by E. J. Kay
“I can give you a lift back, if you’d like?” asked Joseph.
“No, really. It’s not that far and walking helps me to think. Thanks, though.” She smiled at them both as she walked out of the room. “Bye.”
She walked back towards the beach. “Drive,” sang Michael Stipe.
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Robson sat in front of his computer, staring blankly at the screen. The boss had said he should have a ferret around. For what, exactly? He looked back at his notebook, hoping for inspiration. He spotted ‘weird house ... weird name’, but he hadn’t written the name down. And he hadn’t taken any notice this morning, either.
Bugger! What was it again? Albion? No, something like that though. Pan something. Panalbion? He tried this in the Google search bar and hit the button. Lots of hits for companies called Pan Albion, but nothing that looked like it would be helpful. It wasn’t Panalbion, anyway. It was ... was ... panoglion? Panolbion? That was it! He tried it in the search bar. It came up with ‘Panolbion, or the blessedness of the saints, by AS, Preacher of the Word’ ...
Now, that did look interesting. It had been published in England in 1634 and attributed to two likely authors, Archibald Symmer or Aaron Streater. On an impulse he picked up the transcripts of the blog comments that Joseph had given them and put a few phrases of the later, more religious allusions in his search toolbar. Nothing. OK, one last try. He went back to the search results for Panolbion and looked to see if there were any full transcripts available. There was one in the Australian government library, of all places. He hit the link, hoping that he’d be able to download it. Yes! A pdf version was available for download. It was a short pamphlet of dense and difficult text; largely what would now be considered ramblings about the way to ensure a place in heaven. So, a Carolingian religious diatribe. He smiled to himself. I bet she’d never guess I knew words like that. He copied and pasted the text into a Word document and then chose two of the phrases from the blog comments that looked like quotes:
“God who knows the heart, accepteth the affect for the effect, and the will for the deed.”
“None can learn the art of dying well, without the life of righteousness.”
That second one was particularly disturbing. He ran a search in the Word document and gasped when it found the exact match.
Maybe she was right about Thackray all along.
Chapter 21
Joseph sat in Juliet’s lounge, watching a deep red sunset bleed through the budding branches of the oak tree at the side of her garden. The cherry trees were in full bloom at the far end of the lawn, and through them he could just make out the Rufus Court postgraduate residences. He heard her bustling about in the kitchen, making a pot of tea.
Joseph was becoming increasingly concerned about Juliet. She had been at home on paid leave since Alec’s death with little contact from the university executive, who seemed to want to distance themselves until her guilt or innocence had been decided upon. As long as she had work to do he thought she would probably be able to lose herself in it. But she was reaching the end of the paper she was writing and lack of access to the university, and all the networks she relied upon, was a looming dread for her. He’d been to see her the previous week, and although she had put a brave face on it he had seen that her edges were beginning to fray. And now it was a week later with no further progress in the police investigation, and he had to try to find out about a mad, magickal uncle. With a ‘k’. How am I even going to start this conversation?
Juliet came into the room carrying a tray. She put it down on the table between them. It was neatly laid out with a white porcelain teapot, a cream jug and sugar bowl. The cups and saucers were in matching Wedgewood. A small stainless steel tea strainer sat in its drip cup. Juliet still clung to the tradition of making leaf tea, which she got by post from a specialist supplier every month. Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe from Assam; deeply aromatic with a perfect astringency.
“So, how are you?” asked Joseph as he leaned over to pour the tea.
“No, not yet!” she snapped.
He looked startled and put the teapot back down on the tray. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, Joseph, I’m the one who’s sorry.” She smiled at him weakly. “I overreact to everything at the moment. The tea will just take another minute or two to brew.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, I understand. Have you heard from anyone else at the university yet?” he asked, as he leaned back in the chair.
She shook her head. “No, just you.” She leaned over and touched him on the arm. “For which I’m very grateful.” She sat back. “I think the VC is just keeping his head down until the police have finished their enquiries.”
“What about friends and family?”
“My mother and father came last weekend. It was lovely to see them and a huge support. Oh, and Jim called.”
“Jim? Your ex-husband?” asked Joseph.
“The very same! It was kind of him, actually. He did offer to come up and see me, but I put him off. At least for now. “
“Do you stay in touch with him?”
“Only occasionally,” Juliet replied. “There’s no real animosity between us. But we have very little in common. We never did have many similar interests, to be honest. I think that’s partly where it went wrong.”
She seemed to want to open up, so Joseph pursued it. Perhaps he could get her to talk about her wider family, too. “I remember Jim used to work at The Royal, but where is he now? ”
“Oh, he’s part of a private practice in London. More lucrative than the NHS, and more up his street, really.”
Keep her talking. “I only met him a couple of times, but he seemed like a quiet chap.”
Juliet nodded. “It may seem a strange thing to say under the present circumstances, but I suppose I recognised some of my ex-husband’s characteristics in Alec, if I’m honest.”
“Surely not!” laughed Joseph.
“Towards the end of my marriage it was more pleasant to be in work than at home. People were caring and interested and responsive at work. I came home and it was ... I was ...” She stared out of the window and seemed to drift away.
“Juliet? Are you O.K?” asked Joseph.
“Sorry, what was I saying?” She picked up the teapot and swirled it. “Oh yes. No one likes coming second repeatedly in a relationship. Jim seemed to owe greater commitments to anyone other than me. His job, his family, his social clubs. All the occasions when he let his attention be demanded by someone else were logical and sounded reasonable in their own right. But when you put them all together the compound effect simply left me with a sense of being unimportant to him.”
Joseph nodded towards the swirling teapot. “Is that tea ready yet?”
Juliet smiled at him. “Of course.” She placed the tea strainer over one of the cups, poured in the golden brown liquid and passed it over the table to him.
“You’ve always come across as being very devoted to your career,” said Joseph, pouring milk into his cup. “Maybe he felt that was threatening?”
“He didn’t feel anything very strongly I don’t think. Except impatience. And anger if he didn’t get his own way on something he really wanted. But you’re right. Living with me wasn’t always a picnic for Jim either. And in a way I guess my career is partly down to him. I threw myself into my work initially to fill the gaps when I’d get home and he wasn’t there. When I started to get some successes and recognition, I found it a really important part of my life.”
“How long were you together?” Joseph asked.
“Fifteen years. It’s a long time, but the effect of drifting apart is slow. A gradual degradation. And I always felt that it would be harder to leave than to stay. But eventually that began to change.”
“It still must have been a wrench though, to make the break.”
Juliet shook her head. “Not really. I guess my overwhelming feeling in my marriage to Jim was loneliness. I even felt lonely when we were together. Most of t
he time he wasn’t there mentally. He was off in his own world and I could make a comment about something, a joke or whatever, and get no response. He talked to himself much more than he ever talked to me. I had been alone in so many ways for so much of the time that when the break came it wasn’t as traumatic for me as I had feared. Ironically Jim had a much harder time of it. He’d been used to living with the sense of me being there. For years I’d been living with the sense of him not being there. But there was no acrimony when we split. I’d thrown myself into my work so much by then that I didn’t feel any real remorse, just relief. And my family were very supportive”
This is my chance. “Do you have family around here?”
“Well, yes, but my parents live in Telford. There are uncles and cousins still living near here, but I rarely see them. I don’t have much to do with my father’s side of the family.”
“Any particular reason?” asked Joseph. Juliet’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. He rushed to explain. “I don’t mean to pry. It seems to be helping you to talk. I didn’t mean to be nosey.” For God’s sake, try not to interrogate her! I’m really no good at this.
She smiled and relaxed. “You’re right. It is therapeutic. And you’re being very patient to listen to all this.” She giggled. “Between you and me, my father’s side of the family is a little ... eccentric. Nothing serious. Just a bit ...” She whirled her finger around her ear.
“Oh dear.” Joseph smiled and took a long, slow sip of his tea, leaving a space in the conversation for Juliet to fill. But she didn’t seem inclined to. Now what do I do? He put his cup down and leant forward in a confidential manner. “To tell you the truth, one of my uncles is a bit odd. Thinks he can do real magic or something, poor soul.” He watched her closely. Her body sagged as a heavy weight suddenly seemed to descend on her.
“Well, it’s going to take more than imaginary magical powers to retrieve my career. Whatever the final outcome of all this, it’s all over, isn’t it? Guilty or innocent.” Her head bowed. “We’ve both spent enough time in the field to know that mud sticks.”
“No, Juliet. I don’t believe that, and neither should you. Try to stay positive.”
She looked straight at him and he saw the depth of the distress in her eyes. “I do try, but when I get tired, it’s hard. Sorry Joseph, but I think I need to get some rest.”
He stood up. “Sure. Of course.” He gave her a hug and let himself out. Well, he thought, could I have been any less subtle? But, she did seem to be affected by talking about her family, so maybe there is something in the Luke Thackray connection. He made a mental note to call Kelly in the morning.
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Sophie had gone to bed early, tired and feeling sick, so Mike sat at the computer in the study and logged on for one last look at his emails.
To: Rifleclub
From: [email protected]
Re: club night next week Date: 24th April 18:46
Hi All,
I’ve got my hands on a Winchester Model 1876! A present from my dad. I’m bringing it to the club open shoot next Sunday, so come along and have a go. I’ve made up some loads with black powder!!
Mike O, it would be really good if you could make it cos I know old guns are your thing and I’d like to ask you a couple things about it. Be there man!
Gary
Reply to: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: club night next week Date: 24th April 22:10
Hi Gary,
Sure will.
Mike
Mike had a lifelong interest in guns, particularly antique ones. Being brought up in Africa and England, of both African and English parentage, he had heard the stories of British explorers in Africa and had especially been fascinated by the story of Stanley and Livingstone. When three of Sir Henry Morton Stanley’s guns came up for auction at Holt’s in September 2009, Mike had scraped together £10,000 from savings and a loan and gone along to the auction. The gun he really wanted was the Winchester .45-75 Model 1876 lever action rifle; the guide price was £7,000 - £9,000. But that was never a realistic estimate. The gun had attracted many stories, most of them likely to be apocryphal, that attributed it as the firearm that single-handedly saved Stanley’s Congo and Emin Pasha expeditions. At the auction Mike was rapidly outbid, with the gun eventually selling for £35,000. But Winchester rifles had remained a particular interest, so now that one of his rifle club colleagues had given him the opportunity to shoot one, he couldn’t resist. Particularly the 1876 model. He was really looking forward to it.
Chapter 22
It was Robson’s turn to get into work early this time. Kelly was intrigued when she walked into the office and saw him already sitting behind his desk, his head buried in papers. She took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair, then stood and waited for him to look up at her. He didn’t.
“Insomnia?” she prompted.
He jumped. “Oh hi. No.” Then he grinned. “Enlightenment.”
She sat down. “Go on then, enlighten me.”
“It’s about Thackray,” he said. Kelly’s eyes widened. “I thought that would interest you. You remember the name of his house?”
“Oh, something odd. I can’t bring it to mind,” she said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“The name is Panolbion. It turns out that Panolbion is the name of a religious text, written by someone with the initials A.S. in 1634. I managed to download a copy last night and ran a search for any of the entries on Alec Whickham’s blog. Take a look.” He handed over a stapled copy of Panolbion and a couple of sheets of paper with the blog comments. The corresponding text was highlighted with a bright yellow pen.
Kelly looked at the papers with a widening smile. “Well, well, well. It doesn’t prove anything but it’s one more coincidence to add to the list, eh?”
“There’s another one too. The author of Panolbion is ‘A.S. Preacher of the Word’, and the general consensus is that it was either an Archibold Symmer or Aaron Streater. Either of those ring a bell?”
Kelly wrinkled her brow. “No. Should they?”
Robson passed another piece of paper over to her. It was Thackray’s family tree. “Who married Mary O’Callaghan?”
“Good God. Aaron Streater. But it can’t be the same one. There’s almost two hundred years between them.”
“I’m guessing Aaron is a family name, and that the house name Panolbion has probably been passed down too. Whatever the explanation, it’s a really obscure reference for someone to try to frame Thackray with.” He paused. “You know, I think Thackray did write those blog comments.”
Kelly had just opened her mouth to agree when her mobile rang. She looked at who was calling. Joseph Connor. She felt a little heart skip as she took the call, but didn’t forget to mouth “well done Jack” across at Robson.
“Dr Connor. How are you?”
“Good thanks. I thought I’d just fill you in on my visit with Juliet last night.”
“Oh, yes. I hope it wasn’t difficult for you?”
Joseph laughed. “No, not really. But I’m a bloody hopeless interrogator!”
Kelly smiled. “Did anything come up?”
“Well, she did say she had uncles who still live locally, but she didn’t mention Luke Thackray specifically. She said she didn’t see much of them and that one of them was somewhat eccentric, so I put my big foot in my mouth and said I had a mad uncle who thought he could do magic. Just to try to draw her out.”
“And did it?”
“No. The exact opposite, actually. She clammed up and said she was tired, so I left.”
“Well, that sounds like a kind of result.”
Joseph sighed. “Yeah, it did seem to affect her, but I still don’t know if we were talking about her uncle Luke or one of the others.”
“Don’t worry Dr Connor. That’s useful information for us anyway. It was a long shot. In any case, other things have come up that may cast some m
ore light on this, so please don’t try to take it any further.”
“What things?”
“Hmm, I can’t tell you that. But thanks for the information, and I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
“Bye.”
She closed the call and looked across at Robson. “Connor saw Bailey last night and had a bit of a chat about her family, it seems. Anyway, she admits to having a mad uncle but that’s about all.”
Robson nodded. “So, do we pay Dr Thackray another visit?”
Kelly thought for a moment. “I think we need to take it more carefully this time. I barged in last time without thinking. The picture is still fuzzy, so perhaps we need to go and see Juliet Bailey and do some more probing. Let’s have a think about it today and go and see her on Monday.” She smiled at Robson. “That was a really good job on the Panolbion link, Jack. We’ll make a detective of you yet!”
Chapter 23
It was Saturday afternoon. Mike and Sophie had been out shopping in the morning, but it had worn Sophie out and she was snoozing with her feet up on the sofa. Mike went up to his study and unfolded the photocopy of the Thackray family tree. It was that name, May Ellison, and the Sumterville connection that fascinated him. He had an interest in slave history and recognised Ellison as the name of a freed slave in South Carolina, who went on to be a successful plantation owner. It seemed like quite a coincidence that someone with that name should be in the Sumterville area, so he set about doing a bit of research.
It wasn’t difficult. Within a couple of hours internet searches had enabled him to unearth a lot of information on William Ellison Jnr. Born in 1790, he had started life with the name April. A strange name for a boy, but it was a popular practice to name slave children after the month of their birth. Around the age of twelve, April was owned by a white slave-owner named William Ellison, son of a Robert Ellison of Fairfield County, South Carolina. Although Mike couldn’t find any hard evidence to say who April’s father was, the general consensus seemed to be that either Robert or William had fathered the child with one of the family’s female slaves. In some documents he was described as “yellow” rather than black; a reference to being of mixed race parentage. Certainly, he was picked out for special treatment by the family. He trained as a cotton gin machinist and learned to read, write and keep accounts. By 1816 he had earned enough money to buy his freedom, and that of his wife and daughter. He moved to Sumterville and opened up a cotton gin repair business. In 1820 he bought his first two slaves and applied for his name to be changed to William Ellison Jnr, in recognition of his good treatment by his former master, or possibly in recognition of his biological father. In either case, his business and his family went from strength to strength. In 1850 he owned three hundred and eighty six acres of land and thirty seven slaves and by 1860 he was South Carolina's largest slave owner. By then only five percent of the population of South Carolina owned as much real estate as William Ellison Jnr. His wealth was fifteen times greater than that of the state's average for those of European descent and he was in the top one percent of slave owners in the whole of the South. Wow, thought Mike. Is this an extreme form of Stockholm Syndrome or what!
