A Place of Secrets

by Rachel Hore

  Several days passed and Jan the coachman brought sobering news. One of the gypsy men, he thought named Luca or Lucas, lay dead after an argument about a horse. The murderer, some ruffian at the inn where they had both been drinking, had been taken into custody. My father was summoned to attend the inquest since Luca’s people were residing on our land. I heard later that he paid for the poor man’s burial himself.

  Late the next evening I was upstairs preparing for bed. Going to draw the curtain I noticed a strange glow over the forest, also billows of black smoke. I ran to the door, crying to the household that the forest was afire. All were awake in a moment, doors banged, people shouted and all was panic. Mr Corbett and Jan hurried out with my father, armed with brooms to beat the flames, while I pulled on my cloak and went with Betsy to alert the neighbours and to bid Mr Trotwood raise assistance from the village. This done, we joined a party of people heading in the direction of the forest, intending to see what help we might offer. Before long we could follow the smoke and the flames till we could hear folks’ cries, then when we gained the camp at Foxhole Lane we saw an awful sight. One of the wagons was alight and half a dozen figures staggered around, struggling over possessions or with one another. Two drunken gypsy men lurched about with barrels and stools and clothing, which they’d cast into the heart of the fire. Meanwhile several women pulled them off again, assisted in this by Mr Corbett, Jan and my father. The women scolded and cried, the men were swearing and laughing. It was verily a scene from hell.

  Then, standing well apart from the flames and the choking smoke, I saw the children huddled together, their faces golden in the firelight, their mouths great Os of horror. I called to Betsy to help me, and together we went to comfort them.

  ‘Can we take them back to the house?’ I asked Betsy, but they would not leave their people and instead Betsy set off to fetch Mrs Godstone with blankets and sustenance. The older girl cradled her brother while I looked after my friend. The poor dear thing trembled in my arms, terror in her eyes, and I tried my best to reassure her, until the pedlar woman, their mother, saw us and came instantly to claim her from me.

  It was an hour before men from the village arrived, to beat out the flames and an hour after that before the blaze was overcome and Jan and Mr Corbett caught the terrified horses. Then, since there was nothing more the gypsies would have from us, we left them alone to their damaged chattels and their grief.

  ‘It’s their custom ’tis the trouble,’ my father told me as we set off for home. ‘When a Romany dies they burn his wagon and his possessions. His brothers went too far tonight.’

  And I could not banish from my memory the terror and hopelessness in the little gypsy girl’s eyes as I tried to comfort her.

  That night Jude took ages to get to sleep, instead worrying over the events of the day. What bothered her most was her conversation with Euan. She allowed herself to remember his deep blue eyes, his quirky mouth and tender expression, and this gave her a delicious warm feeling, but then his words about Claire interfered with that fantasy. She tried to stop thinking about Euan and concentrate on Claire. Did she really patronize Claire or see her as an equal when she wanted to help her? She did find Claire unbelievably irritating sometimes, and had always thought she was being a good sister when she tried to ignore this. What really caused this imbalance between them? What did Claire feel about her? Had Claire never named a star for her because she didn’t love Jude enough? She brooded on. Claire rarely showed any interest in what Jude was doing—her studies or her work—and never had. Perhaps this was jealousy or perhaps Jude mattered little to her.

  Euan admired Claire, he’d told Jude that, and now Jude wondered if he had deeper feelings for Claire. She hadn’t really seen them together enough to judge, certainly not for any length of time. She hadn’t had the opportunity to pick up those little glances and gestures that gave these things away. She did believe, though, that Claire hoped for more than friendship. And the two of them certainly shared a love for little Summer. Euan was a natural with children and Summer adored him.

  The thought of the three of them together—Euan, Claire and Summer—sent a surge of jealous anguish through her, then a kind of dullness set in. No, at that moment what she felt wasn’t pity for Claire, but instead that old resentment she’d felt sometimes as a child, when Claire had monopolized attention in some way, or as a teenager, when boys had been attracted to her sister’s feisty prettiness rather than Jude’s quieter, kinder charms. It was a long time since she’d felt that teenage jealousy, but every now and then she was surprised to find the old patterns of anger and envy still lay beneath the surface. She wondered if you still felt them when you were Gran’s age. She sighed and turned over, trying to get comfortable.

  They’d both tried to be closer, more caring of one another, since Mark died, she could see that. Summer had been nearly three and Claire was struggling with the Star Bureau and saving up to buy a home. Claire had tried her best to comfort Jude; had rung her up frequently and made a point of visiting her sister at their mother’s whenever Jude came home. They’d definitely become closer because of it. But their relationship had somehow slid out of kilter again, and part of this, she knew, had to do with Euan. Round and round went her thoughts.

  Euan was Claire’s friend originally, the voice of Jude’s conscience whispered again. No, she’d been over all this with Chantal. She should just aim at being normal, friendly, with Euan and see how things turned out. But perhaps whatever turned out would drive a sword between the sisters? Oh, damn it all.

  She’d read a magazine article about sisters recently, and it emphasized this contrary feeling they have for one another, a mixture between jealous rivalry and great caring. It said sisters were immensely important to one another and yet evoked the worst sort of hatred and jealousy in each other, generated originally by infant competition for parental attention. Also, the article said, position in the family was very important. It seemed to imply that the elder sister was likely to be the steadier, bossier one. Funny, but in their family, it was the other way around. Claire was less confident, often complaining that their mother was more interested in Jude, even that she loved Jude more. It would be interesting to talk to Mum about this sometime. Which led to another frustration—it was hardly a conversation to have on a mobile phone to Spain.

  * * *

  The following morning, though tired, she felt steadier again, and composed her letter to the local paper. It began:

  I am trying to contact the family of Tamsin Lovall, a childhood friend of my grandmother who was born Jessie Bennett and who is anxious to hear news of her.

  She stopped typing, thinking long and hard about which address to include. In the end, after quickly checking with Robert, she gave her name care of Starbrough Hall. Gran was vulnerable and might be confused by post arriving from strangers, and the name Starbrough Hall might be recognized by Lovalls.

  She e-mailed the letter, and was just opening her catalog file in order to write descriptions of a few more books when Megan from the museum rang her on her mobile. Jude was surprised to hear from her. They’d left it that Jude would contact her again once she’d recovered the necklace from the jeweler’s.

  “I couldn’t wait to tell you,” Megan breathed down the phone.

  “What is it?”

  “Charles Mallory. The archaeologist. I looked him up when you’d gone. I knew there was something odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Yes. He died. Soon after, I mean. I thought I’d read about it somewhere; it was treated as a big mystery at the time. I asked a friend at the newspaper archive to check for me and he’s just rung back. A couple of weeks after that piece you found about his archaeological finds, it seems Mallory simply vanished. It was assumed he’d gone home to Cambridge, but eventually he was reported missing by his college. No one seemed very sure where he was last seen and then they found his car down a lane near the harbor at Brancaster Staithe. His body had been washed up farther along the coas
t some weeks before, but not identified until then. No one ever knew whether it was an accident or something else, whether he’d killed himself perhaps.”

  “How very peculiar. You don’t suppose there was a curse,” she wondered, “like with Tutankhamun’s tomb?”

  “It makes you think, doesn’t it?” Megan replied. “That’s why I rang you straightaway. It sounds too silly, though. It’s more likely, isn’t it, that there was some ordinary explanation? He was a bit eccentric by all accounts—that silly moustache—and perhaps he was depressed or something.”

  “The curse thing isn’t easy to assess. He’d have to have believed that he’d been cursed and show psychological effects.”

  “I don’t think my friend found anything like that. Anyway, it doesn’t help you about the necklace, does it?”

  “No, but thanks for letting me know. I’ll ring you as soon as the necklace is ready.”

  Afterward, Jude considered that, strange though it might be, the story of Mallory fitted in with all the other strange things reported to have happened at the folly. After all, he had disturbed the ancient burial ground and taken away some bones. Perhaps something had affected his mind—he’d looked perfectly happy and proud in the newspaper picture. If it had been an isolated incident in the story of the folly, then in all probability Megan would be right and his death was likely to have been an accident. But add it to all the other stories, and it looked more sinister.

  She forgot about the matter when she opened her e-mail inbox to see separate messages from both Bridget and Klaus. Both were appreciative of the idea for the article that she’d sent them, but she had to laugh at their very different concerns. Klaus was interested in angles to hook certain types of bidder and wanted to be certain she would emphasize the uniqueness and importance of the items themselves. Bridget, on the other hand, produced a useful list of editorial suggestions with regard to shaping an interesting story. Still, both were happy with the general approach, though Bridget said somewhat wistfully that she wished there was more hard information about the astronomical discoveries.

  “I’ll do my best, Bridget,” she wrote back. She, too, wished she had something. It was time Cecelia got back to her with her possibly exciting piece of information. She sighed then settled down to type the next piece of transcription.

  CHAPTER 27

  After breakfast on the twenty-eighth day of January, in the year of our Lord 1778, my father set forth for Norwich to attend a great meeting at the Maid’s Head Inn. Noblemen, clergy and gentry, he informed me, from the length and breadth of Norfolk, had been summoned to discuss opening a subscription to advance a regiment in these critical times for the King. Since I professed no knowledge of the matter in question he acquainted me with the revolt in our American territories and how their defence against the rebels drained money and men from our realm in no small measure. A demonstration of support for King George was forthwith required, he declared, and every Englishman worth the name should open his heart and his purse to the cause.

  He returned after nightfall, tired and agitated. The meeting had been a long one, with much dissent and fierce argument, but he had put himself down for 25 guineas and duty was done.

  After dining well on boiled mutton and caper sauce, he retired to his library and from thence, I fondly believed, to bed. But when I sought him out after breakfast next morning he was not to be found, in either his library, or his workshop, or his rooms. Betsy was questioned, who declared his bed not slept in, nor clean shirt assumed. Mr Corbett organized a search of the house and outbuildings, but I knew by instinct exactly where he must be. I called to Sam in the stables, and we half ran, half walked across the park and up the hill through the trees to the folly. There, as I suspected, we found the door unfastened.

  I cannot imagine where I found the strength to mount those stairs with my whooping breath and giddy sense of terror at what I might find, but mount them I did, to find all my fears justified.

  My father lay sprawled at the foot of the ladder, his lantern smashed across the floor. With a bleating cry I ran to his side. His body was warm, praise God, despite the winter chill, but his pulse was weak and while his eyelids fluttered at my touch he did not wake. His face was bleached as pale as last night’s new moon.

  Sam ran back down at once to fetch help. I set about folding my cloak, but when I raised his head to slip it underneath for a pillow, my fingers found dried blood and a hot swelling above his left ear. ‘Father,’ I whispered, ‘Father, wake up.’ I wept a little and as my tears fell on his forehead, his eyes opened for a moment and his lips moved.

  It seemed an age before we heard shouts, then footsteps slapping on the stairs. Sam brought his father and Mr Corbett, and soon stout Dr Brundall arrived, panting dangerously so I feared he might pass out like my father and then we’d need to get two bodies down those stairs.

  They gave my father water and the doctor, now recovered, dressed his wound, pronouncing it ‘hardly serious,’ then they wrapped him in blankets and gently lifted him down the stairs where Dr Brundall’s son and two of their servants had ready a stretcher to bear him home.

  All that day and the following one, too, my father lay senseless on his bed, but at dusk the day after that, his eyes opened and focused immediately on the moon rising beyond his window. ‘Father,’ I whispered, and his eyes met mine. His fingers stirred on the coverlet and I placed mine over them and breathed a prayer of thanks. In the days after that he grew steadily stronger, taking gruel and the soup Mrs Godstone made and which I fed him, letting no one else. They moved a wooden cot into the room so I might sleep nearby and attend him if he woke in the night. Matters continued in this way a fortnight before Dr Brundall declared the immediate danger to be past. We waited anxiously for further improvement, but there was little. My father was a broken man.

  February ebbed away, and my father could not leave his bed nor did he speak. Then one day early in March, he found his voice, stilted and rusty as though long buried underground. He could only pronounce single words, ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ ‘meat’ or ‘water’ and an early instruction to me was ‘read.’ I leaped up at once and flew downstairs, where I ransacked the library shelves for exactly the right book. I chose the Arabian Nights, which Father had purchased shortly before his accident, and I came to feel like Scheherazade herself as I held his attention night after night with my stories. When he’d had enough he’d bade me ‘out,’ meaning not that I was dismissed, but that I should extinguish the candles. I’d retire to my room leaving the curtains open so he might see the skies in the lone watches of the night.

  One day in the middle of March he managed ‘star’ and ‘book’ and mimicked writing, so I brought his observation diaries and we passed an hour or two revisiting all he had seen. Far from soothing him, as I had hoped, it made him agitated, and it was out of this event that my idea arose: that we would carry him out to the park one night to view the stars. Needless to say, this plan was met by the household with horror. Suppose he fell or caught his death? But my father was enlivened by the idea, and seeing as good spirits are vital to good health, I insisted that it was his will. It was agreed by one and all, however, that Dr Brundall should not be told. This was not easy, as the good doctor very often visited the house, and once he brought Father’s attorney with him, Mr Wellbourne, on what business I do not know, though Mr Corbett was called to witness my father’s signature on a document. ‘His writing was so feeble it was piteous to see,’ he told me.

  The first night outside he was laid on the same wooden cot on which I’d slept during the first critical days. Soon after that, Mr Trotwood was sent to Norwich to purchase a Bath chair. Father, having no strength in his limbs, was unable to grasp a telescope, but Sam, who was good with his hands, devised a frame to be attached to the chair to hold one. This done Father had only to move his head to view through the eyepiece. I would sit by him and set down his stuttered observations in the book as usual. Many nights he was too tired even for this, and instead on o
ccasion I would set forth by myself. I loved to sweep the skies for comets; however, none of the telescopes from his library showed the treasures of the skies as clearly as the great reflector in the folly, and I dared not venture up there alone. It was therefore arranged for it to be transported, with great trouble, back to the house and Sam constructed a stand for it in the park. It was the best we could achieve, but the park was not as good as the tower, which stands away from the lights of buildings and closer to the stars. It was lonely too, and cold outside; my clothes were often heavy with dew or stiff with hoar frost.

  One freezing night towards the end of March I saw for the first time what seemed like a tiny disk passing close to Taurus. The following evening it was there again and I looked for it every clear night after that, measuring its progress towards Gemini. I believed it to be a comet but, if so, an unusual one with its regular shape and no tail. I did not realize what I had found until many months had passed.

  Jude reached the bottom of the page and turned it over, only to realize with dismay that there was no more. Esther’s story had finished! But how could it have? It didn’t feel finished. Although the sentence was complete, the story wasn’t. It was dreadful. She needed, she had, to know more. Anthony had died later in the year; that was common knowledge. But what had happened to Esther and the comet-thing she remembered reading about in the observation journal, she still had no idea.