by Mary Malloy
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Lizzie got out another business card and passed it across the desk, explaining that she was in England to do some research for George Hatton. The woman gestured to the chair opposite her and Lizzie sat down.
“Our collection is pretty specific to Salisbury cathedral,” the librarian said. “I’m not sure what you’ll be able to find here.” The nameplate on her desk read Nora Stanley, though she didn’t introduce herself.
Lizzie was thoughtful for a moment, wondering how to explain her weird task to this straightforward Englishwoman. Best not to tell her that she had been influenced by dreams or stolen glimpses into Bette’s diary, she thought. She pulled her notebook out of her bag and found the copies of the Templar documents that had been made for her by Father Folan and Anthony Parker.
“Sir George Hatton had an ancestor who fought in the Crusades,” she started, pushing the first of the documents across the desk, “and he died at Mansoura with William Longespèe the younger.”
“Ah, I see the Salisbury connection,” the librarian said, “but we don’t have much here of the Longespèes—beyond their physical remains, that is. There aren’t a lot of documents describing the Crusade, for instance.”
“Strangely enough,” Lizzie said hesitantly, “what the Hattons are seeking are missing remains from their own ancestor.”
Nora Stanley looked up quizzically. Lizzie looked back at the other woman. She looked intelligent, compassionate, she didn’t seem stuffy, and she dealt every day with the medieval world. What the hell, Lizzie thought, passing the rest of the Xeroxes across the desk.
“The Hatton family, then called d’Hautain, arranged for the heart of John d’Hautain to be sent back from Egypt in 1250, and all the evidence points to it having been transported with the body of Longespèe.” She sat back and allowed Nora to look over the documents before adding, “but the heart never got to them.”
“How can you be sure?” the other woman asked without looking up, and reaching for a Latin dictionary on her desk.
“Very, very strong family tradition,” Lizzie said.
Now Nora did look up. “Very, very strong tradition?” she asked, smiling.
Lizzie smiled back. “Almost a curse, you could say.”
Nora put her hand on the papers. “These really are interesting, but what are you hoping to find here?”
“Is there a chance that John d’Hautain’s heart came here and is buried in the cathedral?” Lizzie asked bluntly.
Nora nodded. “There are a number of miscellaneous bones and other body parts that have turned up in various building projects around the cathedral.” She leaned her elbows on the desk and touched her fingertips lightly together, creating, Lizzie thought, a miniature cathedral shape.
“As you might imagine with a building more than seven hundred years old, a lot of things have shifted around over the years,” Nora continued, “not to mention that all the graves were moved in a big restoration project in the late eighteenth century.”
“Did they keep a record of what or who they were moving?” Lizzie asked.
“Not to the detailed standards that we expect today,” came the reply.
The two women sat thoughtfully for a moment.
“Do you have any idea what’s actually buried under that little bishop effigy adjacent to the younger Longespèe?” Lizzie asked, finally.
“Not off the top of my head,” Nora answered, “but we might find that in the reports of the Keeper of the Fabric.” She rose from her desk and crossed to a shelf of document boxes. As she pulled down an index ledger, Lizzie couldn’t help asking what or who was the Keeper of the Fabric.
“The manager of the building, also called the clerk of the works,” Nora explained. She ran her finger down the page. “Here we go,” she said, “tombs, heart casket.” Two boxes were indicated and Nora took them both off the shelf and back to her desk.
Lizzie wished her own heart would stop beating so hard. She was actually beginning to feel slightly light-headed, and Nora was not going fast enough to satisfy her.
“For one reason or another,” Nora began to explain, “the tombs have to be opened on occasion, and the Keeper of the Fabric indicates it in his report.” She pulled out the first group of papers. “That grave was moved about two hundred years ago, along with the Longespèes, father and son, from the Trinity Chapel up at the top of the cathedral to the plinth in the nave where they are now.”
She went methodically from page to page. “I’m hoping to find some note from the architect, James Wyatt,” she explained, “about what exactly got moved. Ah, here it is.”
Lizzie leaned forward to look from across the desk.
“It was some sort of small gold casket,” Nora said, “with a heraldic device on it.”
“That’s exactly how the Templars described John d’Hautain’s heart,” Lizzie said excitedly. “Did he describe the heraldic device?”
“No,” Nora said disappointedly, “though it says they had someone search through the coats of arms of English families without being able to identify it.” She put the papers back in their box and proceeded to the next group. “Of course most arms changed a lot between the thirteenth century and the eighteenth.” As she shuffled through the papers of the second box she explained to Lizzie that the tomb had been opened again after a flood in 1915, and that the index indicated another reference to the contents.
“Here it is,” she said, “and this time the Keeper made a sketch.”
She turned the paper around so that Lizzie could see a crudely drawn shield on the page. On it were three elements—two hearts above, a series of blocks in the middle, and a wavy line below.
“Oh my God,” Lizzie blurted out, “that’s it!” She looked up at Nora Stanley. “That’s it,” she repeated, tapping her finger on the paper, “that’s the heart of John d’Hautain.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. There is no question.”
“The Hatton family crest is pretty famous for its pierced heart,” Nora said, turning the page back around to look at it herself, “and none of these other things is on it.”
Lizzie described in detail the evolution of the Hatton family crest, the crenellated battlement of the castle tower, which had been interpreted in this sketch as a line of blocks, and the wave of the sea beneath it. She even described the scene at the tournament where it had been worn.
“I am impressed with the amount of material you’ve unearthed there at Hengeport, Dr. Manning.”
“I told you there was a very strong family lore,” she said with a forced laugh, “but you can also see this same crest on the effigy of John d’Hautain in the family church.”
“I assume you’ll tell Sir George about this?”
“Indeed I will,” Lizzie said, looking at her watch, “which reminds me I must catch a train—I’m meeting him in London.”
She collected her papers, shook hands heartily with Nora Stanley, and thanked her for her help. Then she ran all the way to the train station.
Chapter 23
George Hatton was right on time. Lizzie met him in the lobby and escorted him back to her suite. As they went up in the elevator, she couldn’t help but notice the leather-bound box under his arm. She wondered if what he had to show her could possibly be as exciting as what she had to tell him.
“I hope you’ve had an enjoyable stay in London,” he said nervously. His eyes were on the numbers of the floors as each lit up in succession. Lizzie could see that he was still uncomfortable about her experience at Hengemont.
“Yes I have,” Lizzie said. “It’s been very productive.”
“Seen any shows?”
Lizzie turned to give him a withering look but he was still avoiding her eye, as if they were strangers in the lift together. She was surprised at how awkward it seemed.
&nbs
p; “I’ve been working,” she said, somewhat curtly.
Now he turned to look at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The elevator doors opened and Lizzie took out her key to lead him into her suite. She had arrived back from Salisbury just in time to order some wine, cheese, crackers, fruit, and patè from Room Service, and they had been delivered while she was down meeting George.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” she offered, gesturing to a seat for him. There was a good-sized table near the window where she thought he could show her whatever was in the box he carried. Beyond it, London twinkled in the dark winter sky.
“Thank you,” he said, placing the box on the table and sitting. “A glass of wine would be very nice.”
Lizzie made up a small plate for each of them from the food on the sideboard, poured two glasses of wine, and sat down opposite him. She was wondering how to tell him that she had found the heart. In fact, she was hoping that Martin would get back soon, because she wanted him to be here when she related the story for the first time.
George took a sip of the wine and pushed the box toward Lizzie.
“You’ll probably be able to figure out what’s in here as well as I did,” he said. “This box was given to me when my father died and I inherited the title and property.” He turned his chair to look at the lights beyond the window and took another sip of the wine. “I’ve never shown it to anyone else,” he said softly, “not my sister, not my solicitor, not even my sons, though Richard will see it soon enough when I’m gone.”
The box was old but very solid and obviously well cared for. The leatherwork reminded Lizzie of a seventeenth-century book, and she guessed that it had been made at that time. It had a sort of belt around it with a locking clasp that clicked open easily. The papers inside represented the history of the Hatton family, organized carefully from the oldest on the bottom to the most recent on the top. Lizzie turned the pile over so that she could begin with the oldest, but she couldn’t help noticing that the most recent document, dated 1966, was a court-ordered committal of Elizabeth Hatton to a mental institution. She thought with a guilty conscience of Bette’s diary, which was still in her possession.
The oldest documents in the pile were written on vellum and marked with ribbons and wax seals. Though they had all been rolled when new, the passage of seven hundred years, with most of them in a box like this one, had straightened them out flat. For a moment Lizzie regretted that she would not be able to read the ones in Latin or French, but she soon found that interleaved between each of the old documents was a newer one with a translation written in a neat nineteenth-century hand on a stiff piece of Hatton stationery. One after another, she turned over a dozen or so papers related to early titles and landholding, all bearing the seals of Kings Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III. A special writ called Richard, Margaret’s husband, to Parliament in the reign of Henry III. It had a big wax disk, impressed with the Great Seal of England.
There were the Templar documents she had seen transcribed at the Public Record Office, and she thought of the copies that lay now in her book bag. The translations were very consistent with the information she had gotten from Anthony Parker and Father Folan.
The next paper she turned over was a letter from Elizabeth Pintard d’Hautain to her son. Lizzie touched her fingertips very gently to the signature mark. It was her first physical encounter with the woman who had started the Hatton obsession with dying for love. She sat silently for a moment until she heard George turn from the window to look at her.
“I see you’ve found it,” he said.
Lizzie nodded. She took the translation and laid it beside the letter, moving her eyes back and forth between the two, one in old French, the other in a stylized English.
“My God,” she said after a moment, looking up at George, “it’s her suicide note.”
Now it was George’s turn to nod silently. He turned back to the window, his empty wineglass on the table beside him.
The letter described the sequence of events that Lizzie had learned from her other disparate sources, though in terribly sad and poignant detail. Elizabeth d’Hautain knew that by pledging her son to marry the daughter of her sister she was insuring that he would inherit the d’Hautain family titles and property. She asked his forgiveness for abandoning him, but said that she could not live without her husband. There were instructions to place his father’s heart in the tomb in the family church if it should ever come into his possession.
“Though you will not remember your parents,” the translation read, “think on them with kindness. Always remember their story.” The letter concluded with a message that it would be left with Elizabeth’s priest and was to be delivered to her son only on the death of his uncle and his inheritance of Hengemont. Her signature was scrawled on the bottom. Lizzie touched it again.
The next page included two shield-shaped drawings. The first showed the crest of John d’Hautain, which Lizzie had seen so recently at Salisbury Cathedral; the other drawing showed the sword-pierced heart, with instructions from Jean-Alun d’Hautain that he was adopting the new crest in honor of his parents. The motto was from his mother’s letter: “Semper Memoriam.”
“This is powerful stuff,” Lizzie said, looking up at George’s impassive back. He had not stirred in several minutes, but now he turned and nodded again.
“Can I pour you another glass of wine?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” he said, turning his chair back to the table again.
Lizzie rose to pour the wine and George began to nibble a cracker. The time had come to tell George about the heart; it couldn’t be delayed any longer. Lizzie looked at the door, wishing that Martin would return and, as if on cue, it opened and her husband entered the room.
“Hello,” he said, looking from Lizzie to George and back to Lizzie. “Sorry I’m later than I expected.” He crossed the room and held out his hand. “You must be George Hatton,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you.” He turned and kissed Lizzie and then excused himself into the bedroom to get rid of his coat.
The silent spell that the room had been under for the last half hour was broken. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to break her big news to both men. It didn’t take long for Martin to return to the sitting room, fill a plate of snacks and join them at the table. Lizzie passed a wine glass to each man and held her own up.
“Cheers,” she said, taking a gulp. She sat down again, opposite George, but she caught Martin’s eye before she began speaking.
“I have news,” she said. “I found the heart.”
The reaction of the two men could not have been more different. George Hatton sat perfectly still, his face growing ever more pale as the blood drained from it. Martin rose from his chair with a cheer and gave her a kiss of congratulations. “I knew you could do it,” he said.
“How? Where?” George was almost inaudible beneath Martin’s excitement.
“It’s in Salisbury Cathedral,” Lizzie said gently, looking directly at George.
“And you’re sure?” George stammered. “You’ve only been looking for it for two days! My family’s been looking for it for seven centuries!”
“I know this is a very peculiar situation George, but in a way it was hiding in plain sight. A number of people had seen the casket over the years. They just didn’t recognize the crest.”
“You’re really sure?”
“There can be no question,” Lizzie answered, pulling out the various documents she had collected and showing him the references.
“The real proof is right here, though,” she said, tapping her finger on the picture of John d’Hautain’s shield. “The heart casket bears this coat-of-arms.”
George rose from his chair and paced the room. Martin reached under the table and squeezed Lizzie’s knee. She smiled at him, then rose and stood with George.
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sp; “What should I do now?” he asked.
“My recommendation is to contact the people in charge at Salisbury and claim it,” Lizzie answered.
“It will seem a bit strange after seven hundred years,” he mused
“These things sometimes take a long time,” Lizzie said with a smile.
George nodded. He was not in a state to appreciate Lizzie’s humor.
Martin called softly to Lizzie from the table. She stepped over to him and found that he had turned the stack of papers over and searched through them from the more recent end.
“Ask him about this,” he whispered, showing her a receipt for the £300 paid to her great grandmother, with a notation about her pregnancy and departure.
Lizzie shook her head at him. He gave her a meaningful glare and held up the receipt again, mouthing the words, “Ask him!”
“Let me do this in my own way,” she whispered sharply, turning back to face George.
Martin folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
George seemed to be recovering somewhat from his shock. “I have a friend in Salisbury who should be able to help me present the case to the Dean and Chapter at the cathedral there,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with. Could you clear your schedule and go there with me tomorrow?”
Lizzie nodded.
“My schedule is clear too,” Martin added dryly. Lizzie gave him an arch look. She could tell he was itching to confront George about his knowledge of her relationship to the Hatton family.
George began to put the papers back in the box.
“Bring this one to Salisbury,” Lizzie said, reaching for the page with the sketch of the crest and setting it aside.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the work you’ve done on this,” George stammered. He seemed to sense Martin’s hostility and added with a nod to him, “and your support, too.” The box closed and the sound of the old lock snapping into place was the only sound in the room.
