by Nicola Slade
She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got a bit longer before we need get ready. Look, come and sit down over here for a minute.’ She waved a hand towards the stone boundary wall. ‘Grandpa was told that this would have been the middle of the villa complex but at some point they built that stone wall right across, probably at the time of the Enclosures, which is why the shape of the fields changed completely. That would be why the copse is in the angle of the walls and not out on its own. Anyway, Lucius finished building his house and then looked round for a wife but he took his time about it; very picky type from the sound of it. It’s said that he had a fall out hunting and was nursed by “a maiden of high repute and high beauty”.’ She came from a great family, the legend says, and he “did fall heart long and steadfastly in love with her to her great joy.”’ Ain’t love grand?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘You might as well have the full works,’ she nodded, giving him a brief run-down of the origin of the Attlin name. ‘So, by-blow or not, Edmund Atheling married Edith, the last of Lucius the Roman’s descendants.’
They were sitting on the sun-warmed stone of the old wall, listening to the splash of the stream that had featured in the Roman legend. Edith was making garlands, weaving heads of pinky-red clover in with starry daisies and varying the colour with speedwell and sprigs of wild thyme while Rory chewed contemplatively on a blade of grass.
‘It’s an amazing story,’ he said lazily. ‘I’m quite prepared to believe every word of it. Would I dare doubt Miss Evelyn Attlin? It’s the kind of place anything could happen.’ He frowned for a moment, remembering that something certainly had happened only recently but before Edith noticed his hesitation he asked casually, ‘Are there any ghosts around, do you know?’
‘In a place this old?’ She smiled then looked curiously at him. ‘You really did think you saw Dame Margery the other night, didn’t you? Oh all right,’ as he shook his head. ‘I know you think you ought to be rational about it or blame your medication but the ghost of Lucius Sextus Vitalis has been seen in this very spot.’ She waved a hand expansively to encompass the copse and the entire field. ‘He is reported to wear his army uniform and looks very noble and impressive and it’s said that only the family ever see him.’
It was her turn to fall silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face as she stared at the ancient stone, then she scrambled to her feet. ‘Time to go.’
She set off but Rory lingered by the angel stone. ‘Hang on, Edith, there’s something a bit odd here. It looks as if the soil’s been disturbed, just here behind where the plinth must be.’
‘What? Show me.’ She stared as he fought his way out of the trees and pointed to the mass of soil he had spotted by the roots of an alder sapling, inches away from the ancient stone itself, but not easily visible from the field. Another tree seemed to have been jammed carelessly into a hole. There were signs that someone had definitely been at work on the bank and as Rory backed out of the mass of vegetation, he frowned as he brushed soil off his jeans.
‘Could it be something to do with this oil business?’ he queried. ‘Drilling for oil? It seems a bit amateurish if it is.’
A small plane buzzed self-importantly overhead and Rory looked up, his puzzled frown deepening. He turned his attention back to the disturbed earth.
‘Highly unlikely, I’d have thought. Much more likely old Misselbrook’s been out here digging out the badgers, just the sort of thing he’d do. And he’d be sure to keep it quiet as it’s not allowed these days. I suppose it might be amateur archaeologists, treasure-hunters,’ Edith frowned. ‘Fat lot of good it’ll do them; only the odd shard of burnt and blackened pottery has turned up over the hundreds of years the field’s been ploughed but Time Team has a lot to answer for. Could have been someone trying to see if there’s an inscription on the stone, which there isn’t. We do get them now and then, lurking about the place with their metal detectors and it’s a real problem when this field is planted. Not so bad now, as it’s not ploughed, but it’s a flipping cheek all the same.’
The church clock struck the quarter and they looked at each other aghast.
‘Not a word about this,’ Edith warned as they cantered across the field towards the house. ‘I shouldn’t think it’s anything to worry about but I don’t want the grandparents upset and Grandpa gets really cross about trespassers. Besides, if it was old Misselbrook, Grandpa’s upset enough because the old devil’s just died – they’d known each other all their lives.
‘We’ll talk later, but for now we need to get cleaned up for this drinks party. It’ll be awful,’ she warned him. ‘Lara Dean will latch on to you and I’ll get stuck with a boring old fart, some crony of Gordon’s.’
Rory followed obediently in her wake but at the field gate he turned and stared back at the distant copse. It might be badgers, he supposed, but it had looked a little too tidy for an old man bent on illegal badger killing. Treasure-seekers seemed a more likely bet, but what could they be looking for? And – the thought struck him unpleasantly out of the blue – had someone been digging there on the night a car was driven at Walter Attlin? Because – perhaps – could he have seen something he shouldn’t?’
chapter four
‘Champagne, eh?’ Sam took an appreciative sip from his glass and grinned at his cousin. ‘And it’s Veuve Cliquot too, I caught sight of the label. Very nice, bit over the top for a village drinks party, I’d have thought, but very welcome all the same.’
‘I ought to feel guilty.’ Harriet looked over the rim of her glass at their host. ‘Enjoying Gordon’s drink when I dislike almost everything about him.’ She sighed and made a face. ‘He tries too hard, that’s the trouble, but you can trust him to serve up the best. About the only thing you can trust him with.’
She glanced round the room and turned back to Sam. ‘How do you feel now you’ve had a chat with some of them? These people will be your neighbours, friends even, once you move in next door and although you don’t have to embrace them wholeheartedly you’ll still see a fair amount of them. You’ll need to rub along.’
‘They seem a nice enough bunch,’ he said, smiling and nodding in answer to a friendly wave from someone. ‘I’ve been listening to some of their concerns about this rumour that’s going round, about possible oil drilling. They’re very worried but nobody seems to be asking questions of the right people.’
Harriet hid a smile. Sam would fit right in, she thought, glancing across at him with deep affection, and before he knows it he’ll be on the parish council and he’ll be the one who asks the questions. Oh well, perhaps it will help with the bad times, when he’s missing Avril even more than usual.
‘They’re also fretting about Walter Attlin’s so-called accident.’ Sam was still absorbed in village gossip. ‘The police seem to be taking no further interest and apparently some bright spark of a constable suggested he could have been knocked over by a cow.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Harriet was half amused, half irritated. ‘Even if Walter were dotty enough to mistake a cow for a car, there’s no livestock anywhere near the house. They’re all over by the other farmhouse under the cowman’s eagle eye. I was talking the other day to Alan, the chap who’s taking over as Walter’s manager come Michaelmas. He said they’re planning to plough a couple of fields now old Misselbrook’s popped his clogs. Alan’s a local man and knew the old misery by repute, so he’s delighted the old fellow won’t be around to be a thorn in his side. Got all sorts of plans apparently,’ she grinned. ‘In fact I suspect he’s had his eye on the place for a while, speculating about what might be done there. He’s itching to get his hands on several of those fields, along with some near the house, including the Burial Field, and sow them as wild flower meadows. Very trendy these days and good for wildlife as well as looking lovely, and a vast improvement on the current scrub; there are even some little oak trees nearly a yard high.’
She looked sober as she returned to their anxieties. ‘Going back to what you said
, nobody quite likes to ask questions when Walter is so set against discussing it. He won’t talk about the accident and he refuses to talk about this oil rumour, and people are fond of him and don’t want to upset him. I’m surprised Gordon Dean isn’t poking his nose into it on general principle. Mind you, I’d ask him about it myself, but I’m another who doesn’t want to upset Walter, so I’d better not pry.’
A new arrival made her eyes gleam appreciatively. ‘Oh ho, the vicar’s here. Just watch the women cluster round. Not,’ she added, ‘that he’s the only good-looking young(ish) man at this party, the place is positively swarming with them. See that brown-haired one by the bar? He’s Gordon Dean’s assistant, Brendan Whittaker, been here a few months, but I don’t think I’ve seen the tall dark man who’s talking to the doctor before.’
‘Speaking of good-looking,’ Sam murmured, ‘here come Edith and Rory. He’s a surprise, isn’t he? The likeness is very strong, apart from his height.’
‘Of course,’ Harriet remembered. ‘You knew Edith’s father, didn’t you? Yes, Rory is very clearly an Attlin. It must be quite painful for the old people but they won’t let on.’
Lara Dean sauntered forward to greet the newcomers, nodding coolly to Edith, but offering a cheek to Rory and to the Reverend John Forrester. ‘Have you met our new vicar, Rory? Dad tells me he’s a great asset to the village and very popular with the ladies.’
Edith was amused to see that the vicar took Lara’s advances in his stride, but she was less impressed by the way Rory was reacting. To be fair, he had little choice in the matter as his hostess had seized his arm and was parading him round the room to introduce him to her guests. Like Harriet, Edith had noted the surprising number of young men so she ignored Rory’s rolled eyes and waded in.
‘Hi, Brendan, how’s it going?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at the other men in the group; her grandmother had told her to be sociable, after all. ‘Am I interrupting? I haven’t seen Brendan since Christmas.’ Within minutes she had been offered a seat, handed a glass of champagne and a plate of nibbles had been set on a table beside her.
‘I know you won’t eat this, Brendan.’ She nodded towards the prunes wrapped in bacon. ‘I spotted some veggie snacks over there.’ She held out the plate towards the tall dark American who had been talking to his host and was now giving her an appraising once-over.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ he grinned. ‘Not bacon, with a name like Goldstein.’ He took a sip of champagne. ‘That’s Mike Goldstein,’ he told her. ‘I’m here on vacation. Maybe you could show me round?’
Mike’s dark eyes gleamed in admiration as Edith perched on the end of a sofa beside him. Working at home might turn out to be more fun than she’d anticipated, she mused, if Mike happened to be here for a while. And besides him, there was Rory … yes, well. She glanced round the room. There he was, still being paraded round by Lara, and looking tired and bored so that, in spite of her sense that there was some mystery about him, she felt a pang of sympathy, especially when he caught her watching him, and rolled his eyes.
She responded eagerly to Mike Goldstein’s advances, throwing a crumb of conversation at Brendan too, acutely aware that the vicar was now a bystander, an appreciative grin on his attractively rumpled face.
After a while he came over to her and somehow cut her out from her admirers. ‘Talk to me now, it’s my turn,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry I missed the dinner last night but I was already booked for a dull evening I couldn’t get out of. I gather it went well?’
Edith had briefly been introduced to him once over the Christmas holidays when she had spent a few days at home before heading north for Hogmanay with her mother and stepfather, but otherwise she had barely spoken to him. Now she had time to take his measure, she saw that the vicar of Locksley was a very attractive proposition indeed.
‘Tell me about your family’s connection with the church,’ he demanded. ‘I’m trying to mug up so I don’t sound a fool when tourists interrogate me. I’ve read the little booklet about it, but the Attlins have been here forever. Besides, my own special interest is the late Roman period, so the mediaeval history is a bit of a blur.’
She melted at once, never proof against appreciation of the place dearest to her heart and they were soon deep in conversation about the Attlin chronicle and the Roman story.
‘The angel motif is unusual, isn’t it?’ he commented, shifting slightly to let Harriet into their discussion.
‘Our particular angel is unique,’ she reproved, then laughed at herself. ‘Mind you, you might be surprised to hear that supernatural beings as a rule aren’t actually that rare in Hampshire. Tell him, Edith.’
‘Harriet’s right,’ Edith told him, as he looked incredulous. ‘I don’t know of any other angels as such, but there was a giant and at least a couple of dragons. The Bistern Dragon on Burley Beacon was quite undemanding, only asking for a bucket of milk every day, so it was very unsporting of the villagers to hire a dragon-slayer.’
‘You’re kidding.’ He looked from one to the other, clearly thinking it was a wind-up.
‘No, it’s quite true,’ Harriet assured him. ‘Well, as true as any of these stories ever are. Hampshire’s very rich in weird monsters. There’s the Wherwell Cockatrice that was hatched by a toad from a duck’s egg and lived in a cellar. That one was a real villain because it ate humans, but the locals were more enterprising. They gave it a polished shield and let it wear itself out fighting its own image, then they finished it off.’
‘So the Locksley angel is quite a cut above the dragons and giants, isn’t it?’ The vicar, Harriet thought, was either really interested in local lore, or perhaps it was just Edith who had caught his eye. Not sure I approve of that idea at all, she mused, recent widower and so forth, though he’s certainly a charmer, an excellent preacher too.
Edith was in full flood. ‘Oh yes, there aren’t many stories of private, personal angels, they mostly prefer to appear to saints. None of those in our family,’ she grinned. Harriet hung around, throwing a word in here and there, although she was aware that John was finding her presence irritating. Well, tough, she frowned. He must know the whole village watches his every move and I don’t want Edith getting caught up in something that could rebound on her. She drifted back to her surroundings and listened as John persisted in angel talk. It was reasonable, she supposed; not every village had its own tame angel, but he seemed to really be pressing Edith about the connection between the Romans and the folk legend.
‘I gather even the name of the village is connected with angels,’ he said, as Edith finished telling the story of how the Roman villa had been built.
‘Mmm, only a few pedants, like my grandfather, insist on using the village’s full name. The post office certainly doesn’t bother with it. My Latin’s pretty ropey but Grandpa says it was something like Locus Angelorum, the place of the angels, now corrupted to Locksley. The church is St Michael and All Angels, as of course you know.’
Harriet was aware of Sam watching her so it was no surprise when he excused himself politely and made his way across the room.
‘Why are you looking ruffled?’ he began, when their host surged up to them with an invitation to admire his orchid collection in the large conservatory.
‘Tell you later,’ she whispered, so Sam tagged on for the tour. The orchids were impressive and Sam scored some Brownie points with Gordon Dean by admitting that he’d visited the Orchid Farm in Fiji on a stopover on one of his visits to his son, Christopher, in Australia. His pleasant features revealed no sign of his complete lack of interest and Harriet watched appreciatively until her attention was claimed by the tall young American who had been looking out of the conservatory window.
‘Admiring Gordon’s garden?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Admiring all the shades of green,’ he said. ‘I know it’s the classic cliché, but I’m from Texas and we just don’t have this.’
Mike Goldstein was a bit of a stereotype himself, Harriet thought, s
urreptitiously admiring him. Tall, dark and handsome, with a warm, drawling voice that was very attractive. ‘I gather you’re ancestor hunting. Are you a colleague of Gordon’s?’ she asked, a sudden thought darting into her mind.
‘Oh, no. I’m on a year’s contract, based in London. I knew Lara in New York and when I found myself with some unexpected leave, I gave her a call. She and her father very kindly invited me to base myself here while I do my research.’ At her questioning glance, he went on, ‘My mother is very keen for me to find out about her family.’
‘Your family’s from Hampshire?’
‘My father’s folks escaped during one of the Russian pogroms, but my mom’s ancestors didn’t just originate in Hampshire, but actually in the Winchester district too.’ He explained, ‘I spotted a grave in the churchyard here when I blew in last week, a Melinda Zebedee who died in 1801, and that makes me wonder. My great-great-grandma’s middle name was Melinda, you see, so I have hopes. My mom was very excited when I called her about it last week. Great-great-grammy’s maiden name was Zebedee too, which is pretty unusual, I guess, but they say it’s quite common round these parts.’
‘I wouldn’t say it was exactly common,’ Harriet began, only to be interrupted by Edith who had wandered into the conservatory.
‘Last week?’ She sounded almost fierce, Harriet thought, as she addressed the question to Mike. ‘I didn’t know you were here last week. What day did you arrive?’
He seemed unaware of any undercurrents as he answered. ‘I guess it was Monday evening when I blew in,’ he said mildly. As Harriet watched with interest she realized that Edith was still very tense, though she was trying to hide it. So what was all this about last week?
Harriet left the group, now augmented by Rory and Brendan, and wandered over to admire the view. Mike was right; the green landscape and the brilliant flower beds were wonderful, if a tad too immaculate for Harriet, whose own tastes ran to blowsy, uncorseted cottage gardens.
