the house before I picked it up and hurled it into the hedge!
I did not know what lay ahead of me in this strange place called Illthwaite but, whatever it was, I was determined to meet it standing erect on my own two feet.
Alas, I have to admit that, as usual, my mother was absolutely right!
Max Coldstream was right too in warning me to tread carefully as far as Father Simeon was concerned. I did some research into his family in Kendal on my way here, which I thought wise to keep under my hat, but Cumbria it seems is a very small world, and Gerry Woollass, Frek’s father, got wind of it. My diplomacy must have looked like sheer deviousness. Which is why I was given my marching orders.
But felix culpa, had I not been summarily ejected from the Hall, I might never have found my way into this chamber where I feel so very strongly the presence of…
14
A real live woman
WHOSE SPIRIT MADERO FELT THE presence of Sam was saved from discovering.
At that moment the torch battery gave up its ghost and the light, already diminished to a pinprick, went out.
She screamed.
She didn’t want to but she knew no way not to.
Then she felt his arms being wrapped around her and he drew her close, almost on to his lap.
“It’s OK,” he murmured. “It’s OK. We’ll soon be out of here. There, there. Be calm. Be calm.”
He was talking to her like a child again, but she didn’t mind it. Like a child, what she wanted in this predicament was adult comfort and reassurance.
Madero, on the other hand, as he hugged her close and felt the warmth of that lithe body reach him through the thin cloth of her skimpy T-shirt, found to his dismay that, however his eyes might have deceived him as to her age, after a few moments his own frail flesh was telling him he had a real live woman in his arms. He tried to twist away to conceal his arousal but if anything the movement only drew attention to it. He sent his mind in search of all the antaphrodisiac stratagems he’d developed in the seminary only to discover that, effective though they’d once bee
n against the fancy’s images, they had no potency against the physical reality.
“I’m sorry,” he began to say, but Sam interrupted him.
“Listen!” she said.
He listened.
There was noise above them. A footfall. Then an exclamation.
With one accord they began to cry, “Help!”
It took another fifteen minutes for Edie Appledore to round up the three strong men necessary to raise the heavy table and release the entrance slab.
The three strong men in question turned out to be the Gowders and Thor Winander, whom she’d flagged down as they drove past from St. Ylf’s.
Pushed from behind by Mig and pulled from above by Winander, Sam scrambled out into the light of the kitchen which fell on her like a glorious dawn.
“Nice to see you again, Miss Flood,” boomed Thor. “Trying to find a shortcut home, were you?”
“Ignore him, dear,” said Mrs. Appledore. “Drink this. You look a bit shook up.”
She handed Sam a glass of brandy which she downed in one and did not resist when offered a refill.
The Gowders had propped the table up with cast-iron chairs brought in from the beer garden. Winander now offered his hand to Madero, who was standing with his head appearing through the gap in the kitchen floor.
“No. Thank you, all the same,” he said with a formality that set Sam, still light-headed with relief, giggling. “Mrs. Appledore, do you have such a thing as a flashlight?”
Shaking her head at the stupidity of men, the landlady found one. Winander took it from her but instead of handing it down, he dropped into the underground chamber himself, provoking more head-shaking from Mrs. Appledore. Now the two men vanished, presumably to continue the exploration which the collapse of the slab had interrupted.
The reason why the table had fallen back to the floor was clear.
There must have been some dry rot in the crossbeam and under the weight of the table one of the pulleys had pulled loose. The sudden extra pressure on the other had snapped the rope, allowing the table to fall back on the counterweight slabs, bringing the entry slab crashing down.
“So what’s been going on?” inquired Mrs. Appledore when she was satisfied that Sam had recovered sufficiently to be questioned.
Sam told her, finishing with an apology for her part in what had been effectively an act of trespass resulting in physical damage to the kitchen.
“Never mind that,” said the landlady. “All these years I’ve spent sitting over yon hole, never knowing a thing about it. God knows what’s down there. Could be anything!”
She shuddered at the thought, then her expression brightened.
“Or it could be valuable. Come on, you two! What have you found? And don’t forget, whatever it is must belong to me!”
“Is that so, Edie?” came Winander’s voice. “In that case, here’s a down payment.”
So saying, he reached his arm out of the aperture and placed a human skull and a couple of bones on the floor.
Mrs. Appledore let out a gasp of distaste without seeming too bothered by the grinning relic. Sam recalled Madero’s muttered prayer. He’d known all the time they were sharing that dark chamber with a skeleton. But, probably wisely, he’d said nothing.
His voice came from the ground now.
“I really think we should leave the remains in place,” he said sharply. “The police will want to look at them.”
There was an anger in his words which went beyond mere procedural objection.
“This is archaeology, not crime,” said Winander. “Let’s have a look at the stuff before the experts get their grubby little hands on it.”
The next thing to appear was a cross, about four feet in length. It seemed to have been bound round with sacking, the dusty remnants of which still clung to it. One of the Gowders picked it up and started to brush it off with his great red paw. As the detritus was cleared, the cross began to glow with the dullness of old gold and the brightness of polished gems. He set it down hastily, as though it were hot.
“Oh my God,” said Mrs. Appledore.
More items were handed out of the hole, some chalices, a pair of candlesticks, a chrismatory and a pyx — but, much to Sam’s relief, there were no more bones.
Finally the two men clambered out.
“Haven’t you done well, Edie?” said Winander. “If you can claim this lot, they’ll crown you Most Desirable Widow at the Skaddale Show. What do you think, Madero?”
Madero shrugged.
“I do not know the English law,” he said. “My guess is that this was the place where the monks of the Priory stored their treasures in time of need. A good spot, belonging to the Priory without actually being in the Priory. When word of the king’s men came, they must have decided the time had come to hide what they could. Not everything, because if they found the place stripped of all valuables, the destroyers wouldn’t have rested till they got someone to tell where they had gone. I’ve no doubt they found a cross in place. But not one like this.”
He regarded the jeweled crucifix with reverence.
“So who does it belong to?” said Winander. “The Church? Or finders keepers?”
“Ultimately it belongs to God,” said Madero. “But then so does everything. Miss Flood, are you all right?”
“Fit as a butcher’s dog,” said Sam, glaring at Madero and challenging him to make any further reference to her recent debility.
“Good. Perhaps you and I should clean up. We will need to make statements to the police.”
Sam looked at him in surprise. Perhaps it was a Spanish convention that you looked your best when communicating with the police. True, he was a bit dusty, but not too bad. If anything, the way he was holding his jacket tight around his body as if the chill of the nether chamber had struck into his bones, what he really needed was some of Mrs. Appledore’s brandy. But he was already at the door, where he paused.
“Mrs. Appledore, you’ll phone the authorities?”
The landlady glanced at Winander who shrugged and said, “He’s right. They like to know about bones, even ancient ones.”
“Right then,” said the woman.
Sam was now recovered sufficiently to glance down at her limbs. For some reason she seemed to have gathered twice as much dust as Madero. God knows what was in it!
She stood up and followed the Spaniard up the stairs.
As he opened the door of his room, she said, “Thanks.”
“For what, Miss Flood?”
“For helping me get through that. And what’s with this Miss Flood stuff? Or do you only use first names when you’ve got a girl up close and intimate?”
She gave him a grin to let him see she’d noticed, then went into her room.
A glance in the mirror stopped her grinning. As well as the dust, there were cobwebs in her hair, and her shorts looked as if she’d played rugby in them. She grabbed her spongebag and towel and headed out to the bathroom.
But first she tapped on Madero’s door, which swung open.
“OK if I get first stab at the bathroom?” she said.
He looked up, startled, almost guilty.
He was sitting on the bed with some kind of book on his lap. It was quarto size and looked very old and dusty. Dustier than he did. Suddenly she understood his eagerness to get out of the kitchen.
She said, “That’s what you had under your jacket!”
She didn’t mean to sound accusatory but he reacted as if to accusation.
“Why not? I think if anyone’s entitled, it is I.”
“Listen, mate, you do whatever you want, so long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses,” said Sam, turning away.
He stood up and said, “No, wait. I’m sorry.”
She halted and looked back at him.
He had that haunted look on his face again.
He said in a quick low tone, “It’s just that, what I felt down there, I think Father Simeon hid in that chamber. But I think someo
ne else was with him for part of the time.”
He paused as if unable or at least reluctant to go on.
Sam said, “So? Maybe he had a traveling companion. Must have been a lonely business he was in. A little bit of comfort in the night would have come in handy.”
She hadn’t meant it to come out as a salacious innuendo, but Madero didn’t react. He was still too concerned with his internal debate, which seemed to have less to do with what he was reluctant to tell her than with what he was unwilling to admit to himself.
“Spit it out,” she advised. “Better than choking on it.”
“Your father again?” he said, attempting a smile. “He really does sound like a man of good sense. All right, you already think me weird because of my beliefs. You might as well think I am crazy too. That sense of another presence I had down there in the chamber — a ghostly presence, I mean, in addition to Father Simeon’s, but this one was stronger. It was almost as if I myself had been there five hundred years ago.”
“Jeez, and here’s me thinking you were still this side of fifty,” said Sam. “And the book you lifted?”
“It felt so strongly connected to me that I had to take it,” he said.
“So what’s it say?”
“I don’t know. I can’t read a word of it.”
He managed a rueful smile, then became serious again.
“But it has to mean something, doesn’t it?” he appealed. “All of my life I have felt something trying to speak to me. It sent me down highways and byways, but in the end it’s this place, Illthwaite in the Valley of the Shadow, that it was calling me to. And there’s one more thing I’m starting to feel very strongly. You’re part of it too, Sam. You’re part of it too!”
The Stranger House Page 22
