by Mary Luke
It was obvious from what he could see that the palace had been built around two great courtyards. It was the inner court where the royal apartments were situated that had provided the glory of Nonsuch. Here the four walls were stone at ground level with the second story of timber. But between the timbers, huge white plaster panels, ingeniously decorated with figures of gods and goddesses, cherubs, floral specimens and royal insignia, had been hung. The panels were framed in carved black slate, gilded in portions, and the contrast between the black slate and white plaster figures must have been startling to anyone viewing them for the first time. At the opposite end of the courtyard there had been two five-story octagonal towers, and from ground level to tower top, the walls had been similarly covered with panels featuring life-sized figures in different classical motifs. These magnificent panels and frames had been topped by oversized painted statues of the King's Beasts holding a pennant with the royal badge. Other descriptions of Nonsuch, from those who'd seen it at various times, had mentioned its great fountains, the greenery, arbors, alleys, small ponds and numerous statues—all enclosed by a wall outside of which was the "wilderness." Here the larger trees had been trained to form a canopy for shade, and one later monarch had even kept an aviary.
And here he was, now, looking at all that remained of it.
Leaving the wine cellar, Andrew walked on to the extreme southern end where the foundations of those richly decorated turreted towers were distinct. Here were piles of broken plaster bits that
had formed those magnificent panels: here a fragment of an angel's wing, there a Roman gladiator's foot almost nine inches thick. Obviously, they'd been deeply carved. Cherubs, the head of a horse, swags of fruit and flowers and here a piece of painted glass with the letters "et Mon Droit." Andrew pushed a fragment with his foot. All these charming pieces—destroyed to pay the gambling debts of a royal mistress—had been used to fill in the foundations. The Tudor workmen, having taken everything of real value from the site, had doubtless found it easier to dispose of them that way rather than laboriously cart them away. One panel in particular caught Andrew's attention, and he leaned forward to read, in exquisite flowing handwriting, a direction written on what had been, at the time, wet plaster: "Troisiesme pillier"— an instruction from one workman to another. Had he left it behind as he went to eat his noonday meal in the shade of nearby trees?
Andrew had walked three-quarters of the foundations, completely immersed in what he saw. It was while near what he later learned was the site of the great fountain in the inner court that he began to feel unsettled. It was nothing at first. A small sense of discomfort attributed to the sun now approaching a noon zenith. He'd been out in the open for more than an hour, concentrating deeply, storing up impressions for notes on the return train ride.
The feeling persisted, though, and the warmth deepened. He loosened his collar and tie and sat down briefly in the shade of the roadway trees. The roadway passed completely through the middle of the palace; part of the excavations were on the other side in the shade. He noticed the trenches were deeper there and, questioning a workman, was told that just the day before, several pits with human remains had been uncovered. They'd been buried several feet deeper than the excavation level. Obviously, they hadn't been disturbed when the palace was built. The graves had been in the crypt of what had been the Church of St. Mary the Virgin at Cud-dington—and all the inner court covered the church graveyard. Huge slabs of Reigate stone had sealed the burial pits, and the Tudor workmen had simply built Henry's inner court atop the church foundations. The bodies had remained in place ever since.
Well, thought Andrew, I've heard of and seen moldering bodies before—that's not what's making me queasy. Yet his unease remained. To distract himself, he followed the line the bulldozer was making, admiring the professional delicacy of the operator who
skillfully skimmed the smallest amount of earth from the foundations; they'd apparently lain only a few inches below the surface. A laborer told him that plows from the only structure on the field, the old house called Cherry Orchard Farm to the west, had fallen into pits and holes in the earth, and often various artifacts had been turned up by other machines.
Returning to the church site once more, Andrew felt a growing anxiety. The more he blamed the heat and his deep concentration, the more the feeling intensified. Yet he'd visited hundreds of excavation sites. Why should this one particular area fill him with an apprehension bordering almost on despair? Just to test himself, he walked off into the trees' deep shadow, emerging in the area of Cherry Orchard Farm, only a few hundred feet away. There some measure of composure returned. He made a few notes and, feeling well again, walked back to the church area.
As he approached, the same sense of heat assailed him. His face felt flushed, and he noticed his hands were trembling. Deliberately, he walked to the very center of where the church had once been. The chancel, covered by Henry's fountain, was a good measuring point, and there he felt a numbing, hot anxiety and a searing sense of foreboding that nearly overwhelmed him. Shocked and ill, he walked shakily back into the shade and leaned against a tree. In a few minutes his trembling ceased, yet he was bathed in perspiration that dribbled down his cheeks and onto his shirt. He returned to find his coat and briefcase and sat down, lighting a cigarette to recover from the—the what?
Nothing like it had ever happened to him before. It must be a physical reaction, Andrew reasoned, one stronger than he'd anticipated, to viewing the ruins. Yet he'd seen more impressive excavations than Nonsuch. The weather had never affected him before-some of his work had been in tropical countries. And, he forced himself to the truth, his foreboding occurred nowhere but in the area where Cuddington Church had once stood.
Why the church?
It was well past one o'clock and he'd planned to lunch there, spending the rest of the afternoon at the excavations and the adjoining park. But now he'd do as his Artless Charmer had suggested and have a washup and a pot of tea at Sparrow Field Farm. Then he'd head back to London, making notes on the way and try to understand what had happened at the ancient church site.
Once more on the road back to Ewell, he asked the first person he saw—a woman pushing a baby carriage—the direction to Sparrow Field Farm.
"You can't miss it, sir." She was obliging as she jiggled the carriage to keep her youngster quiet. "Just stay on this road, and it's to the left behind a large wall. There's a car park opposite for the stores on the Ewell side. . . ." And she motioned in the general direction of the way he'd come.
Andrew thanked her, bewildered. He'd passed no parking lot or "stores on the Ewell side" while walking to Nonsuch Park. Merely an old farmhouse with a man feeding birds in the courtyard. And he certainly hadn't passed Sparrow Field Farm or he'd have known it, he was sure. There was no other farmhouse there.
He walked briskly for about ten minutes before he saw the parking lot ahead. He was happy to note his composure had returned, and even though it was midday, he didn't feel overly warm and had donned his coat. There was the lot, just as the woman had said, and there were the back entrances to the stores fronting on Ewell's main street. But where was the farmhouse? Andrew was annoyed with himself. Obviously he'd originally taken a different route, for the path had taken him past a farmhouse and a field where a farmer was busily plowing. Path. That was it—he needed to find an unpaved path—where in front of him was nothing but macadam as far as he could see. And that was directly into the village of Ewell itself.
Well, there was no path in sight. He looked in every direction. Small houses he didn't remember were everywhere. Neat little dwellings, each with its own garden plot in front and a garage to one side. The houses became more numerous as he approached the near end of the parking lot, then there was an open space and the beginning of a brick wall. Elated, he hurried forward, for he recognized the wall. It's my brick wall!—he almost shouted the news aloud—and that's where I'll find the farmhouse and I'll ask the old man the way to Sparrow Field Far
m.
He followed along the wall and came to the opening. Hurrying inside, he stopped, thunderstruck, and felt again that strong sense of anxiety. There was no farmhouse in sight. The huge tree and the house, the beautiful circular drive, had disappeared as if wiped away in a few hours by a giant hand. In its place was an open field with grass badly in need of cutting. Here and there lay farm imple-
ments, some rusting from disuse. A ramshackle lean-to built against the wall held several smaller tools and a tractor stood nearby. Apparently it had been in recent use, for a pair of gloves and a bandanna were still on the seat. Some distance away, a small square building, its steeply pitched roof seemingly out of proportion to the building's height, sat in a graceless enclosure behind which there appeared to be a garden. Several huge trees, well pruned and lush, bordered on the house, the one tidy note in the whole scene.
Andrew picked his way over the rusting farm implements, along a path miry in spots that seemed to draw every winged insect in the area. Nearer the farmhouse, the ground appeared neater. The path was cobbled, and the shrubs and hedges surrounding the lawn were trimmed and clipped. He was, he realized now, approaching from the back. Surely the front would reveal the garden area he'd seen.
A tall man, followed by a black and white dog, came out the back door. Clad in working clothes, he was undoubtedly the farmer. He stopped a moment, wiped his mouth with his hand, then stooped to pat the dog. Andrew called to him. "Hello! I'm looking for Sparrow Field Farm. Is this it?" His shout brought the dog on the run. The farmer waved Andrew forward. The dog ran up to sniff, then, disappointed, ran off in the opposite direction.
"Good morning," Andrew said. "I'm looking for Sparrow Field-Mrs. Caudle sent me."
The farmer doffed his cap. "Yessir, this be Sparrow Field and Mrs. Caudle telephoned you might be cummin' by . . . you be Mr. Moffatt?"
Andrew was relieved, and he realized now, for the first time, how his experience at Nonsuch had rattled him. Farmhouses disappearing and parking lots springing up in their place all in a matter of hours! It was nice to have normality return in the form of a dog, telephone messages and a pleasant farmer.
"I'm Mr. Moffatt." Andrew realized he'd only disconcert the man by offering his hand, so he plunged right in. "Mrs. Caudle said I might use the farm for a wash and maybe some refreshment. I've been over to the excavations."
"Blasted mess they be causin' over there—blessed nuisance, they be. Can't leave anything decently buried as the Lord meant it." The farmer was clearly no student of history. "Go right in, sir, the wife's just clearin' up the lunch. I has to get back to me work."
Andrew thanked him and opened the back door. The kitchen was cool—the blessed coolness born of thick walls and overhanging trees. A woman of indeterminate age, in a shapeless dress, was clearing the table. "Hello, I'm Mr. Moffatt, ma'am. Mrs. Caudle telephoned about me."
"Oh, sir, do come in." The woman was pretty in a faded way, her hair pulled back in a bun that gave her features a sharpness they didn't deserve. But her smile was welcoming, and she motioned him to the bathroom. "Go right in there, sir. I've put fresh towels out against your comin'. Mrs. Caudle will be glad you stopped by, sir. . . ."
Ten minutes later, refreshed and at ease, Andrew was taking his hostess at her word to "tuck right in" and more than doing justice to a plate of ham and hot biscuits, carrots and peas. "Right out of the garden, they be, sir. You'll be gettin' more at Cuddington House as my man will take some up to Lunnon a day or two maybe," she said pleasantly as she did the dishes in the old stone sink. "You've been to the excavations, sir?"
"I have and found them most interesting." Andrew noted the woman—he wished she'd give her name—start to say something, then decide against it. "I had quite a walk this morning, actually." He lit a cigarette and helped himself to another cup of tea.
"Did you, sir? You came by train, Mrs. Caudle said."
"Yes, I walked from the station, through the village and right on to Nonsuch Park." Andrew chose his words carefully. "I came right by here but seemed to have missed the place the first time."
"Well, it's easy to do, sir, the house is set so far back from the street—and actually, it's only the backyard where we keep the farmin' stuff. . . ." She gestured out to where he could see her husband tackling a bit of rank grass he'd stepped through a little while ago.
"Actually, I didn't notice the place at all." Andrew waited, then thought, hell, I'll never find out otherwise. "But there was something else there."
"Sir?" The woman raised a dripping hand in query. "Something else?"
"Well, I know it seems strange, ma'am, but yes, I walked along the wall and saw a lot of birds coming out of a tree. I know this sounds peculiar, but there were a great, great many of them. There was an old man plowing in a field across the way. You probably
think the sun played tricks with my imagination. Maybe it did!" Andrew gulped at his tea. It had been a mistake, and she was probably taking him for a fool and be glad to be rid of him. He might as well play the gentleman, finish and leave, so she could clean up. Would she go out and tell her husband about the crazy American who'd seen a tree and a plowman right over near the Ewell car park? Andrew could imagine how they'd laugh, and the farmer would probably say it wouldn't surprise him—anyone interested in excavations must have a lot of fancies!
"And there was an old man sittin' there feedin' the birds?" The woman's voice was ordinary; she might have been asking him the time of day.
"Why, yes!" Andrew's relief was intense. He hadn't seen a mirage —he must have confused the directions. There was a house and a garden and a tree with lots of birds! And it was probably one of their old friends who fed them each day. "How did you know?" he asked.
The woman dried the last dish, wiped her hands and came over and sat down opposite Andrew. She brought a clean cup and poured herself some tea. She was very quiet. Andrew could see she was sorting out her thoughts, trying to pick her words carefully. She wasn't as simple as he'd imagined.
"Now, sir, don't think me daft, but I think you've seen the ghost." She laughed merrily. "You're not the first one, though, so don't let it bother you." She was obviously enjoying the effect.
"A ghost? A ghost of what, in God's name?"
"Well, sir, it's a long story." The woman settled down. Andrew sensed she'd told it before. "Yes, it's a long story. You see, the Cud-dingtons used to live over there." She pointed in the direction where Andrew had seen the house. "What you saw was the manor house where Sir Richard and Elizabeth Cuddington lived. The old man feeding the birds was Domino, their gardener."
"Sir Richard was the owner of all the land. . . ." Andrew started to say, but she was ahead of him.
"Sir Richard owned everything around here, sir. The village was named after his family. They'd been here for hunnerds and hun-nerds of years. That was their manor house, the garden was where old Domino worked. And this place, Sparrow Field, was where Domino lived. It was the gardener's cottage. It was smaller then. This is the original kitchen, and there were only one or two rooms.
Domino slept upstairs in a loft over the byre where he kept a few cattle for himself and a few of his farmin' tools." She stopped, wondering if she was going too fast. "When the Cuddingtons had to leave, because the king took their land, why, then, sir, they gave this cottage to Domino, for he was too old to go wherever they went."
"To Suffolk, I think." Andrew tried to recall from the plaque.
"Well, wherever they went, Domino didn't go. He stayed here in this very cottage, sir, until he died. Then it went back to the Cuddingtons, and later on some of them from Lunnon came down here and lived here, too. They even built it up a bit, but it's not like it was. It's always been in the family, sir, and now Mrs. Rosa and Mr. Harry are the last ones—they have no children. I don't know what'll become of it, sir, when they die. Me and my man worry about it, sometimes. The town'll just tear it down and build some more o' them matchboxes on it." And she gestured contemptuously in the direction of
the houses he'd passed.
Andrew was stunned. He sat with his tea growing cold and thought, well, my God, I've never seen a ghost before. Yet the picture was as clear in his mind as if he'd seen it minutes before. The old man crooning to his birds as he flung seed and impatiently brushing them from his cap and shoulder.
"And so Domino often sits out there, y'see, and sometimes people see him." The woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. "His cottage was called Sparwefeld at the time, sir—it had something to do with birds, sparrows, I guess. He was a great one with them and fed them a lot, so they stayed in the neighborhood. Anyway, many people have seen the manor house and old Domino feeding his birds. So you see, sir, it's nothing to worry about—although I guess it can give you a turn to come back and look for it and then it isn't there anymore!" She smiled a comforting smile and offered him more tea.
Andrew declined the tea and asked, "May I see the front of the house, ma'am?"
"Of course, sir. Mrs. Caudle said to make you feel right at home. She's taken a real likin' to you, sir. She doesn't often send people here." The lady led the way from the kitchen into a living room that reminded Andrew instantly of the lobby of Cuddington House. It had undoubtedly been added on to from the original size, but even so, it had been a long time ago. Hadn't Rosa Caudle said Sparrow Field was older than Nonsuch? Then it had to be almost
