What were the circumstances behind this most peculiar transaction? she wondered. Those circumstances were not illuminated by the deed. Why had Lord Henry sold the cottage to the bishop? And why had he in turn, apparently by a will, then given it to her grandmother?
She had discovered the legal origins to the long-concealed mystery . . . but not the why.
That she would have to fill in for herself.
As Maggie’s reflections began to tumble back in time to her childhood, she tried to grab on to the ends of what mental threads her memory caught faint sight of.
There had always been rumors about old Lord Henry. Everyone knew them. As a girl growing up around Milverscombe, Maggie certainly had heard her share and trembled at them too. Chief among them was the rumor hinted at by old men with knowing glances and clicks of the tongue that Henry had done in his poor wife at the very moment she had given him an heir. No one actually used the word murder, but among the children of the village a certain singsong verse had always been sufficient to plunge fear into the hearts of timid little children whenever they played in the neighborhood:
Look where you go, watch what you do,
or Lord Henry will snatch and make you a stew.
He’ll cut you in pieces, like he did that night
when his poor Eliza screamed out in such fright.
With his own hand he killed her, or so they say,
and began to go batty the very next day.
It will happen to you, no one will hear your call,
if you venture too close to Heathersleigh Hall.
No one actually thought he had cut her up, for the lady was buried with a proper funeral and lay even now under the ground behind the church. But according to a loose-tongued servant lad who lived at the Hall and had been sent that night for the vicar through the storm, there were indeed screams coming from the house.
But what did such rumors have to do with the sale of the cottage? wondered Maggie. And why would her grandmother have likened it to the sale of a birthright?
What did Bishop Crompton have to do with the affair?
Gradually sleep returned and Maggie extinguished her light and went back to bed.
The next day, at the earliest possible hour, she was bound for the parish church in the village.
“Hello, Vicar Coleridge,” she said as the vicar greeted her.
“You are out early, Mrs. McFee.”
“I am on an important errand, vicar. May I have a few minutes with the parish register?”
“Which book—births, deaths, or marriages?”
“Births and deaths.”
The vicar produced the ancient journals. It did not take Maggie long to locate what she wanted. Not only were the entries in both books made in the same year, but on the very same day—February 11, 1829.
Henry’s wife, Eliza, had indeed died on the very day she gave birth. Perhaps there was some truth to the old rumors after all! And both events were witnessed and recorded in the parish registry by none other than one A. Crompton, Vicar, Milverscombe!
There was the connection between the deed she had discovered and the fateful night of Eliza’s death. Early in his career, the good bishop had been the presiding vicar of Milverscombe!
He had witnessed both events. Whatever had happened to cause Eliza’s death, and if indeed old Lord Henry had snuffed out her life as the servant lad and abundant rumors maintained, the vicar must have known of it.
The sale of the cottage to Crompton years later after he became a bishop must have been a payoff for his silence!
Not only was Crompton there that fateful night, thought Maggie, if there was a birthing, then her grandmother, the only midwife in the region, would have been on hand too.
That was the connection between vicar and midwife! They shared the secret of that night.
Was it too much to conjecture that the bishop had paid off the midwife with the cottage in similar fashion as had Lord Henry paid him off several years before? It was certainly a credible explanation of the known facts.
But as Maggie thanked the vicar and left the church to make her way home, a feeling of unease began growing within her. She recoiled at the idea that the cottage that had been theirs all this time had come to her family by stealth and secrecy, and perhaps even to cover up a crime. They were not the rightful owners. Whatever manner of evil man Lord Henry might have been, the estate still belonged to the Rutherford family. They were the rightful heirs. It was their birthright, not her own or her family’s.
And here she was nearing the end of her life, and she and Bobby hadn’t a living relative on the face of the earth. If she didn’t do something to set it right, the ill-gotten birthright would pass to the Church. She had nothing against the Church, but it seemed the cottage ought to belong to whom it rightfully had been intended.
She would consult Crumholtz, Sutclyff, Stonehaugh, & Crumholtz in Exeter. She could not undo what had been done years before. But she could at least put it back into the hands of the true heirs of the Heathersleigh birthright—if it lay in her power legally to do so.
She would go to Exeter, execute a will, and write a letter explaining what she had discovered.
————
“So though I’ve found the deed,” Maggie concluded, “I can’t say exactly why it all came about in the first place. But I’ve spent the past months thinking about it all and trying to figure it out, and that’s how the thing appears to me.”
“That old Lord Henry murdered Eliza?” said Amanda.
“He was more than just a little mad, as everyone knew,” replied Maggie. “That much I know myself. Whether it is from the blood of murder on his hands as the verses say, who can tell? They say he desperately wanted a son to whom he could pass on his estate, but his wife Eliza did not give him one for many years. Although it wouldn’t have mattered what kind of child she had, for the law governing Heathersleigh allowed that the estate would pass to the eldest whether it was a son or a daughter. I recall my mother saying it was openly talked about in the village when she was a girl. In any event, Eliza remained barren and Henry grew furious and more demented, like his namesake the old king of England of many wives, vowing to get rid of her and marry another. They say he came in time to despise the very sight of her, all the time becoming more worried, lest he grow too old or die himself. Should that have happened, Eliza’s family would have inherited Heathersleigh, and Henry was said to hate a certain brother-in-law with a passion, Eliza’s greedy brother, who would have done anything to possess the estate.
“Finally Eliza was discovered to be carrying a child. When the night of the birth came, she gave him his son, and not only a son, but twins, a boy and a girl. The second child sealed Eliza’s fate. For now, even if something later happened to Ashby, the son which Henry had so longed for, at least he would have a daughter too. He had no further need of Eliza, for suddenly Lord Henry had two heirs. No matter what happened, his inheritance was secure, and Eliza and her brother would never get their hands on Heathersleigh.
“Lord Henry had his heir, and the next day Eliza was dead. The rumors began almost immediately that he had murdered her. I don’t know how much they resulted from the servant lad—who himself, my mum said, met with an untimely end not many years later. But she said he told dreadful things about what he had seen and heard that night. And the fact was, Eliza was dead in the prime of her life.”
Maggie now handed the deed to Jocelyn.
“The strange circumstances of this transfer of the cottage,” she went on, “seem to substantiate the rumors. What else but such a crime would draw together the attending vicar and midwife into a secret transaction? Many children’s rhymes are not so far off from the truth. Lord Henry must have sworn the two witnesses to secrecy, but later needed to pay off the bishop with the cottage to keep him quiet—the sale of birthright to cover the crime.”
“But why would the bishop will the cottage to your grandmother several years later?” said Jocelyn, still puzzling over
the dates on the document she was holding.
“The only thing I can imagine,” replied Maggie, “is that the old bishop must have come to feel guilty over the affair, or maybe had pangs of conscience that he had prospered and my grandmother hadn’t by their mutual complicity in the thing. So he gave the cottage to her when he died. Then it came to my mother, and then to me and my Bobby.”
“That is logical, I suppose,” remarked Catharine. “But I must admit, I am more than a little confused by everything you’ve said.”
“But the reason I started to tell you all this,” Maggie went on, “is because of the one other curious fact that came to light when I discovered the deed. That is the clause there—look, Jocelyn, in the fine print at the bottom. It says that should ever Orelia Moylan’s heirs who are in possession of the cottage die without heirs themselves, the property would be transferred to the Church of England. I realized I was exactly such a one, and a woman getting on in years who had no will. That’s when I went to Exeter myself to see those lawyers—you remember, Jocelyn, last October. I showed them the deed with that provision and asked if I could legally pass the cottage on to someone who was not related to Orelia Moylan by blood. They said they would look into the matter. But just to be sure, I made a will right then and left it at their office. Three weeks ago I received a letter back from Mr. Bradbury Crumholtz. He told me that the provision in the deed is somewhat ambiguous, but that my will was legal, and that it was doubtful it would be contested, especially by the Church.”
“So what did you do?” asked Amanda.
“I wrote out a will leaving Heathersleigh Cottage to the two of you, Catharine and Amanda, and your brother, George,” replied Maggie.
118
Mysteries Solved and Puzzles Remaining
Walking home as late afternoon began to give way to evening, Jocelyn, Amanda, and Catharine were all quiet, pondering the many things Maggie had shared with them and their implications. It was clear a change was coming to Heathersleigh. Jocelyn and Amanda were especially conscious of it, for the heartbreak of the accumulated years of their separation could not help in some ways but make the grief of these recent events keenest in their hearts.
“All Grandma Maggie’s talk about the past,” said Catharine as they approached the Hall from across the meadow, interrupting Jocelyn’s and Amanda’s thoughts, “makes me curious about the Hall’s history all of a sudden too. Let’s go walk through the secret passage again.”
“Where does it go?” said Amanda.
“Just you wait—I’ll take you through all sorts of twisting and turning narrow passages.”
“I’ve been curious about the keys Geoffrey gave me to see where they might work. But let’s hurry, before it gets too dark and spooky.”
They walked inside and began climbing the stairs.
“Are you coming, Mother?” asked Catharine.
“Of course. You don’t think I would miss out on such an adventure, do you?”
They made their way up, passing through the family portrait gallery. They paused before Lord Henry’s portrait. Strange sensations came over them as they stared up at the subtle expression of mystery and recalled Maggie’s story.
“A scary-looking old gent, if you ask me,” said Catharine. “I’m not sure I altogether like the idea of being related to him!”
“Although the family resemblance is clear,” remarked Jocelyn. “I think I can faintly see both your father and brother in his face.”
“And look at those two, Amanda,” said Catharine, moving a few steps farther down the corridor, “—see . . . the Bible is there in that one painting and gone in this.”
Ten minutes later, with candles in hand, for there was no electricity in the secret passage, Catharine pulled back the swiveling bookcase in the library, and the three entered the dark chamber behind it.
“Do you remember when George discovered this?” asked Jocelyn. “Your father and I were sitting in the library reading, when all of a sudden one of the bookcases began to move, and out of the wall popped George. I don’t know who was more incredulous, him or us!”
“I didn’t pay much attention,” replied Amanda. “I wasn’t paying much attention to anything back then. I was never in here once.”
“Well, then this will be even more of an adventure for you.”
“I can’t believe all this has been hidden behind these walls and I never knew it.”
“I hope we don’t stumble over any old bones from Lord Henry’s stew.”
“Catharine!”
“He might have cut up some of the local children, you know.”
“That’s not how the old rhyme went.”
“Maybe not, Mother, but remember what Maggie said about the servant lad that was never seen again.”
“That’s not exactly what she said, Catharine,” interjected Amanda. “You’re exaggerating to scare us!”
“What better place to hide the bodies,” Catharine persisted. “I’ll bet that’s why he had all these passages built. One of these days we are going to discover a secret door into a crypt full of bones.”
“Catharine!” Jocelyn exclaimed a second time. “You are dreadful! How did you get so ghoulish?”
“Probably from George. He always teased me about ghosts in here,” laughed Catharine. “I wish he was with us now. I miss him.”
The reminder quieted the trio. They walked awhile in silence, with fearless Catharine leading the way.
“One of these days, Amanda, I must show you the chest George found up in the garret,” Catharine said at length. “It’s full of all sorts of old things about the Hall.”
“What kind of things?”
“Records, journals, ledgers, architectural drawings, everything just thrown into a huge chest. I doubt if it had been looked at in fifty years until George opened it.”
They arrived at what to all appearances was a dead end.
“Where does it go from here?” asked Amanda. “Did you take a wrong turn?”
Without saying anything further, Catharine reached out, turned a latch from somewhere not readily visible, then pulled and swung the end of the wall toward her. Amanda watched in astonishment as Catharine led them through the opening, and was even more shocked a moment later to find herself following her sister into the middle of the old tower at the northeast corner of Heathersleigh Hall.
“I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “That is amazing. I had no idea we were going in this direction. And George discovered this?”
“He got into the labyrinth somewhere from the garret and first found his way to the library. Then eventually, after considerable more snooping and exploring, he found the handle I just used, turned it, and there he was in the tower.”
“But it only opens from the inside,” now added Jocelyn. “Look—”
She closed the door behind them.
“—once it’s closed, it just looks like part of the wall.”
“It’s exactly as I remember it,” said Amanda, looking around at the tower room. “I would never have known there was a door there.”
“Except . . .” added Catharine, stepping toward it and sliding back a small panel in the door they had just come through that at first glance appeared immovable, “—for this.”
“A lock!” Amanda exclaimed. “A hidden lock.”
“Without any sign of a key,” said her mother.
From her pocket Amanda immediately retrieved the keys Geoffrey had given her.
“Then let’s try this,” she said, and inserted the larger of the two into it.
“A perfect fit,” she exclaimed. “I thought it might be for something in here!” She turned the key and again the door they had just closed swung open into the darkened passageway behind it.
“Ever since George discovered it,” said Jocelyn, “we’ve only been able to open the door from the other side with the latch. I always wondered what happened to the key.”
“Another mystery solved,” said Catharine.
“Is e
verything about the old place suddenly coming to light?” added her mother.
“Not quite everything, Mother,” replied Catharine. “Like where were these keys the day Geoffrey took them? And why hadn’t we known about them before?”
As they talked Amanda was poking around the tower.
“I think the answer to that mystery is right here,” she said, removing a loose stone in the adjacent wall. It revealed a small cavity with an empty iron key hook inside it. “As I told you before, the whole thing is my fault. I’m afraid I locked him in here from the main stairway over there. He was probably alone for three or four minutes. He must have found this loose stone and then seen the keys. And now that I recall the day, it seems I might have heard him fiddling about with something that might have been keys.”
“Where were you?”
“Just outside the door there, on the landing of the stairs.”
“I suppose that’s it, then,” said Jocelyn.
“But what could this small key be for?” said Amanda. “I don’t see anything else in here.”
“The tower’s only got the two locks,” said Catharine. “George and I explored every inch trying to find a key to the hidden door. There’s nothing besides the main door where you say you locked Geoffrey in—and its key is still there outside in the lock as always—and the hidden door you just opened with the new key.”
“Hmm . . . that is odd,” said Jocelyn. “And it’s such a small key.”
Amanda set the ring on the iron hook.
“Well,” Catharine said, “I suppose we ought to save some mysteries about the place for our children and the next generation.”
They descended a few minutes later by the main tower stairs, leaving the two keys in what was apparently their original resting place. Catharine’s comment had caused Amanda to grow quiet. Thoughts of marriage and children and future generations were confusing and painful right now.
Heathersleigh Homecoming Page 45
