She pushed her way through a ragged patch of grass to the front door. Jack was beside her and must have caught her disapproving glance. ‘Don’t say a word!’ he warned.
‘If you wanted, you could have a beautiful garden, front and back. You have so much space.’
‘I’ll sort it out in time.’ He sighed, pushing the front door open with a thump. ‘When Charlie Teague is out of quarantine, I’ll give him a spade.’ He strolled across the hall to the staircase. ‘The books are in my work room. It’s upstairs.’
Flora followed him, bracing herself for the inevitable chaos, but was surprised to find that, apart from a scattering of papers on the large oak desk, the room was impressively tidy. Books had been lined up military fashion on shelves that covered two of the walls, the window sill had been left uncluttered, the paper bin emptied, and a filing cabinet shut tight.
‘Professional,’ she said.
‘A word of praise, I’ll treasure that.’
He was joking, she was sure, but the expression in those astounding grey eyes was warm.
‘So, the books…’ she said quickly.
He walked over to the far wall and reached up to the top shelf where a line of leather-bound tomes sat smug and majestic.
‘I picked them up from a market stall. I think it will be the second and third volumes that could prove useful. Let’s see. Yes, volume number four is Georgian Sussex – a bit late for us. Here, you take this one and I’ll buzz through book three.’
Flora looked around for a chair. The only one was at Jack’s desk, a deep buttoned Chesterfield. That might fit him when he was typing, but it was far too deep for someone nearly a foot shorter. She settled herself on the floor, cross-legged.
‘I can bring you a chair from the kitchen.’ He sounded concerned.
‘It’s fine. I’m not so ancient that I can’t still sit on the floor and enjoy it, and the rug is softer than your sofa.’
‘Can we forget my sofa?’
‘I think it would be best if you did.’
With that rejoinder, she opened the book he’d given her. It was a weighty volume with close-printed text. Mercifully, there was a sprinkling of images to leaven it. She flicked to the back to check for an index and found none.
‘No index,’ she said glumly.
‘I rather thought not. We’ll just have to skim and scan.’
‘And hope we don’t miss anything.’
It took them well over an hour of skimming and scanning, flicking forward, backtracking over pages, before they were satisfied they had covered the whole of both books.
‘Nothing here,’ Flora said unhappily.
‘Nor here. Disappointing, but not unexpected. I wonder… could we be looking in the wrong place?’
‘I don’t see how. We’re after a part of Sussex history and these books write about nothing else.’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m thinking that maybe we should start with the king himself, with Henry the Eighth.’
Flora was startled. ‘Henry the Eighth? Must we? He was a tyrant and what’s the connection? There’s not even a passing mention of him here.’ She tapped the book cradled in her lap.
‘Lateral thinking,’ Jack announced. ‘One of the tyrannical things Henry did was to ransack the monasteries and destroy their buildings. He wanted money but he also wanted to ensure that everyone accepted that this country had broken from Rome. The Priory could have been a monastery once – the name suggests it.’
‘It doesn’t look as though it was ever a monastery.’
‘It could have been rebuilt. Derelict religious buildings were sometimes rescued after the furore had died down. I’m pretty sure Edward Templeton was a Catholic. That’s likely to mean the Templetons as a family would have been.’
Flora blinked. ‘You should know. I’ve no idea.’ She thought for a while. ‘I don’t attend church regularly but at the few services I went to with Aunt Violet, Lord Templeton wasn’t there. What are you thinking?’
‘Only that if the Templetons were a Catholic family in Tudor times, the legend might have something do with that. There are a lot of stories about the persecution Catholics suffered, rumours about how they tried to protect their property. I have a book somewhere…’
‘Don’t tell me. You bought it because another of your heroes rescued the Pope?’
‘No, but it’s not a bad idea. I bought the book I’m thinking of on a whim. It looked interesting, but I never got round to reading it. Now, where would I have shelved it?’
‘You have a system?’ The room was neat, but Flora was still surprised.
‘Naturally. Why do you think I wouldn’t? Don’t judge me on the garden.’
He got up from the Chesterfield and did a circuit of the bookshelves, then retraced his steps, stopping beside his desk and reaching up to the nearest shelf. ‘This is the little beauty. The Suffering Faith. And it doesn’t weigh as much as a baby elephant.’
He flicked to the back of the book, running his finger down one page after another. ‘It actually has an index, Flora! Here are the Ts: Taylor, taxes and… Templeton.’
Flora jumped up and walked over to him. ‘What does it say?’ she asked eagerly.
He flicked to the page he needed. ‘My hunch was right. They were a Catholic family, and a persecuted one at that. Accused of holding Catholic services in secret. Lady Ianthe Templeton, it says, was imprisoned in the Tower where she died several years later – it’s thought from consumption. The house doesn’t appear to have been forfeit, though. That would explain why the Templeton family still owned it this century.’
‘Poor Lady Ianthe. But how could she have held secret services? There’s no chapel at the Priory.’
‘There doesn’t have to be. Quite often Catholic families would set up makeshift altars in whatever room they deemed most safe. They’d post a lookout who would sound the alarm if they spotted a stranger approaching. Any incriminating evidence would be whisked away before it could be seen.’
‘Does the book mention the Priory?’
Jack scanned the paragraph he’d been reading. ‘The original building was a priory, but for some reason the Catholic Church sold it to the first Lord Templeton. Perhaps a lack of monks? That particular Templeton refashioned it as a family home. It would have been in the late fifteenth century and probably explains why the building was left untouched during Henry’s reign. No monks by then to oust.’
Flora leaned over his shoulder and peered at the open page. ‘It doesn’t say anything about a legend, though. Probably too silly for a serious book to recount.’
‘Could be. If Lady what’s-her-name, Ianthe, died a martyr’s death in prison – presumably her husband was already dead – all kinds of stories could have flourished. If we want to be sure it’s a nonsense, we’ll have to look further.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Fancy a trip to the seaside? We could go tomorrow while the weather holds.’
Flora’s eyebrows rose. ‘We’re going paddling?’
‘Not unless Hove museum has suffered a flood we don’t know about. If there’s a bus around ten, will that be all right?’
‘Fine by me, but…’ She gestured to the covered typewriter.
‘I’ll take another day off and then I’ll get back to it.’ Jack gave a quick glance through the window. ‘It’s already nearly dark. Time you were getting home. I’ll walk back with you.’
‘There’s really no need. I’m a big enough girl to walk alone.’
‘I’ll come,’ he said firmly.
And big girl or not, she was glad of his company.
Now they were in the wood, she wished she hadn’t dragged Jack from home. The moon was full and riding high in the sky, silvering the trees and showing the path clearly ahead. She would have been quite safe, she thought, and began to fret over what to do with Jack when they arrived at her cottage. Should she invite him in? Cook him supper? He looked as though he could do with a home-cooked meal. Or simply leave him
at the garden gate with a promise to meet at the Brighton bus stop next morning?
You must deal with it when you get there, she told herself, and, in the meantime, savour the beauty of this evening. And enjoy walking with Jack. The thought jolted her from her calm. That was definitely a feeling she needed to suppress. When Violet had fallen sick, men had dropped out of her life and she’d no intention of reinstating them. Jack Carrington was at least ten years older than her, a misanthrope, or so he appeared, and goodness knows what baggage he carried with him.
‘How did you know Edward Templeton?’ she asked, wanting as much to distract her thoughts as to answer the question that had been in the back of her mind for days.
‘I didn’t really. It was my father who knew him. They were old chums from their days in the army.’
‘They fought in the First War?’
‘They did. They were too old for the Second. That was my generation’s reward. My father ventured back into uniform but strictly as a non-combatant.’
‘Did you ever visit the Priory with your father? Is that why you came to Abbeymead?’
‘I came because I remembered this part of the world as quiet and beautiful, but I never saw the Priory until I arrived five years ago and then only from the outside.’
‘You didn’t think to call on Lord Templeton? He only died two years ago.’
‘I had no reason to call. He was my father’s friend, so unlikely to be mine.’
Flora heard the sharp note in his voice. It seemed it wasn’t the discrepancy in their ages that had stopped Jack calling at the Priory, but the fact that he disliked the company his father kept. Or disliked his father. She wondered just what kind of relationship he’d had with his parents.
‘Once the war was over and their ways parted, I don’t think they saw much of each other,’ Jack went on. ‘They may have met occasionally in London. I know my father got in touch with him when he decided it was time I shaped up and went to boarding school. Templeton pulled strings to get me into St Bartholomew’s. I imagine he thought he was helping, though it was help I could have done without.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Around eight, I think.’
He must know exactly how old he’d been, Flora thought. She was beginning to understand a little the shadows in Jack’s life. ‘I take it that it wasn’t a good experience?’
‘You could say that. Certainly one that’s best forgotten.’
They were halfway back to the farmer’s gate and the path that led them into the village, when Flora became certain they were not alone. A crackling of leaves, a rustle between the branches. Then, a flock of starlings rising into the sky, disturbed from their roosting.
‘A murmuration,’ Jack said, looking skywards. ‘I love that word.’
Flora hadn’t followed his gaze. In the moonlight, her eyes were fixed on what looked like a flash of steel. A weapon of some kind? She spun on one foot, turning with arms outstretched, and gave him a hefty push as something sped towards them, towards Jack.
‘What the—!’ he shouted, falling heavily onto the tree-rooted ground. His hand went to his shoulder, grasping it tightly. Flora could see that the sleeve of his jacket had been torn apart and the shirt beneath gashed. Blood was pouring from what looked to be a deep wound.
She paled but then pulled herself together, yanking a thin scarf from her pocket and binding it tightly around his arm to staunch the bleeding. Crouching low over Jack’s prostrate figure, her eyes skittered from tree to tree, trying to see what was coming. Who was coming. Nothing stirred but from the corner of her vision she sensed something looming high above her and looked up to see a steel bolt wedged deep into a nearby trunk. It had stripped the bark and exposed the naked white of the wood beneath.
A bolt from a crossbow? It couldn’t be. Yet that’s what it looked like. She felt her hands begin to shake. A madman with a crossbow, loose in these woods. Crouching lower and pulling the tourniquet around Jack’s wound as tightly as possible, she waited for the inevitable.
It didn’t come. The pair of them stayed immobile for what seemed hours, though in reality it could not have been more than a few minutes. No one came near, the birds returned from their flight, and stillness once again filled the spinney.
Flora lifted the edge of the blood-soaked scarf and peered at the mess that was Jack’s arm. ‘I think it’s only a flesh wound, but I need to get you to a doctor.’
Jack shook his head, sufficiently recovered to say, ‘No fuss, no doctor. I’ll wash it. Disinfectant. I think I’ve got some.’ In the stark light of the moon, he looked ashen. Haggard.
‘We’re no more than ten minutes from my cottage and I do have disinfectant.’
It settled her dilemma, at least. There was no question now that Jack could be left at the garden gate.
Twelve
She managed to divest Jack of his coat without causing him too much pain, but removing the torn shirt was a more delicate business. She was worried the bleeding would start again and held her breath while, slowly and torturously, she peeled back the bloodied shirt and bundled it into the sink.
‘Both ruined,’ Jack mourned. ‘My jacket. My shirt. They cost me every one of my clothing points for a whole year.’
‘Which means that you bought them ages ago,’ she reasoned. ‘Time for a change, Jolyon. Now let me see this wound.’ She bent down, a bowl of water and a bottle of disinfectant beside her. ‘You have another,’ she said, surprised. ‘An old wound, by the look of it.’ A deep, dark hollow had been gouged from Jack’s upper arm. ‘How did you get that?’
‘German sniper,’ he said briefly. He wouldn’t say more, Flora knew. People didn’t speak of the war, particularly men who had fought their way across Europe. They barely mentioned what had happened to them in those long years of struggle. No one did, really. It was as though a huge schism had broken the country apart – a second appalling conflagration within thirty years – and everyone was now silently trying to knit the edges together.
‘I’ll have a go at bathing your new acquisition,’ she said, ‘but if it’s too deep, you will have to go to the doctor. You’ll need stitches.’
Fortunately, it proved to be the flesh wound Flora had originally thought. The bolt had broken through two layers of clothes and ripped the skin from the top of Jack’s arm, leaving in its wake a frightening gash and a large and rapidly darkening bruise. A half-naked Jack Carrington had a fine figure, she decided, then felt her cheeks flush. Concentrate, she scolded herself. Soap and water first, then a thick pad of disinfectant.
Jack flinched as the pad hit the wound.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it has to be done. You don’t want to develop a nasty infection.’
‘I don’t want to walk around with half an arm either.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I can see the wound is painful, but it’s not that bad.’
‘Not for you,’ Jack murmured. ‘But thank you for the rescue.’
When she’d managed to help him dress with what was left of the jacket, she sat him down with hot tea and three spoonfuls of sugar.
‘What the hell hit me?’ he asked, cupping the mug between his hands.
‘I don’t know much about weapons, but I’m almost sure it was a crossbow.’
‘Really? In the spinney?’
‘Maybe someone out hunting who had a rotten aim?’ she said hopefully.
‘What would you shoot in the spinney – apart from me? Rabbits, I suppose.’
The country girl reasserted itself in Flora. ‘You don’t shoot rabbits with a crossbow.’
‘It’s unusual,’ he admitted, ‘but what else could it be? Whatever the reason, I’d like to get my hands on the man who let that bolt fly. It was unbelievably reckless of him.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t being reckless.’ The suggestion was cautious, but the fear she’d felt as she’d tried to protect them from what she’d believed was coming was still vivid. ‘Perhaps the shot was deliberate?’
Jack drew himself up as straight as he could, his grey eyes stern and fixed on her face. ‘You think someone actually shot at me?’
‘At both of us maybe, but you most likely. The path through the spinney is one you take regularly to go home. If someone has been watching you, they’d know that. If they saw us walking to your house this afternoon, they could have waited for us to walk back.’
‘It sounds a nonsense.’
‘I didn’t mention it before,’ Flora said diffidently, ‘but when we walked through the woods earlier, I felt there might have been someone close by. I was conscious of a movement and heard the leaves rustle.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I thought I was being fanciful and it was probably rabbits,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t now, though.’
Jack sipped his tea, his forehead creased into small lines of worry. ‘But who would have targeted me? Or you, for that matter?’
‘It has to be whoever murdered Kevin Anderson. He or she is getting worried. They know we’ve talked to Alice, seen us go into Cyril’s cottage, and decided we’re getting too close to the truth.’
‘But we’re not.’
Flora fetched the kettle from the gas ring and refilled the teapot. ‘They don’t know that,’ she pointed out. ‘If you’ve killed someone, you’re going to be jumpy, suspicious of everyone and everything. The last few days, you’ve been seen around the village and that’s unusual. Together we’ve been conspicuous enough for this person to judge that we’re a threat.’
‘My fault then. It’s only right he set out to kill me first!’
‘It’s obvious he’d kill you first,’ she said practically. ‘What kind of fight could I manage against a crossbow?’
‘And you think I could?’
She sat down again, noticing how drawn and white his face was. ‘Not at the moment, but you’ll come round.’
Jack was about to reply when there was a bang on the front door. Their two figures froze instantly.
‘Don’t answer it,’ he advised.
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 9
