by Sarah Rayne
To avoid this possibility, he said to DS Cherry, ‘And there’s this. We found it next to the child.’ He held out the book.
‘What …?’
‘I’m not sure what it is,’ said Michael. ‘It’s handwritten, but all I can make out is the date: 1538. And an odd word here and there. I’m inclined to suggest to you that I contact a colleague from Oriel who’s very knowledgeable about this era.’ He said this firmly, but he had had to remind himself that he was a senior member of an Oxford University, and that his advice about an early Tudor document would be respected.
‘That’d be very helpful, Dr Flint,’ said DS Cherry at once. ‘We’re not used to handling such valuable items, and we’d never hear the last of it if it got damaged. But we’ll get photos if you don’t mind, and make a few notes. And if I could have the name of the colleague—’
‘Dr Owen Bracegirdle,’ said Michael, reaching for his phone.
After phoning Owen, he called Nell. Her phone went straight to voicemail, so Michael left a message, explaining as well as he could what had happened, and that the ten o’clock train was now nothing but a fond memory.
‘But there’s one shortly after eleven that I should be able to get – it’ll be a bit of a scramble, but I think I can make it. I’ll phone once I’m actually on it, and let you know when it gets in. Hope you can still pick me up at Axminster.’
After this, he drove back to College, with the book on the passenger seat. Every few moments he stretched out his left hand to touch it, as reverently as if it were an update of the Rosetta Stone, or the codex that would decipher the universe’s secrets.
For the first time it occurred to him that the ownership might have to be debated in the weeks ahead. Michael had no idea whether the book rightfully belonged to Godfrey, as the former owner of that part of the premises, or whether Nell, as the new leaseholder of both units, could be considered the owner, or even whether Christ Church College, as the freeholders, would weigh in with their own claim. Christ Church would undoubtedly find the idea of owning a sixteenth-century journal very seductive indeed.
Owen was waiting for Michael in his own rooms, and demanded to know what was happening. ‘Because you were as cagy on the phone as if you thought the whole of MI6 was listening in. I thought you were going into darkest Dorset this morning. And this had better be good, Michael, because I’ve got a pile of second-year essays to read this morning, never mind a lunchtime meeting of … Good God, what’s that you’re brandishing?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Michael set down the book on a relatively clear space of Owen’s desk. ‘It seems to be sixteenth century – there’s even a date on the first page – and to me it looks genuine. But for all I know it could be a William Ireland-type forgery or a manuscript version of Piltdown Man. But whatever it is,’ he said, ‘it was found in the shallow, unhallowed grave of a child who probably died over four hundred years ago.’
Owen stared at him. ‘As a hook to reel in an unprepared listener, that probably rates as one of the best I’ve ever heard.’
‘I can’t help it, it’s the truth. The date written on the first page is 1538, and,’ said Michael, ‘the writing doesn’t look as if it’s all in English. So between that and the medieval script, I can’t read more than an occasional word.’
‘It certainly looks sixteenth century.’ Owen spoke with the scepticism proper to any historian, but as he sat down at the desk and turned a few pages, his eyes were bright with excitement.
‘Can you decipher it?’
‘Well, not right off. I can make out a few phrases …’ Owen bent over the pages, frowning, pushing his glasses more firmly on to his nose. ‘Whoever wrote it was frightened – on this page at any rate. There’s something about, “Terror is filling up the room, and this must be done before anyone finds us.” I’m paraphrasing that, and I might not have hit the exact phrasing—’
‘Any more?’ said Michael, as Owen pored over the page.
‘I think this line says, “I never thought to be in a place like Glaum’s Acre, or to be performing the task we are about to perform …” Glaum’s Acre? Wasn’t that on the deeds for Quire Court? The original name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there’s a reference here to Cromwell – my God, Michael, with that date of 1538 this would mean Thomas Cromwell.’ He looked up. ‘This is from the era of the suppression of the monasteries.’
‘And,’ said Michael, ‘the word monastery leaps out on the first page. I did make that out, if nothing else.’ He indicated the line.
‘You’re right. If this is genuine,’ said Owen, sitting back, ‘it could be worth … Well, it’d be priceless.’
‘I know. I’ve squared it with the police, and they’re happy with me having it and keeping it here. I’ve given them your name as well. I’ve left a message with Nell, and I’ll phone Godfrey later. I don’t know who can be classed as the owner, but I shouldn’t think either of them will mind you taking a preliminary look at it. So keep reading.’
‘I’ll have to spend time on it,’ said Owen. ‘Compare the lettering with accredited contemporary examples, and so on.’ He was still poring over the faded, crabbed writing, and Michael knew he would not want to move away from the book for a very long time. ‘Wait, though, there’s something here about the monastery being a hospital order, and the monks hoping to be safe from the Commissioners. That strikes an authentic note, because a few of the religious infirmaries were spared during dissolution. Still, any forger worth his salt would know that and throw it into the mix, so we won’t get carried away. There are a fair few Latin phrases as well, so it’d be a case of disentangling them and translating them. And if it’s Ecclesiastical Latin, which I think it is, it’ll take a bit of time. In fact it almost looks like medieval Latin – maybe even from what’s called the Silver Age.’
‘Would Latin be unusual for the era? In a document like this, I mean?’
‘It looks like what I’d term a domestic document as opposed to an official or a legal one,’ said Owen. ‘So Latin would be unusual, but not out of the question. That date was a kind of crossover period for the country. Catholicism was being ground under foot, and Latin – Ecclesiastical Latin especially – was the language of the Church. People of any learning tended to use it in documents. Silver Age Latin is rarer, though. But again, it’d be a good forger’s ploy.’
‘The grave and the body didn’t look forged,’ said Michael, and Owen glanced at him.
‘Upsetting, I should think.’
‘Very.’
Owen merely nodded, and bent over the page again. ‘If we can trust the surface evidence, I’d say the writer was used to employing a mixture of English and Latin when writing anything. Or came from a background where both were used. But language changes, as you know; it’s a live thing. I can probably get most of this, but it might need a real expert. And don’t quote the hoary old line about an expert merely being someone who lives more than fifty miles away – you know what I mean. The paper would have to be subjected to the usual tests,’ said Owen. ‘Carbon-dating and x-rays and so on. Ink’s difficult to date, of course, although there’s something called chromatography–mass spectroscopy – I don’t know a great deal about it, because it’s a very highly specialist field.’
‘I can leave it with you though, can’t I? I mean – you can lock it safely away somewhere? I didn’t want the police to take it and just shovel it into an evidence bag, and I don’t want to leave it in my rooms while I’m away. I certainly don’t want to take it to Dorset.’
‘Of course you can leave it here,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll guard it with my life and my virtue; in fact I’m likely to be sitting up all night working on it. And if it turns out that we do need an expert, I’d suggest contacting Brant. It’s very much his field and he’s very good. He helped with the Carmina Cantabrigiensia – the Cambridge Song Cycle – when they discovered several new ones, and he’d fall on this and devour it.’
‘Sounds good. Can you really n
ot get any more from it?’
‘I don’t think so. Although there is just one corner here—’
‘Yes?’
‘At the bottom of this page, the writer says, “To drive out the fear and the pain, I have been singing my family’s song – it is familiar and comforting … No one here will understand the words, just as no one at Rede Abbas did …” Rede Abbas,’ said Owen, staring at Michael. ‘That’s where Nell is now. That’s where you’re going.’
‘Yes.’ Michael stared down at the corner of the page.
‘Underneath that is another line, crammed in quite tightly,’ said Owen.
‘As if the writer was in a hurry, or not wanting someone to see?’
‘More likely trying to save paper,’ said Owen, caustically. ‘It’s quite difficult to read it and probably I’m getting it wrong, because—’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ said Owen, ‘it’s a curious statement, and it doesn’t make complete sense to me. But I think that what it says is this. “If they find me, I shall die as well. The dead bell was sounding even as we left, and it is never left hungry, that bell”.’
FOURTEEN
Nell slept deeply and dreamlessly in the soft wide bed, woke up to soft early sunlight, and contemplated with pleasure the prospect that she would be waking up in this bed tomorrow morning with Michael next to her.
The dining room provided a delicious, disgracefully unhealthy breakfast, which Nell thoroughly enjoyed. She wondered if Beth and her friends had managed their midnight feast, and hoped that if they had, it had not been too indigestible. But when she checked her phone, there was an exuberant text from Beth, shamelessly timed at one a.m., reporting a double-brilliant feast; they had eaten absolutely everything, somebody had dropped a piece of birthday cake and trodden in it, so they had had to sneak out to find cloths and soapy water to clean it up.
Nell grinned, sent a suitable reply, and having finished her breakfast collected her jacket and shoulder bag. She considered taking the car, but she wanted to investigate the narrow side streets, and perhaps even walk towards the cliffs to see if she could identify the places Andrew had written about, so the car might not be practical. She would enjoy a brisk walk, anyway. The helpful receptionist at the desk provided directions to the cliff paths, and gave Nell a tide table.
‘It’s hotel policy to make sure guests have them when they walk along that path,’ she said. ‘But it’s low tide at the moment, and it won’t turn for several hours, so you aren’t likely to be in any danger.’
It was still quite early, and the next Revels event was not until midday, when there was some kind of dancing display. Nell did not particularly want to see that; she would rather try to peel back a little more of Rede Abbas’s past. Cliff House should be easy enough to identify – it was almost certainly the gloomy building she and Beth had seen on the way here. It sounded as if Andrew’s monastery had been quite close to it, along with the old graveyard and the Glaum mausoleum.
She followed the hotel’s directions, and after about ten minutes’ walking found herself beyond the little cluster of shops and the straggle of houses, with a narrow road ahead, signposted, ‘To The Coast’. It was uneven and rutted, just about wide enough for a car, but probably primarily a walkers’ path. It was quite steep, and twice Nell had to pause to catch her breath. Good exercise, though, said to elevate the heart-rate and send the blood scudding around the system. She would bring Michael up here tomorrow. He would probably pause several times, pretending to be searching for an apt quotation while he got his breath back. Dear Michael.
The path snaked around tortuously, and Nell began to lose her bearings slightly, although there was no danger of getting lost, because it was a single track. Then a final corkscrew turn brought her into sight of the clifftop house.
Theodora’s house, thought Nell, standing still and looking towards it. Thaisa’s house as well, presumably. She could see the old graveyard, as well, now. Even from this distance it looked sad and abandoned, the headstones mostly askew with age or subsidence of the ground, a thin mist clinging to the sparse trees.
It looked as if people still lived in the clifftop house – even from here Nell could make out curtains at the windows, and the gardens looked neat and well tended. There was no reason why she could not walk past the house, giving it a cursory glance, then go on to the graveyard. She would see if the Glaum mausoleum still existed.
She set off again, but as she did so she heard someone coming down the path towards her. Whoever it was, was hidden from view by the bend, but Nell was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the path’s loneliness. She glanced behind her, prepared to retreat as fast as was possible on the rutted slope, then a woman came into view, and she relaxed, because this was such a very ordinary, unthreatening figure. The woman was thin and wore a flapping raincoat, with wellingtons and a sou’wester. Her face was weatherbeaten and her shoulders were bowed, as if she was accustomed to hunching them against the strong sea winds. Nondescript hair straggled out from beneath the sou’wester’s brim.
The path was sufficiently narrow to make it impossible to pass by without some cursory acknowledgement, so Nell smiled and said, ‘Good morning.’
The woman hesitated, then said, ‘Good morning. You startled me. It’s not often I meet anyone on this path.’
‘I’m exploring,’ said Nell. ‘I’m here for the Revels, but I’m interested in local history.’ She was slightly annoyed with herself for appearing to provide an explanation of her presence, but the woman seemed friendly and, if she was local, she might know a bit about the surroundings, so Nell said, ‘I’m quite intrigued by that place,’ and indicated the clifftop house.
‘That’s Cliff House,’ said the woman. ‘Actually, I live there.’
Nell looked at her with more attention. Theodora’s house, she thought. The place where she played ‘Thaisa’s Song’, and where Andrew listened to it and fell in love with her – or at the very least, in lust with her.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘I’ve already found a couple of references to it, so it’s interesting to be actually seeing it in the flesh – and to meet someone who lives in it.’ She was careful not to say any more – this stranger might not know about Theodora, and it would be unkind to tell her a murder had happened in her house. And she had said, ‘I live there,’ not, ‘We live there,’ as if she might live alone.
But the words seemed to have struck an unwelcome chord anyway, because the woman was looking at Nell so intensely that Nell felt a shiver of apprehension.
Then she said, ‘References to it do crop up now and again in old documents, I believe. It’s very old, you see – a good deal older than it looks from the outside. Bits have been added on, and things have been patched up.’ In a rather offhand voice, she said, ‘Did you say you’d found some reference to it?’
‘I think it was part of a kind of journal,’ said Nell. ‘Written by a monk who was at the old monastery here in the mid-nineteenth century. Brother Andrew, he was called.’
The woman had been staring down the track, but she looked sharply back at Nell. Her eyes, partly shaded by the sou’wester, were a curious light shade, as if something had washed all the vitality from them. It was probably Nell’s imagination to think there was sudden enmity in the expression.
‘That would be St Benedict’s Monastery,’ said the woman, after a moment. ‘It was demolished – oh, a good forty years ago. I didn’t know any documents were brought out.’
‘It was only a few pages,’ said Nell. ‘Part of a display in the library. I got the impression the librarian had only recently found it. Andrew seems to have been the monastery’s music master.’
‘Precentor,’ said the woman, at once. ‘That’s what they’d have called it. Look here, if you’re interested in Cliff House, why don’t you walk back up with me? I’m Miss Eynon, by the way. Maeve Eynon.’
Nell had been about to make a polite refusal, but at these words she felt as if hands had reached out to pull her for
ward. It had not occurred to her that Theodora’s family might still be in the area, even less that they might still live in the same house. This woman, this Maeve, had to be Theodora’s descendant. The name was too unusual for it to be anything other than the same family.
She said, eagerly, ‘I’m Nell West. But Eynon – spelled EYNON? That’s a name that’s mentioned in Brother Andrew’s journal. Would it be the same family?’
‘I should think so. The family’s lived here for centuries. Rather unadventurous of my ancestors never to move away, really.’
‘But marvellous if you want to trace their history,’ said Nell.
‘I suppose so. I’ve never thought about it much. The journal you found sounds interesting, though. I’m intrigued to find the family gets a mention. Did he – Brother Andrew, did you say? – did he write anything about his work as Precentor?’ There was the tiniest pause. ‘I’m rather fond of music, you see,’ said Maeve Eynon.
For a moment Nell was not sure how much to say, but the journal had been on public display, and the woman could go down to the library and read it for herself if she wanted. So she said, ‘He mentioned some of the music he arranged for various religious festival. Choral stuff, mostly. And there was something—’
‘Yes?’
‘Something about a very old song,’ said Nell, choosing her words with care. ‘It sounded as if it was something local.’
There was no doubt about the reaction this time. The light eyes flinched as if suddenly faced with a blinding light, then Maeve Eynon said, ‘That all sounds a bit gothic. Diaries found in a monastery library and an old piece of music.’
‘I shouldn’t think the music survived. Andrew just says he left it in the monks’ library, although the librarian – Mr Orchard, isn’t it? – said he was going to see if it was in some old papers that were brought out of the monastery when it was pulled down.’
