Lilian's Spell Book

by Toby Litt

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll hang it up, as fair warning to the others. Not somewhere so’s you’d see it, mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. I knew that bloodthirsty Jack would be disappointed if he didn’t get to see the dead fox.

  ‘Jack,’ I shouted into the chapel. ‘Come here.’

  I listened hard. All I could hear was Mr. Gatward saying, ‘Wonderful.’

  Jack scrabbled up the ladder.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Did you shoot it?’

  ‘Trapped it,’ said Robert Mew.

  He bent down to give Jack a closer look, and I saw the keychain dangling from his belt.

  Jack was taking a very close interest in the fox’s bloody mangled leg, where it had been snared. Earlier that morning, he’d taken a similar interest in the arm I’d scalded. He was very relieved to see that I wasn’t hideously disfigured. Remembering yesterday, I remembered something else.

  ‘Robert,’ I said. ‘Those keys you have. Do you know what all of them are for?’

  The gardener stood up.

  ‘To be honest, I only use about three or four of ’em. They came with the job. I don’t know why I still lug them around.’

  ‘Could you let me have the ones you don’t use? Just for today. I’ll give you them back.’

  ‘Take the lot,’ he said. ‘As long as I can lock up this evening.’

  He undid his belt with his right hand and pulled it round until the keys fell into his left.

  ‘Can I have them?’ asked Jack.

  ‘You can hold them for a minute,’ I said.

  ‘They’re very old,’ Robert said. ‘Probably for something in the house.’

  ‘That’s what I hope,’ I said. ‘Have you ever been down there?’ I nodded at the door in the ground.

  ‘Chapel?’ asked Robert. ‘No. I knows it’s there, because of walking over it so often.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a look?’ I said.

  He glanced around, as if someone might see him going in.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Robert laid the fox on a pile of leaves, treating it with respect even though he said he’d hated it. Jack immediately handed me the keys and went over for an even closer look at the dead animal.

  Robert crossed himself, then went quickly and easily down the ladder. He was very athletic. The bushy beard made him look much older than he was, and so you expected him to be tentative. It was only when he was out of sight that I realized him bringing the fox to me there might not have been a total accident. Most likely, he’d been angling to get a nosey around the chapel.

  With Mary resting on my shoulder, I looked through the keys one by one. There were at least four that might fit the doors to the fire and air rooms. We could try later on, when we had a minute.

  Peter climbed out of the chapel.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go and show Robert around?’

  Jack went down straight away. He loved being an expert.

  Peter came closer and whispered in my ear, ‘You know you said that something was blocking your way out, up through the grille, something shaped like a cross?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the bottom of the lectern. I can see it. It’s down there. But…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not covering anything. It’s just over a flagstone. The grille where the tunnel comes out is next to it.’

  ‘That means…’

  We both looked towards the house.

  ‘It does indeed mean that,’ said Peter. ‘Go and see for yourself. I’ll hold Mary.’

  Without looking as if I was interested in anything particular, I went down into the chapel.

  ‘Mrs. Jonson,’ said Mr. Gatward, his eyes blazing with energy, ‘there’s nothing else like this in England. It’s absolutely one of a kind. The recusants usually had hidden chapels in their houses.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, moving towards the lectern.

  ‘They needed to hear the mass, of course. Every day. Several times. When the houses were searched, Elizabeth’s men were looking for priests but also for cups, plates, candles.’

  Three feet to one side of the lectern was a metal grille. I’d been on the underside of it just the night before. I’d poked my fingers up through those holes. And, since then, someone had gone through it from here. Someone had moved the lectern out of the way, so they could climb back out.

  ‘The Jonsons must have needed vast amounts of money to build this place. And to have done so in complete secrecy. That suggests a large self-contained recusant community – with craftsmen, an architect.’

  I could see scrapes on the floor, where the wood of the lectern had left traces on the flagstones. It looked as if it had happened many times more than just the once. That might explain the sounds I’d heard going down into the cellar with Jack. Whoever it was must have a second key to the chapel. The first had come from Father Trovato. Maybe they had got the second key from him, too.

  I tried lifting the lectern. It was far too heavy for me by myself.

  ‘Robert,’ I said. ‘Could you just help me move this?’

  Jack and Mr. Gatward came over, but I said Robert and I could handle it – and it turned out that we could.

  ‘I think it should go in the middle,’ I said. ‘There.’

  Together, we repositioned it, right on top of the grille. No one was getting out that way. But what if they were robbing the house, even as we were looking around here? No, the cellar was locked from the outside. They couldn’t get out unless they broke the door down. I thought of the solicitors’ warnings, about how valuable all the paintings were.

  ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘you can stay here with the others. Mr. Gatward, could you lock up when you leave?’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ he said. ‘Though I feel I could stay here forever. I’ve never had such a sense of stepping right through a doorway into the past.’

  Before he could say anything else, I was up the ladder and into the daylight.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Peter, ‘I’ve blocked off that end.’

  Peter held up Mary, as if to ask what we should do with her.

  ‘Robert,’ I called down into the chapel. ‘Can you come up here for a moment?’

  He came up blinking, a little startled by what he’d seen.

  ‘Can you hold Mary?’ I asked. ‘We need to quickly do something in the house.’

  Only slightly bewildered, he took Mary in his safe arms.

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  Peter and me walked until we were out of sight of the chapel, then sprinted into the hall, where I could see straight away that the lock was still on the unbroken cellar door.

  I went into the kitchen with Peter. Even though we were out of earshot of the cellar, we still whispered.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’ I asked.

  ‘We will,’ said Peter. ‘When we’re sure there’s someone in there. It would be a bit stupid to get the police out just for an empty cellar.’

  ‘But it’s not going to be empty, is it?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s two or more in there, I reckon.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt shaky with adrenalin.

  ‘Did you try moving that lectern on your own?’

  ‘We can’t surprise them,’ I said. ‘They’ll hear us.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Peter. ‘We can keep them in there until they tell us what they’re up to.’

  Quickly, Peter went into the living room and brought back two pokers from the fireplace. He gave the bigger one to me, then slid the key into the lock, turned it twice, pushed the door open and switched on the light.

  Again I heard the high yelp followed by the scrabbling.

  Peter marched down the stairs, ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see you.’

  Chapter 30.

  The Right Honourable Douglas Longbone stood up from where he’d been sitting, beside Mrs. Forster, on a blue and green tartan blanket. Between them were a couple of bri
ght torches and three plates with the remains of breakfast on them – eggshells, crusts. Mrs. Forster had some knitting. Longbone had an iPod and a copy of The Telegraph.

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Longbone.

  ‘Go on,’ said Peter. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Mrs. Forster was showing me – ’

  ‘Showing you what? How to break into our house?’

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. I’d heard about the secret tunnel. I asked her to show it to me. We were making a bit of a jolly out of it.’

  He was trying to laugh the whole thing off.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I said. ‘You’re obviously here for the duration.’ I pointed to Mrs. Forster’s knitting, a small cardigan that looked as though it was just about Mary’s size.

  ‘First,’ said Peter, ‘give me the key to the chapel.’

  Mrs. Forster reached for her pocket.

  ‘Now, hang on – ’ said Longbone.

  ‘Do as I say,’ said Peter, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘That won’t necessarily do you a huge amount of good,’ said Longbone. ‘In the long term.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll call the newspapers. We can keep you down here until they arrive. “MP in breaking and entering scandal” – doesn’t sound too good, does it?’

  Peter started to climb the stairs.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Longbone. ‘Please…’

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Peter.

  Longbone looked down at Mrs. Forster. ‘You tell them,’ he said. He seemed to have given up.

  ‘It’s the house,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘It heals you. It keeps you young. Or it stops you getting old. But you have to spend a certain amount of time here. Just coming and going doesn’t work. You have to be here for hours. That’s why – ’

  ‘This is what you honestly think?’ said Peter

  ‘So that’s why you drove us half mad with your bloody hoovering, is it?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘I knew that if you didn’t let me come here, I’d die. I’d die very soon. When I’m away, I can feel myself aging. See what happened to Mr. Jonson.’

  ‘So you’d prefer to spend your life cleaning, rather than be anywhere else?’

  ‘I love this house,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘I’ve spent the happiest hours of my life here.’

  ‘Well, you’ve messed that up now, haven’t you?’ said Peter.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked Longbone. ‘Do you want to live longer.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But mainly I don’t want to die so soon. I have two young, active children, and I have cancer. Of the lungs. I thought this might help. The chemotherapy didn’t do much. I’ll try anything – and I’ve already done homeopathy, healing prayer, you name it.’

  Peter looked at the both of then, then at me – I could see he was thinking we were all as mad as each other.

  ‘Right,’ said Peter to me. ‘Upstairs. I’m going to lock these two down here until I’ve figured out what to do.’

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ Longbone said.

  ‘You can listen to a few tunes,’ Peter said.

  Mrs. Forster stood up, pulled the large key out of her pocket and placed it in my hand.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ she said to me. ‘I know you believe me.’

  ‘It’s our decision,’ said Peter, ‘and if you think it’s not, you’re making an even worse mistake. Come on.’

  I followed him out of the cellar. I can’t say that locking our infuriating cleaner and our smug MP down there didn’t give me some satisfaction. I mean, how many people get the chance?

  We walked out of the front door, as if we thought they’d hear us if we spoke inside the house.

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘do you believe her?’

  I held out my perfect arm, badly scalded only twenty four hours before.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m certain there’s something magical about this house. I’ve seen impossible things…’

  ‘What things?’

  I didn’t want to mention the snow and ice. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘the dirt in the middle of the night. The stones in Jack’s room.’ I could tell that Peter knew I believed there was more, but he wasn’t going to press me. Perhaps he was frightened of what he might hear – frightened of how mad I might be. ‘I think it means something that everything here is in such good condition – the floors and banisters. It’s as if it’s all new.’

  ‘And how exactly does this work, this healing people?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I think it has something to do with Elizabeth.’

  Peter stood, looking down into the gravel of the drive, stirring it with the toe of his shoe.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. But that’s for later. What should we do about those two?’ he asked. It was a genuine question. He really wasn’t sure. I wanted to give him a hug but felt held back – Peter might think I was using comfort to try and get him to do what I wanted.

  ‘Let them go,’ I said. ‘They won’t be able to do it again. We have the key now.’

  ‘How do we know she didn’t have it copied? How do we know that every mason in the county hasn’t got a key to our home?’

  ‘We don’t,’ I said. ‘But we can put something over the grate in the cellar. No one’s going to get in.’

  Peter wasn’t satisfied with this, I could tell.

  ‘I’m going to see how the children are,’ I said.

  Peter went back into the house. Later, he told me that he took a camera down into the cellar. He made Longbone and Mrs. Forster hold up the Telegraph while he took their photos – to prove that they’d been there, on that day. This made me smile. It was as if we’d become kidnappers.

  I was bringing Jack and Mary round to the front of the house when our two intruders came out the front door, Peter following behind them. Mrs. Forster was crying. Longbone was saying over his shoulder to Peter, ‘Look, just consider it, all right? What have you got to lose.’ He caught sight of me. ‘Goodbye, Mrs. Jonson,’ he said, as if we’d just played bridge together, or something. ‘Goodbye, Jack, Mary.’

  ‘What are you considering?’ I asked Peter, as the two sad but also ridiculous figures walked off down the path.

  ‘He offered me fifty thousand pounds if he could move into one of our spare rooms. And a lot more if he was alive in a year’s time, and could start playing golf again. That seemed quite important.’

  Just before they disappeared into the trees, Longbone turned to stare angrily back at the house. He peered up at the roof, stood on tiptoe for a moment, shook his head. Mrs. Forster kept walking, but I could see her shoulders juddering as she sobbed. Then Longbone turned and stomped away, too.

  ‘Oh,’ said Peter, ‘and we’d have to take Mrs. Forster back, too. But she promises she wouldn’t hoover so much.’

  ‘The money would be useful,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ Peter replied.

  ‘Can I have some money?’ asked Jack.

  Mr. Gatward and Robert Mew came into sight.

  ‘I’ve locked it all up,’ said Robert, and handed Peter the keys. ‘Got to be getting along now. Thank you for the look-around.’

  Before we could say anything else, he was off.

  Mr. Gatward went into the house with us. He was going to go upstairs again, but I asked him to wait. Then I told Jack he could play computer games for a while. He ran straight off.

  ‘Can we ask you a few questions?’ I said to Mr. Gatward.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  I led him into the parlour, carrying a gently stirring Mary on my shoulder. Peter came, too.

  ‘It’s a wonderful painting, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I missed seeing it, when I wasn’t allowed in the house. All I had were a couple of very bad black and white reproductions. And it’s the colours that make it so special. Look at that hair! Just like Gloriana’s. That’s Queen Elizabeth the First.’

  We were now all sitting round the dining table.


  ‘Do you mind if I feed Mary?’ I asked Mr. Gatward.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’ I knew he wasn’t very comfortable with the idea, but he knew it would be very rude to say so.

  ‘Why are there so many books on alchemy upstairs?’ I asked, when Mary was settled and Mr. Gatward definitely unsettled.

  ‘My theory, and it’s only a theory, is that Lilian and her father were trying to make gold. From the evidence upstairs, they would have known as much as anyone in Europe about this.’

  ‘But no one ever did,’ said Peter. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘If they had,’ said Mr. Gatward, ‘history would have been very different. Unless, of course, they did, and it was covered up. I’m no conspiracy theorist, however.’

  Somehow, I felt he wasn’t telling me everything he suspected.

  ‘Why did they want gold?’ I asked. ‘Weren’t they rich enough?’

  ‘How rich is rich enough?’ Mr. Gatward said. ‘People always want more. But, no, my guess is they saw it as more of a spiritual quest – a way of testing how pure in heart they were. Many alchemists believed that only someone who had no material interest in gold would be able to produce it. You had to be above all worldly concerns.’

  ‘But they were seriously Catholic, weren’t they? With the priest’s hole and everything. Didn’t that make what they were doing dangerous? Evil?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ said Mr. Gatward. ‘It’s one I’ve thought about a lot. I’ve come to the conclusion that, for William and Lilian, alchemy was very closely related to the Catholic doctrine concerning the Mass – the transubstantiation of the host, the bread. This was the hottest topic of that time – the reason people were burnt at the stake. When they took the sacraments, Catholics believed that they were really eating the body and drinking the blood of Christ. Protestants thought lots of different things, but mostly that nothing physically changed in the bread and wine. But the utter transformation of matter – one thing magically becoming another – that’s central to all Catholic belief. So, in a way, it’s more likely Catholics would be interested in alchemy than Protestants. Because, for them, making gold from base material is little more than an amusing sideshow to the Mass itself. You can’t eat gold, you see, and it doesn’t get you into heaven.’