by Mary Malloy
“You’ve got it,” he answered.
Chapter 21
The next day Martin took the train early to Newcastle to scout out his mural project. He was scheduled to visit the proposed site and meet with town officials, potential financial backers, and some of the people in the community who would help him with production if he accepted the offer. Seeing Lizzie had lessened his fears for her, and he planned to stay the night in Newcastle to finish up the business. He promised he would be back in time to meet George the following evening.
Lizzie walked with him to Victoria Station, then headed for the Public Record Office, where she had spent many hours when she was researching her dissertation, and where she hoped to find some information about the Knights Templers, and possibly about their role in the transportation of the John d’Hautain’s heart from Egypt back to England after the battle of Mansoura. She walked briskly, feeling smart and professional. She was confident that she was a good researcher, and that this was a problem she could solve.
A few minutes with the catalog was enough to shake her confidence. Most of the surviving materials consisted of detailed inventories of Templar property confiscated by the British Crown at the time of the dissolution of the Templar order. There were lists of household goods, religious regalia, and documents. They were in a combination of Latin, French, and Middle English, and Lizzie quickly became frustrated. She wasn’t comfortable enough in any of the languages to be sure that she wasn’t missing the object of her search. After three hours of exasperating work, she had made no progress. If she went out and learned the languages, or found someone competent to translate them for her, she would have to begin again at the beginning.
The librarian arrived with another file box of documents and asked Lizzie if she was ready to trade the one she was working on for this new one. She shrugged. What the hell, she thought. She pulled out a file, opened it and started looking quickly at endless old pieces of paper covered with lists, numbers, and incomprehensible foreign words. The pages shifted, one after another from the right side of the folder to the left as she moved them face up to face down. She closed the folder. She had no memory of even a single word.
It was past noon. Maybe she should take a lunch break, she thought. At any rate, she could stop at a book store and get herself a couple of pocket dictionaries. She returned the document box to the desk and left the building. It was bitter cold as she walked up Chancery Lane. She saw W.H. Smith, the bookstore chain, and bought two dictionaries, Latin and French.
There was a small pub tucked into the alley behind the bookstore and Lizzie decided to stop in there for lunch. It was crowded, but she found an empty booth and slipped in, removing her bulky coat, muffler, hat, and knitted gloves before she sat down. There was no menu on the table and when she looked up at the bar, she didn’t see the usual blackboard with specials. She left her coat in the booth and went to the bar. No hot food served, she was told.
“We have crisps,” the man behind the bar told her.
Lizzie thought of the trouble it would take to get her cold weather gear on again and find a restaurant. She had seen nothing in the neighborhood but law offices.
“I’ll have two packs of crisps and a pint of bitter,” she said. She looked around the place. There had been a time when a single woman wouldn’t have been served beer in a pub, but this seemed a pretty hard-drinking crowd, and she was not the only woman drinking alone.
She went back to her booth and opened one of the small bags of salty potato chips. What to do now, she wondered? She took a long drink of the bitter. It was misnamed, she thought. It wasn’t bitter at all and she had become fond of drinking it on her earlier trips to England.
She took a notebook and the two dictionaries from her bag and laid them on the table in front of her. “Okay,” she said to herself, “where am I on this ridiculous project anyway?” She finished the pint and the crisps and went to the bar for the same thing again. She was feeling warmer and calmer and thought she might actually be able to get a little work done as she sat there. Around her was the low rumble of conversation, the clink of glasses as the barman wiped them and set them on the shelf above him, and the different clunk of glasses as they touched the wood of nearby tables.
A list of pertinent words would make her afternoon more productive. Lizzie took up a pen and began to write down all the words for heart from the Latin dictionary, and then did the same for French. She also wrote down the words for corpse, preserved, travel, widow, soldier, knight, Crusades, and all the versions of dead, death, and dying. For the first time that day, she felt like she was making some progress. Would it be too much to have a third pint? She had seen some of her English friends down five pints at lunch and had always been astonished, especially since they then went back to work. She felt a comfortable buzz and thought the beer was helping. At the bar she ordered another pint, but shook her head when the publican held up yet another bag of crisps.
Back at the table she looked at her growing column of words, then turned to the notes she had taken that morning at the Public Record Office. She started a list of questions:
1. Were all the Templar properties in England confiscated by the Crown?
2. Was there any attempt to return to private individuals personal property held by the Templars at the time the order was dissolved?
3. What happened to the remains of Templars killed at the battle of Mansoura?
4. Where is his heart?
As she dotted the last question mark, Lizzie dropped the pen with a start. She had actually written, unthinkingly, the very line that had started her on this strange chase. She stared at it while reaching to retrieve her pen and sent the beer glass clattering across the table. The barman approached with a towel to wipe up the spilled beer and Lizzie reached for her napkin to stop the flood headed her way. Most of the pint glass had spilled onto her coat and scarf, lying on the bench opposite her in the booth. Lizzie could do no more than murmur an apology for her clumsiness as she slid out of the booth. The man gave her a look of grumpy exasperation; he clearly did not appreciate her kind of damsel in distress.
Lizzie picked up her coat and brushed it off as well as she could. Her knitted muffler was soaked with beer, as were her hat and gloves. She went into the bathroom and wrung them out in the sink, then held her coat up to the hot blower provided to dry hands.
“Where is his heart?” It was written on a scrap of paper sitting on the table in the pub, and she had written it. Should she add it to her assemblage of poems? She wasn’t sure if this was humorous or terrifying. Was she now one of the Hatton girls? Or, could it be, she wondered for the first time, that someone else had written that question as she had, simply because they actually wanted to know the answer to it and not because they felt some centuries-weight of tragedy about it.
Her muffler and hat were still soaking wet. To go out into the cold with them was out of the question. She laid them across the sink and left them. Maybe when they dried somebody else could use them.
Her soggy papers were at the bar. A couple had already replaced her in the booth and the barman didn’t seem sorry to see her go. She wiped off her notebook as well as she could, shoved it into her bag, paid the bill, and left the pub. The cold air hit her with a blast in the face. She pushed her fists into her pockets, missing her warm scarf and gloves. Her coat was damp, but she still felt dry enough inside it, so with her head down she started walking.
There was a warren of small alleys in the neighborhood and Lizzie wasn’t sure exactly where she was. She knew that eventually she would come back out onto Chancery Lane or Fleet Street, but in the meantime she would walk until her head cleared. Where should she go now? She had no idea how to proceed. This wasn’t anything like her usual research problem. For one thing, the language barrier seemed insurmountable. And the resources available were totally unfamiliar to her. In her own field of late-eighteenth-century voyages she felt confi
dent that she had a good handle on the sources that survived and what they represented of the mercantile and scientific efforts of the period, but here she was really out of her depth.
The cold nipped at her exposed face as she progressed in a blur, moving swiftly through crowds of people, crossing streets, passing building after building. At one point she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the display window of a store. She looked awful. Her hair had frozen into a tousled mess, her coat was stained from the beer.
Occasionally she saw on a building or sign the name of a street she passed: Cursitor Street, Furnival Street, Fetter Lane. Eventually she emerged onto busy Fleet Street. Lizzie looked down the length of it. Here and there Christmas decorations were still visible, clinging sadly to lamp posts. She didn’t think she could face the crowds that jammed the sidewalk, so she crossed the street and continued on in the same direction, toward the River Thames.
On her right was a large complex of buildings, set into a walled park. It was the great legal heart of England, the Inns of Court and Chancery. Lizzie had not meant her steps to lead her here, but as she looked through the gate she realized that she was near the Temple Church. These grounds, now swarming with lawyers, had once held the headquarters of the Knights Templar in England. It had occurred to her during the course of the morning that she might want to go to the Temple Church, but she hadn’t realized she was so close to it at the Public Record Office.
A map of the grounds was mounted on the gate; it showed the buildings directly in front of her, still called the “Inner Temple” after a thousand years. She traced her finger along the path that would take her to the Temple Church, the only part of the complex that survived from the time of the Templars. Her heart was beating fast and she tried to take a deep breath but found that the cold prevented her.
The church was smaller than she expected. It was famous for its round shape, modeled on the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, after which the Templars had taken their name. Lizzie went to the door and found it locked. She looked at her watch, it was three-thirty. She walked around the circular wall to another door, this one set inside an old Norman porch. No luck. There were a number of graves scattered here and there around the church, and as Lizzie looked at them she wondered what she should do. She was feeling slightly queasy.
She sank down onto the small bench on the porch. Of all the nights that Martin should be away, this was going to prove the worst. She just knew it. The whole situation was frustratingly out of control. Suddenly, she seemed out of control. How could she possibly have thought that she would be able to find the damned heart! Lizzie couldn’t keep back the tears any longer, and as she sat on the porch of the Temple Church they began to flow freely until eventually she was sobbing loudly, her body convulsing with uncontrollable hiccup-like jerks.
Eventually her sobs drew the attention of a young woman, who came around the church to investigate. “Are you all right?” she asked sympathetically, leaning toward Lizzie but not touching her.
Lizzie nodded and reached in her bag for a tissue. “I’m disappointed the church isn’t open,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Are you cold?” the woman asked. “Do you need a warm place to sit?”
Lizzie couldn’t help smiling. This girl thought she was a bag lady. She looked down at her stained coat; her hair was matted and she still had a pretty hearty beery smell.
“You could come inside for a minute to get warm,” her companion said, “but you won’t be able to stay.”
Lizzie blew her nose and stood up. “Do you have a key?”
“I’m with the florist. We’re setting up for a wedding this evening.”
They walked together around the church and Lizzie saw the white van of the florist, and a young man carrying a gigantic bouquet into the church. This was at least an opportunity to see the interior.
“Thank you,” she said to the woman. “I’d like to see inside just for a few minutes if I could.”
“I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t come in while we set up.”
A young man at the door of the church obviously disagreed. He held up a hand to stop Lizzie as she mounted the few steps.
“I’m sorry,” he said curtly, “the church is closed to the public.”
“Can I just have quick look around?” she asked. “I’ve come a long way to see it.”
He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said dismissively. He turned away.
“Wait,” Lizzie said, her frustration growing. “It’s not even five yet.”
The man turned back with a look of haughty disgust. “This is a private church,” he said. “We have limited hours for the public. You’ll have to check in advance before your next visit.”
“Do you have a library here?” she asked.
He practically pushed her away. “No.”
Lizzie hoped he wasn’t a clergyman. She turned and said goodbye to the young woman who had been kind to her. “What time is the wedding?” she asked.
“Seven o’clock.”
Lizzie thanked her and turned to go. The confusion and disappointment of the day’s events were overtaking her, and all the feelings she had been resisting or denying about the strange situation in which she had found herself for the last several days rose to the surface. This was not just a research problem, as much as she tried to justify to herself that it was. She had learned things about her family and herself that were unexpected and difficult to digest. The chain of evidence she had uncovered about the Hatton women, a group to which she now belonged, was both extraordinarily exciting and frustratingly confusing. At this moment all those feelings were being manifested in an irrational, almost obsessive need to see what was inside this church. She couldn’t explain it. She didn’t know if there was anything important or useful there, but she didn’t think she could go any further if she wasn’t able to examine the interior.
There was nothing to be done but crash the wedding.
Fleet Street was busy with end-of-the-work-day traffic and it took almost twenty minutes to get a taxi to take her back to the hotel. There was a message from Martin and she called him at the number in Newcastle.
“How does the project look?” she asked after they had exchanged hellos.
“This is a great one, Liz,” Martin answered. He was obviously excited. “I’m going to dinner with the mayor tonight, and then meeting with people from the community again for most of the day tomorrow.” He described the site where the mural would be. Lizzie found it hard to give him all her attention. She was wondering if any of her dresses were nice enough to wear to an evening wedding.
“What time will you be back tomorrow?” she asked.
“About seven, I expect.”
“Good,” she replied. “Don’t forget, George is meeting us.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Of course, why do you ask?”
“You sound a little funny.”
“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I don’t want to put a damper on your enthusiasm.” She paused for a moment. “Not a good day of research.”
Martin asked for details but Lizzie was unwilling to furnish them at this point.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Lizzie finally convinced him she was. “I’m going to miss you tonight, though,” she said.
“Well you should just have a quiet night in,” Martin suggested.
Lizzie smiled. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said as she hung up. It just wouldn’t pay to tell him her plans at this point.
• • • • •
Getting a hairbrush through her hair took a good part of Lizzie’s preparation time. She showered, brushed her teeth, put on her best dress and looked at herself in the mirror. It simply wouldn’t do. Not for a formal wedding. Not if she didn’t want to stand out like a sore thumb. Besides, what would she wear for a coat? And she certainly could
n’t go into the church toting the big bag that she always carried. She liked it because it was big enough to carry her computer in, but it would make her stand out this evening and she didn’t have a smaller purse.
The plot would only work if she was willing to invest some serious cash, she decided. There was a women’s dress shop in the lobby of the hotel. Lizzie left her coat in her room, and taking only her wallet and room key, went to buy a nice coat and bag.
The store was expensive, but they had a beautiful forest green wool coat that fit Lizzie perfectly. It was more tailored than she usually wore, but very flattering. She told the shopkeeper that she was going to a wedding.
“You know you’ll need a hat too.”
Lizzie thought of her knit hat, soaked in beer and sitting in the sink of the pub behind W.H. Smith.
The woman held out a hat for her to try. Dark grey with a band of forest green, it would match the coat perfectly. Lizzie tried it on. The effect was not quite right. The brim was too big.
“You should put your hair up.”
Lizzie turned and smiled at her new fashion advisor. “I didn’t bring a hairbrush,” she said. A hairbrush and clips were soon produced and Lizzie pinned her hair firmly on top of her head. Now when she added the hat the effect was perfect. It was necessary to buy a small grey clutch bag and a new pair of shoes to complete the ensemble, and the whole thing set Lizzie back almost four hundred pounds, but she felt ready to march confidently into a wedding to which she had not been invited.
She got a cab and arrived back at the church. In the darkness, the stained glass windows stood out as pale patches of color. The light inside was not bright enough to make the patterns distinct, but the effect was beautiful. A small crowd of elegantly dressed guests stood smoking just outside the door. Lizzie mingled for a moment, eavesdropping on conversation. They all seemed to be lawyers. The rude young man from earlier was still at his post and Lizzie flashed him a broad smile as she went into the church. He nodded politely, showing no sign of recognizing her.
