shawmorton

Chapter 7 Dorothy’s Telescope

 I  have just received  Norman’s latest letter. His duties have taken him to an old stately home in the Southwest of England.  His description of the window is too close.  He has found the  hall I’m sure of it.  Should I tell him about the well?  Should I tell him everything?

A.K. May 2nd 1944

 

Jen and David arrived at the hall  just before nine o’clock the following Sunday morning.   In an overcast and shadow-less light  the hall had lost its menacing look of the night before, and  now just looked old and dishevelled; almost tired, as if the building were ready to give up its fight against the ivy and  collapse into the surrounding forest.

Parked to one side of the hall’s front steps were two cars.  One of them was Phillips’s battered   Ford.  Next to it was a large mud spattered  Range-Rover four-by-four.  David parked next to the Range-Rover.

At the foot of the steps there were two men.   One of them was Phillips.  He had his folder tucked under one arm and was waving a cigarette expansively towards the hall and was pontificating at the second man.

This man looked to be about sixty, his gargantuan proportions dwarfing Phillips in all dimensions but height, and although stationary his complexion was a moist and rather unhealthy looking, blotchy red as though he were engaged in a permanent struggle up a very steep hill.  His hair was thin, greasy grey-black and rather too carefully slicked across the top of his head. Of clothing he was wearing voluminous green trousers and a  weather-beaten waxed  jacket that looked as if it had been through  one too many bramble bushes on countless pheasant shoots.  He clutched a clipboard  to his chest whilst his  other hand held a large blue tape measure, very much like a discus thrower waiting anxiously at the nets.

‘That must be the surveyor,’ whispered Jen as they got out of the car and began walking towards  the steps.

‘Looks like it,’ agreed David.

A moment later they had joined the two men.

‘Good morning gentlemen,’ said David.

‘I’m glad to see you’re prompt,’ said Phillips disdainfully and glancing at his watch. He then  once again waved his cigarette  towards the hall  ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’d rather keep my distance.’

‘Sure,’ said David and  trotted up the steps.  As he reached the front door there was a loud  ‘clunk,’ and the door swung open.  It was Dorothy.

‘Good morning David,’ said the old lady.  She looked tired, no doubt up all night pouring through the diaries.  She looked over David’s shoulder to see Jen coming up behind him.

‘And to you Jennifer,’ she said and paused, her eyes darting towards Phillips, who along with the waxed jacket was still standing at the bottom of the steps.

For a long moment Dorothy said nothing, her flint like eyes drilling into the two men.

Jen coughed discreetly.  ‘You said you were going to apologise to him, remember!’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Dorothy cursed under her breath.

Jen ignored her. ‘Er, Mr.  Phillips,’ she said turning towards the two men and becoming aware of her own fixed grin and wishing she hadn’t. ‘My God-mother has something to say to you.’

Behind her came a low muttering.  Discreetly Jen reached back and squeezed Dorothy’s arm.  The muttering stopped.

‘Your God-mother?’ said Phillips.

Jen nodded.  ‘I found out yesterday that she is in fact, my God-mother.’

‘No matter,’  said Phillips waving Jen’s answer away.  He then  looked up expectantly  at Dorothy.

For a long age nobody spoke. A bumble bee buzzed  lazily towards them, but on realising nothing was going to happen drifted away again.  Still nobody spoke. David cleared his throat.

‘I assume you have something to say me Ms. Woolcott,’ prompted Phillips with little humility.

Dorothy shifted her weight, her cane moving from one hand to another.  Other than a slight twitch Phillips didn’t move.

‘I must apologise for my outbursts Mr. Phillips,’ said Dorothy finally whilst looking at the ground.

Jen prodded her. ‘I don’t think he heard you,’ she said.  The old lady cursed.

‘I said I must apologise for attacking you,’ said Dorothy more loudly this time and looking up.  ‘I will be only too happy to have your jacket repaired, replaced, or whatever is required, and co-operate with you fully in your inspection of the hall.’

Phillips paused for a moment longer his eyes studying the old woman.  He then started up the steps.

‘Thank you Ms. Woolcott and about time,’ he said as  he reached the front door.  He then stepped to one side and indicated the waxed jacket.

‘This is Mr. James Stoughton of Brelard and Stoughton property development.’

Despite his portly appearance and with more enthusiasm than looked healthy, the man  sprinted  up the steps and joined them.

‘James Stoughton,’ he puffed, clumsily passing the tape measure into the hand with the clipboard and offering his now vacant hand towards Dorothy.  The old lady didn’t move.  Quickly Jen took it.

‘Jennifer Lea,’ she said.

It was hot, wet and  limp and barely took a grip before falling away  and reaching over her shoulder to David. The man smelt of old wax and horses.

‘I did what I could on the outside yesterday,’ rattled Stoughton quickly and still out of breath. His high pitched and rapid way of speaking along with his quick movement completely at odds with his ponderous appearance.  He then gave an ugly hawk that was a laugh and  continued. ‘And I’m sorry to be a total cad, but I must make at least a cursory survey of the inside today or I won’t make next month’s edition of ‘Country life.’  It was a poor attempt at an apology.  The man’s sweating features then broke into a bulging, and very shiny grin.

Dorothy said nothing and stepped back from the doorway.

‘Well,’ said Phillips turning to Stoughton.  ‘Were would you like to start?’

‘The top and work down I think.  The tower looks curious let’s start there.’

‘Very well,’ said Phillips,  ‘After you.’ He waved  Stoughton into the hall then entered himself.  The two men made straight for the stairs.  As soon they were out of earshot David turned to Dorothy.

‘How did you make out with the diaries?’ he whispered.

‘An interesting read,’ replied Dorothy distractedly, her eyes still drilling into the backs of the two men.

‘You can read them?’ hissed David excitedly.

‘What!’  started Dorothy.

‘You said ‘An interesting read,’ said David, trying hard to keep his voice down.

‘Sorry…, yes, no… rather I mean  it’s an interesting script,’ Dorothy recovered. ‘Although I don’t think  it’s a code created by Annabelle. In fact I’m certain it’s not a code at all, but a proper language.’

David nodded. ‘I wondered if it was.’  His eyes narrowed.  ‘Nothing else?’

‘Well… no; not enough time,  and I need access to some quality reference material, although I would say, it looks like some type of Arabic derivative, perhaps Farsi,  having said that there is the use of some Cyrillic characters as well.’

‘Well you got more out of them  than I did. Too bad you couldn’t read the text though.’

‘No; quite.’  Dorothy’s eyes had strayed back towards the stairs. Phillips and Stoughton had stopped on the small landing and were examining the large black  curtain. Dorothy lowered her voice again.

‘Look, do me a kindness and keep them out of the conservatory. I want to  secure my work in there  before they go blundering about. Tell them they’ll ruin my research or something.  Just keep them out for as long as you can.  Also, would you keep an eye on them up in the tower.’

‘In the tower,’ said David.  ‘Why what’s up there?’

‘Oh nothing much, just er,… a telescope, that’s all.’

‘A telescope?’

Dorothy nodded.  ‘Its only home-made, well more hand built, but none the less it is still quite delicate.  Make sure they don’t’ fiddle with it would you.’

‘I can try,’ said David doubtfully, ‘although I don’t think they’ll take too much notice of me.’

‘No, well just do you’re best, I’ll be along  presently anyway.’

‘Ok,’ he said.  Are you coming Jen?’

‘I may as well,’ said Jen. Dorothy looked at Jen for a moment her eyes darting from side to side as she studied her face.

‘Are you feeling alright this morning Jennifer?’

‘Fine,’ lied Jen.

‘Sure?’ said Dorothy.  Jen nodded.  Dorothy looked doubtful, a shadow of concern crossing her eyes.

‘Well I’ll see you in a little while then.’ She  looked at Jen a moment longer and then turned and walked off up the corridor.

‘She’s lying again,’ whispered David after Dorothy had disappeared from sight.  ‘Whatever language the diaries are written in she can read it.’

‘Well short of calling here a liar I can’t see how you can get her to tell you what she’s found out, although if she can read the diaries I don’t think they told her much about the belt or this well of yours; she’s not excited enough, if yesterday is anything to go by.’

‘True,’ sighed David, ‘but I’d like to know what she did manage to find out. Anyway we’d better get going before those two get too far ahead of us.’  He nodded towards the stairs.

There was no hurry. Phillips and Stoughton were still on the small landing.  As Jen and David walked to the  stairs, they saw that Phillips was  tugging at the great black curtain. Other than a reluctant squeaking sound and an increase in the haze of dust, nothing much was happening.  He stopped.  There was a brief exchange between the two men before the both of them then reached up and on a joint count of three gave the curtain a vicious heave.  There was a brief, loud ripping sound and  then the two men jumped back as the entire curtain fell down in a billowing cloud of dust and an echoing clatter of curtain rails.  Light now  flooded into the entrance hall.

The men’s vandalism had revealed a window.  It was of stain-glass window and dominated the hallway, almost filling the entire facing wall.  Proportionately it was three times higher than it was wide, and stretched up a good thirty feet,  ending in a gothic arch that neatly mirrored the vaults of the ceiling above.  The drama of the window’s setting was further emphasised by the stairs that  swept down on either side of it from the first floor. The symmetry of the twin staircases descending from the upper floor, combined with the great fan staircase that led up from the hallway to the narrow landing at the windows base was both simple and dramatic, drawing the eye both inwards and upwards.

Isn’t it beautiful,’ breathed Jen,  ‘it makes the place feel like a church.’

David nodded.  He was staring at the window intensely.

‘You know I think that parts of it might be made out of Favrile glass,’ he said.

‘What glass?’ said Jen.

‘Favrile glass.’

Jen looked blank.

‘You must have heard of Tiffany.’

‘Yes of course,  part of the Art-Nouveau style isn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ nodded David.

‘But what’s Favrile glass?’

‘It’s a technique of combining certain metals and pigments with glass to make it iridescent. It was invented by Louis Tiffany, the designer.  You know how you get those amazing combinations of colours on some insects, like beetles; as the light catches them you see emerald greens or metallic blues within the black, that kind of iridescence.’

Jen continued to gaze at the window. Regardless of who created it there was no doubting its magnificence.  It had a refined delicacy that at first seemed at odds with the medium.  Instead of  the lead bars crudely caging and oppressing  the small oasis of colour, the  lead lines of this window had a slender subtlety that flowed with the pictorial elements in a harmonious rhythm of form and colour.  Jen was no expert, but even she could see that this was stain glass at its most  beautiful.

Like the painting in the pub, the window was dominated by a central  blonde haired figure,  but this figure  although similar, looked older, more   human  and very definitely male. The figure  was seated, and was surrounded by seven children, all of them like the seated figure had shoulder length golden hair, and  ranged in age from a babe-in-arms,  being nursed by one of the older children, to early teens.

What looked to be the eldest child  was on its knees before the seated man with  its arms raised and its hands held palms up.  The man was sitting forward, and on his face he wore a benevolent, yet serious expression,  and in his hands he held an ornate sword with a strange blue-black blade,  which he was presenting to the kneeling child. At the man’s elbow’s there attended  two more children.

The child on the left had what looked to be a golden cloth draped over its upturned hands whilst the child on the right wore an accusing expression and was pointing to the windows bottom left corner.  Here the window became much darker, and in the shadows Jen noticed there were more figures and various animals.  These figures were all smaller than the golden haired children and were in various states of leaving the scene.  Some were looking over their shoulder.  Others were hunched over and scurrying away, all of them hideously ugly and deformed.   One of the creatures was carrying what looked like fruit, whilst  another was carrying a golden orb to its chest, a guilty expression on its face.  It was particularly hideous and was the object of the accusing child at the man’s elbow.

Jen’s eyes then moved up to the remainder of the window.  The group  were gathered below a stone arch, from which there tumbled  bright clumps of orange flowered spiraea.  Over the man’s shoulders and beyond the arch Jen could see  hazy mountains and a milky blue-pink sky. To the figures left there was a distant city, nestled on the apron of the mountains. Around  the city and also to the figures right there tumbled a number of  waterfalls.

The top third of the window compared to the rest of it was very dark, deep blue almost black, and within it there were there were dozens of stars, and what looked to be  five moons of various sizes, a great red disc, five smaller ones and a single bright star. Suddenly the star twinkled, then the window itself began  to glow.  Outside the over cast sky had begun to break, allowing the window  to rhythmically brighten and  dim.  The effect was gently hypnotic.

‘It’s a fantastic piece,’ whispered Jen as if the slightest breath would destroy the windows frail beauty, ‘but I’m still not sure what you mean about this Favrille glass.’

Suddenly as if on cue the sun  came out, the window erupting into a swirling blaze of colour.  The effect was breath-taking.  Bars of solid light, blues, reds and golds,  leapt out into the dusty air above them, whilst a mosaic of  colours exploded onto the floor at their feet. Deep orange  bloomed from the spiraea,  golden fire burst from the children’s hair like sunshine, whilst deep  aquamarine blues cascaded  out of the water fall,  leaving Jen for a moment wondering if she could actually hear their distant thunder.   Jen then found herself breathing in  a rich heavy scent of peaches, the very air itself now seeming  alive with a fecundity that must have been present at the birth of the world.

Then just as suddenly the sun went in again, the spell was broken and Jen found herself looking at a simple  stain glass window.

‘Wow did you see that!’  enthused David. ‘Jen?’

‘Sorry,’  said Jen and shook herself. ‘ I felt quite strange for a moment, like looking at the painting again but less intense.  It’s almost  as if the window is depicting somewhere I know.’

David shrugged. ‘Well  I’ve never seen anything like it before, although I’m certain it must be a Tiffany.’

‘Not a Tiffany Mr. Stone,’ echoed a voice.

It was Phillips. Both he and Stoughton were still on the landing and standing to one side of the window.

‘This window predates Tiffany’s work.  The actual manufacturer is unknown, although its design has been attributed to Alfonse Mucha, but the facts are somewhat sketchy.  It is called ‘The theft of Faejya’s hammer.’ Although who Faejya is I don’t know, and all I can see is a sword and the figure appears to be giving it away.’  Phillips was deep in one of his files.  He than snapped it shut and glared at David and Jen.

‘I take it that there is an explanation to your presence?’ he said acidly.

David shrugged. ‘I’d like to have a look over the place whilst I’m here.  With your permission of course.  We’re not all  cultural heathens in the States you know.  I love architecture, especially Victorian Gothic.  I would say that this building is  a fine if little known example of the work of the architect Alfred Waterhouse, probably with additions by Annabelle Kingston.’

Phillips paused, and unable to hide his surprise his eyelids started their involuntary little dance, but he said nothing.  He then turned to Stoughton gave a rather embarrassed smile, and then continued on up the stairs.

‘You may want to pause in the library Mr. Stoughton,’ he said over his shoulder and completely ignoring David and Jen  ‘We have to go through it to get to the tower, and the library is one of the halls most impressive features.’

Jen waited a moment and then whispered to David. ‘You know your architecture.’

‘Nah,’ replied David grinning and talking out of the corner of his mouth.  ‘I just wanted to show him up. I read it in one of his papers yesterday when I was asking about the well.’

With that they followed the two men up the stairs.

The entrance to the library was on the first floor landing and directly opposite the great  window.  It consisted of a pair of eight foot high wooden double doors and like  the window was topped with a Norman arch.  On the arch an inscription was carved.

‘‘Metus filius ignorantiae est,’ said Jen. ‘Fear is the child of ignorance.’’

‘I thought you said your Latin was a bit rusty,’ said David.

Jen shrugged.  ‘It was my university motto.’

Of Phillips and Stoughton there was no sign. The doors to the library were swung open inward, but despite being directly opposite the great window, the inside of the room was completely dark,  then within the  darkness  Jen saw a  dim yellow disc spring into life and leap about  like an angry fire fly, its erratic flight accompanied by the sound of someone walking over bare floor boards that every now and then  let out a loud creak.  The disc then paused, there was a click and it vanished.  A moment later  there was a grunt followed by the loud squeal of unoiled hinges.  Light then flooded into the room.  It was Stoughton.  He was on the far side of the library and had opened a large wooden shutter, revealing a diamond leaded window.  In one hand he held a torch which he clicked off and slipped into his pocket.  He then walked to the next shutter and opened it.  There were four shutters in all, and by the time Jen and David had walked into the centre of room Stoughton had opened them all.

‘Old black out shutters I think,’ he said.  ‘I would have turned on the lights, except there doesn’t appear to be any electricity.’

‘Well there should be,’ grunted Phillips. ‘The hall is still supplied.  The Ministry has been receiving electricity bills for years,  which is what brought the issue of selling the hall to our attention in the first place.’   Phillips had been standing to one side of the room in the dark whilst Stoughton had been opening the shutters.  Now there was enough light to see by he was again rooting about in his folder.

‘Perhaps the power is only off on the first floor,’ offered Stoughton.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jen.  ‘When I was in here yesterday I noticed that Dorothy had placed oil and paraffin lamps all over the downstairs.  It strikes me that the place hasn’t had electricity for years.’

‘There should be no need for the place to have electricity,’ sniffed Phillips once again eyeing Jen and David with suspicion. ‘ Ms. Woolcott is supposed to be the caretaker, not a resident. Anyway.’  He turned back towards Stoughton, and swept his hand expansively through the air.  ‘The library!’

The room could be nothing else. Every wall was covered in shelves, most of which were behind  small doors glazed with leaded lights, their style mirroring that of the hall’s windows; but of books there wasn’t a sign, all that was on the shelves was dust.  The room was a long gallery, with the main entrance by which they had entered in the centre of one of the long walls, the now unshuttered windows on the opposite wall.  At each end of the room  arched doors could be seen, similar to the libraries main doors,  but smaller. The gothic style that was the main theme of the hall was echoed here, only much scaled down, added to which was the fact that the room was constructed entirely of wood. Running along the full length of the wall that held the libraries man doors ran  a colonnade, the neat row of wooden columns supporting a narrow balcony that ran just above their heads, the supported landing giving  access to the higher shelves.

At one end of the room a number of old grey desks and chairs and been stacked up shoulder high.  From several of the lower chairs triangles of grey canvas hung down almost touching the floor, the material having decayed and split long ago. There was little colour in the room with everything muted behind a thick layer of dust.  One of the few patches of brightness was from a number of cards that had been pinned to some of the lower shelves. Most of them had gone yellow and curled up, but on one or two the text could still be made out.  ‘Hut 4’ read one, ‘Encryption’ read another, and ‘Dispersal’ read a third.

‘The library was the centre of the hall’s operations during the war,’ said Phillips from within his folder.

‘Its  impressive,’ said David. ‘Look at the sculpture work on the arches supporting the gallery, it must have taken a hoard of craftsmen years to make.  Even with the dust you can see the entire room is lined with wood.’  He craned his head back.  ‘Even the ceiling.’

‘Quite!’ snapped Phillips.  ‘I think, Mr. Stoughton, that this may be an appropriate point to elaborate further on some of the hall’s more pertinent features. ’ Philips pulled out a sheet of paper from his folder, cleared his throat and started to read.

‘Completed in eighteen-seventy-three for the entrepreneur John Kingston, Monkswell hall was until recently an unknown collaborative example of the work of architect Alfred Waterhouse, with additional designs by Annabelle Kingston.’  Phillips looked up his eyes narrowing as he glanced towards David.  David  smiled back, but resisted the childish urge to wave.

‘The entrepreneurs wife?’  queried Stoughton.

‘Eh,’ said Phillips ‘Sorry, no.. his sister.’ He then continued.

‘‘The hall has a Southerly aspect, and is built on the remains of Monkswell priory, parts of which are believed to date from the twelfth century.  Monkswell hall is of an iron frame construction, and other than its smaller scale, differs little in overall execution from The Natural History Museum in Kensington, Waterhouse’s grander and more well known work.  Both buildings integrate the German Romanesque style, using dramatic arches and towers to great effect.  Monkswell hall is not as richly decorated with zoological and botanical subject matter as The Natural History Museum, the majority of these sculptural works being reserved for the great wrought iron gates that were made at the famous Davies Iron workshops in Wales.’  I’ve no doubt they were would have been most impressive if they had still been there,’ said Phillips pointedly.  Jen and David exchanged knowing glances but said nothing.

‘Amongst the hall’s impressive features is the Great Conservatory. It is based on Turner’s designs for the Palm House at Kew.’  Phillips glanced at Stoughton for a moment. ‘We must take a look a the conservatory after the tower.’

‘Do you think it might be possible not to go into the conservatory Mr. Phillips,’ interrupted Jen.  She didn’t hold out much hope of dissuading him, but Dorothy had asked them to try.

‘And the reason Miss Lea?’

‘Dorothy says she’s been doing research in there, and to enter the conservatory would disturb her work.’

‘Nonsense!’ dismissed Phillips.  ‘I can’t see how looking in the conservatory will disturb anything.  Besides if she has been working in there she must gain access herself.’  He had a point.

‘I think it would be a gallant gesture to the old gal,’ rattled Stoughton moistly.  But I must insist on taking a look.  It’s one of the hall’s main features.’

‘I believe that settles the matter,’ said Phillips.

He turned back to his file and started flipping through the pages again.

‘Now the library… Ah here we are.   ‘Along with the stain glass window, which is believed to have been designed by Annabelle Kingston herself, the library is the hall’s most distinguished feature. The library was originally designed to house an extensive collection of botanical and zoological books.  The books now form part of the Kingston and Weatherfield collection in the General Library at the Natural History Museum.  The room itself is lined entirely with Honduras Mahogany and was created almost exclusively by J. Morris and Son, London.  Most notable;’  Phillips pointed above his head and continued reading, ‘ are the carved ceiling bosses, the trefoil tracery along the balcony of the gallery and the wreathed columns that support not only the  gallery but also the false  vaulted ceiling.  Directly above and central to the library extends the bell tower, although its purpose is simply one of architectural enhancement and is not known to have housed a bell, it does offer fine views across the valley in all directions and was at one time thought to have housed a substantial telescope.’ David looked knowingly towards Jen.

‘Anything else of interest?’ asked Stoughton

Phillips scanned the last few pages.  ‘Not really,’ he said.  ‘It talks of generalities from here.‘ He flipped over  the page.

‘It concludes by saying that;  ‘Monkswell hall is an unusual, but well laid out building, which along with its large estate and comparative isolation would make it ideal for  Ministry requirements.’  The document is dated December fourteenth nineteen-thirty-six.’  He looked up.  ‘It was a summary document when the Ministry of Defence was the War Office and decided to base part of the Intelligence service here before the start of the war.  I suggest that we now take a brief look at the tower and then move on to the Great Conservatory.  Now where is the way up?  Do you have that  floor plan Mr. Stoughton?’

Stoughton took an architect’s drawing from under his arm, looked at it briefly and then turned towards the library’s double doors.

‘There should be a door under the balcony and to the left of the main doors,’ he said.

Everyone peered into the shadows.  Phillips walked over to the library doors and pushed them closed.  Hidden until now behind the left hand door, there was a small arched door.  Phillips reached forward and turned the  brass handle and pulled the  door open. Immediately beyond the door a narrow  staircase started and disappeared upwards. Phillips waved Stoughton forward with a comment of

‘After you.’

As soon as the sound of retreating footsteps and laboured breathing had vanished Jen and David followed them. David went through the doorway first.  Immediately the stairs began to climb in a tight left-hand spiral, and were accompanied by a wooden banister that was polished darkly smooth by countless hands.  The ceiling was low, and the stairs barely wide enough to allow two people to pass.  After a minutes dizzying climb that started to get dustily claustrophobic the air began to freshen, but despite its freshness it had an odd, cloying smell that David suddenly noticed made him  think of the sea, yet it was not the sharp tang of salt, but a heavier cocktail of oil and grease.  And climbing a spiral staircase, strangely this too added to his feeling of  déjà vu. But why the sea?  Then he had it.  As a child on a summer vacation his father had taken him to Boston Light on Little Brewster Island Massachusetts, his first encounter with a lighthouse.  The smell coming down the stairs was that same mixture of fresh air and gear oil and prompted him to think of  heavy machinery and that great lensed lamp. Suddenly David stopped and let out a long whistle.

‘What is it?’  said Jen from behind him.  She prodded his back. ‘Come on  let me in I want to see.’

David ducked though a low doorway and stepped to one side.  Then Jen stepped into the room and gasped.  Before her was Dorothy’s telescope.

‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ said Jen.  ‘She’s… she’s…’

‘Crazy?’  offered David.

‘Certifiable would, I believe, be a more appropriate word Mr. Stone.’

It was Phillips, but for the moment both he and Stoughton were out of sight somewhere on the other side of  the telescope.’

Dorothy’s remark of it being ‘Just a telescope,’ was one of the biggest understatements Jen had ever heard.  Despite knowing about large mountain top telescopes, vast radio telescope arrays, or the incredibly complex Hubbell Space Telescope, the word  ‘Telescope’ always implied simplicity to Jen,  and  in her mind’s eye she had imagined something simple in brass on an ornate stand, turn of the century perhaps, but now before her and taking up over half a room that was at least  twenty feet square, was an enormous sprawling monster that looked more like a wild piece of sculpture than a telescope.  Then, as Jen looked closer, she saw that the thing did have a functional, mechanical feel, but in a heavy clumsy way, rather like a mad fairground attraction from some nightmarish carnival.

As Jen cast her eye about the thing she began to recognised  more and more objects, and could see that the thing was indeed ‘Home- made.’   The main frame of the telescope consisted of  old scaffolding poles, complete with their oddly shaped, almost organic looking joining clamps. There were two, no three, rusty, but still identifiable bicycle frames, and even an old bedstead. All this steel had been brought together and clamped, welded  or tied together to form a giant metal ribcage, then precariously attached to, cradled within, or bolted on top of there was more accumulated junk.  The overall effect was that the machine had an organic, almost cadaverous feel to it, as if some unfortunate creature had been turned inside out, yet still managed to cling onto its internal organs.  Coloured bolts of  wire wove intestinally throughout the rib-cage like structure,  pausing at arterial junctions to be joined by a brightly coloured companion, or in some places the bolt of wiring would split into a fanfare of coloured strands that would disappear into ordered ranks of valves, the glazed regiments bringing a welcome oasis of order into what was an overly complex and impossibly Heath Robinson looking contraption. The reason for the scrap yard outside and the electrical junk in Dorothy’s sitting room was now clear.

Every piece of machinery would only have been discarded after it had been carefully studied and dissected to find the smallest useful component that might be added to this great sprawling mechanism.  It was  the complexity of the machine rather than its size that had taken Jen’s breath,  not that it was insubstantial.  The machine had an obsessive, almost desperate intricacy, and looked more it was as if it had been ‘worried’ into existence rather than built.

Jen continued her survey.  About two thirds the way towards the rear, or what she assumed to the be the rear of the contraption, there was a small platform.  It stood a good three feet from the floor, then as she looked Jen saw that the entire machine was clear of the floor at all but one point.  Here the structure’s entire mass was supported upon a single  cast-iron column, about two feet in diameter.  The column was moist with grease and thick with grime.  Collaring it were several large gears,  globules of black toffee like grease clinging between their teeth, drips of which had accumulated on the floor over so many years that, along with the dirt, it looked to have formed into a single mouldering turf that clung to the  column, making it look for all the world like an iron tree that had put out great thick roots.  Jen then spotted an incongruous patch of bright colour.  It looked like a bunch of flowers.  It was a bunch of flowers!,  but flowers printed on a cushion, and it was not alone, but had several companions, including a warm looking travelling blanket, all of them nestling comfortably in a cane chair that was bolted to the platform.

The chair  was obviously  the seat  the heart of the contraption.  Everything lead either to or from the chair and platform.  Above and in front of the seat and placed at what looked to be a convenient height for a seated occupant was the end of several small pipe like objects, then Jen recognised them. At last, something that said telescope. They were eyepieces.  A couple of them looked to be comparatively modern, perhaps culled from old pairs of binoculars.  The eyepieces were attached to a variety of tubes and boxes.  One of the tubes looked to be an old length of drainpipe.  It was angled down and lead into the confused  depths of the machine, whilst another of the eyepieces lead to ducting that had a box cross-section, its surface a dull grey and made from what looked like aluminum, perhaps part of an old air conditioning system.  The box took a sharp ninety degree turn and went straight up, very much like the periscope of a submarine, again the end of it becoming lost, but this time behind the soldiered ranks of valves.  One of the eyepieces stood out more prominently than the others, and looked to be  of  turned brass, more like the sort of thing Jen had been expecting, the eyepiece of an old telescope;  however, if it was from a telescope then the main body of the instrument was missing and had been replaced by a battered, black metal tube that was about a foot in diameter and from what she could see of it, over six feet long.  It was the only tube that ran directly away from the eyepieces, but like the others its end vanished into the bowels of the machine. Then Jen saw that below the eyepieces there was what looked like a control panel.  It was here that the arterial bolts of wiring that threaded throughout  the machine came together  into a two inch thick cable.  The cable  hung down below the control panel in a great twisted umbilical like loop before  dividing into individual electrical tendrils,  with each  tendril singularly vanishing into a soldered cityscape of electrical components that was the control panels underside.

Standing next to the machine and reaching up to a convenient height  was an old pair of wooden steps.  Jen walked over to them and climbed up the first few rungs for a better look at the working side of the control panel. As she drew level with the panel she started to notice its smell, hot and dusty like an old television that had been left on all night, and as she placed her hand on the panel to steady herself she felt that it was still warm.

The top surface of the panel  consisted of a large square of polished  wood that in places still had the remains of a rectangle of green leather.  It looked to be the remains of a desk.  Screwed to the top edge of the panel was an old desk lamp, in place of the usual long green shade was an improvised one painted black, ensuring the light from the red almond shaped bulb  only shone down onto the panel.

The control panel itself was spilt broadly into three sections.  On the far left was a assortment of old  switches and labels.  Some of the labels were hand written, whilst others had been prised off  a variety of machines and appliances.  Several had printed red ‘Ons’ and black ‘Offs,’ Whilst others read ‘Left’ and ‘Right,’ and were placed next to dials with degrees mounted on them.  What looked to be a ships compass, and  two hand written labels with ‘Inclination,’ and ‘Declination ,’ again next to large dials with degrees marked on them.

The center of the panel was dominated by the innards of six old telephones, left over from the war by the look of them, with the large old fashioned round finger dials.  Two of the dials were brass, with the other four some kind of chromed steel, all of them pitted and tarnished with age.  Only the dials and their associated mechanisms were present, the Bakelite  bodies of the phones, along with their handsets having long since vanished.  All of the dial’s faces were a dirty yellow with age and use, careless fingers dragging around in the holes on two of the dials had left most of the letters and numerals almost hidden behind dark, greasy, circular paths.

On the far right hand side of the desk-top there was part of a patch panel from an old telephone exchange.  A dozen jack-plugs and their twisted grey cables were plugged into various positions across the board, each plug had a hand written label next to it.

The labels read  Calto,  Chandrae, Chandrar, Putan, Mindola Lanthair.  Then Jen saw that on each label there was more writing.  It wasn’t English, but a flowing script, very similar to the script she had seen in David’s diaries.  In fact exactly the same as the script in the diaries!

She turned to call David over, then thought better of it.  Somewhere on the other side of the telescope she could here  Philips and Stoughton and they would also be within ear shot.

Jen climbed back down the steps and walked over to where David was standing.

‘David!’ she whispered.  He dropped his head down to her.

‘You’re not wrong about Dorothy being able to read the diaries.  There are labels on the control panel of that machine, and they’re written in the same script  I’m sure of it.’

David nodded. ‘I knew she was holding something back. ‘ he said. ‘Let’s talk about it when it’s a little more private. Have you noticed the very top of the thing?’

David then pointed to the top of the machine.

Jen followed his arm and saw a child’s ball  perched high on the structure. Puzzled she walked a little further back for a better view.  The ball was not alone.

Supported above the main bulk of ‘The telescope’ on what looked to be an old bed frame, was a forest of rods and poles, these in turn supported several dozen balls of various sizes.  There were two tennis balls, that looked to have been dipped in white-wash, three cricket balls, most of the discarded and cracked population of a snooker table, and two golf balls, and these were just the smaller ones.

Amongst the larger there were three children’s balls, one of which had first caught her attention, and biggest of all a great old copper ballcock, that must have been a good two feet across.  All of them were attached to upright  rods.

Most of the rods looked to be sections of old broom handle, but some of them looked to be custom made steel rod, and holding the ballcock was an elaborate, turned, brass ferrule.  The rods were in turn attached to every kind of wheel, from the smallest castor and wooden pulley,  through to discarded pram, or larger bicycle wheels and cogs.

Again there was the use of bicycle frames to provide support  for the wheels, but all of the wheels were tyre-less, as running in endless loops around them was every kind of belt and chain.  Some of the chains were brown with rust, whilst others where black and well oiled.  Dotted in amongst the balls were  hundreds of light bulbs.

There was something about this part of the machine that seemed familiar.  What was it?  Jen was caught by the look of the old copper ballcock in particular, the patches of verdigris looked for all the world like forested continents, lapped by coppery oceans as if on some distant planet…Planet!

‘It’s a God-damn orrery!’ said David suddenly.

Of course! An orrery; a model of the solar system.

‘That’s only half the story,’ said Jen.  ‘What about the rest of it?  It doesn’t look much like a telescope to me, more like some kind of machine.’

‘And it’s powered.’  The voice this time was Stoughton, but both he and Phillips were still out of sight.

‘That doesn’t come as a surprise,’ said Jen towards the ceiling and starting to make her way around to the far side.  ‘There’s God knows how much wiring on the thing, and if you go close to it, it smells hot, as if its only just been turned off.’

‘Yeah, but where does she get the power from.  I thought you said there was no electricity,’ said David throwing his voice up over the machine and following Jen.

‘There isn’t on this floor,’ said Phillips.  They had by now joined both men on the far side of the machine by one of the tower windows.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘there is a substantial electrical cable coming up from the ground floor.’

Phillips was pointing to the bottom of the window.  One of the glazed lights had been knocked out, and through it came a two inch thick black cable.  It dropped onto the floor and snaked over to the machine before disappearing into a  fluted metal box that was covered in a patina of rust.  On the side of it there was a large metal handle.  The handle was in the down position next to the word ‘Off,’ that had been cast into the surface of the metal case.  A stout and quite new looking padlock passed through the handle and an eyelet on the box which prevented it from being thrown into the ‘On’ position.

Next to the box there was another set steps.  They lead up to the platform and cane chair.  Stoughton was already on the steps and climbing up to the platform.

‘I would advise caution Mr. Stoughton,’ said Phillips.  ‘You’ve no idea how it operates.’

‘Come on guys,’ pleaded David.  ‘Don’t fiddle with it.  The old lady said it’s pretty delicate.’

‘That is rather academic I’m afraid Mr. Stone,’ said Phillips.  ‘All this will have to be dismantled and removed in the next few weeks when Ms. Woolcott vacates the property.’

‘I don’t see how it can be dangerous old boy, ‘ said Stoughton.    ‘Going by the cushions up here I’d say the old gal is at the center of the action so to speak. What did you say it was,  a telescope.’  Stoughton had squeezed himself into the cane chair which was creaking dangerously.

‘You know there’s something odd about this thing if it is a telescope,’ continued Stoughton. He was leaning out of the chair and craning his head towards one of the large tower windows.  ‘If it’s a telescope why mount it indoors like this.  You’re not going to be able to see above you, and not only that, the hall is sited in a valley, the surrounding hillside cuts off  a good quarter of the sky.’

‘Perhaps the old lady is only interested in one specific part of the sky,’ offered David.

‘And why on earth did she make it in the first place?’  said Phillips.  ‘It must have taken her years to build, and what about this supposedly  important work of hers in the conservatory?’

‘Perhaps  she got bored with astronomy,’ said Stoughton.  He was now peering into one of the eyepieces.’

‘Can you see anything?’ asked Phillips.

‘Not a bloody thing,’ said Stoughton who was already trying another eyepiece. ‘Nope, not a bean,’ he  moved on to the third.

‘Hang on a minute, here’s something.  It’s a bit dim, and the image is upside down, but I can see something, yes it looks like; like a plastic ball, yes I can see that idiot bloody ballcock and one of the light bulbs as well.  There’s just one more to try.’  Stoughton put his eye to the old brass eyepiece and turned a knurled dial just below it. ‘Huh!’ he said after only a few moments.  He then squeezed himself out of the chair and climbed back down the ladder.

‘Nothing of interest? said Phillips.

Stoughton shook his head.  ‘It’s just pointing at the old junk yard outside.  Some of it has collapsed.  It looks like a hole has opened up underneath part of it.  Still it’ll be doing us all a favour if it gets rid of some of that junk. Anyway I’ve seen enough.’  He gave one last glance around the room.  ‘A bit of damp coming in through the ceiling, but apart from that it’s pretty solid up here.  The conservatory then Mr. Phillips?’

‘Indeed said Phillips picking up his folder.’  With that the two men walked  briskly around the telescope and clattered noisily back down the stairs.  As soon as the sound of their footsteps had vanished David sprung up the steps, sat down in the cane chair, and planted his eye straight onto the brass eyepiece.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Jen.  ‘Dorothy asked us to keep an eye on those two.’

‘Never mind them!’ dismissed David,  still at the eyepiece.  ‘Christ!  Stoughton’s right.  Part of the scrap that leads into the wood has collapsed.  Yesss!  I can see the edge of a hole, and there are stones, shaped stones running around the bit I can see.’

‘So what’s all the excitement about a bloody hole?’  said Jen irritably.  A  throb had started in her head again, and she wondered if yesterdays’ headache was threatening to return.

David sat back from the eyepiece and turned towards her. ‘I don’t think it is just a hole.  The well.  It’s got to be the well!’

‘The well!  What do you mean the well?’

Both David and Jen physically jumped. The voice was Dorothy’s and  she was standing in the doorway.

Quickly David recovered.

‘Look, I’m sorry Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I was going to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’  The old lady’s eyes had narrowed dangerously.

‘It’s just that you became  so agitated yesterday when I told you about Annabelle’s belt, that  I thought it would be better to leave it until today before I said anymore.’  David then reached into his pocket and pulled out Annabelle’s last letter.  Dorothy, cane in hand,  strode into the room.  David leant down from the platform and gave the letter to her.  She snatched it from him and began reading.  A moment later she gasped.

‘The belt.  Annabelle says she hid the belt in the well when she was running from the police.  That means it’s still here!’  The old lady was shaking, gobbets of spit flying from her mouth as she spoke.             Ignoring the step ladder David jumped to the floor.  ‘Some of the junk outside has  fallen into a hole that’s opened up.  He took the old ladies arm.  ‘It’s edged with shaped stones.  It’s got to be the well!’

Dorothy gasped. ‘You mean….all this time… the belt?’  David was nodding furiously, a big grin on his face.  ‘Can you get to it?’ she spluttered.

‘I think so, ‘ said David.  ‘I took a chance when I first got to England and purchased a load of climbing gear.’

‘Then go!’ said Dorothy.  ‘You have to recover the belt, and quickly.’  David was already halfway to the door.  Suddenly he stopped.

‘What is that thing?’ he said nodding towards the telescope.  ‘It’s more than just a telescope, and there’s writing on it that is the same as the script in the diaries.’

‘There’s no time to explain,’ snapped Dorothy.  ‘Just get the belt!’

David didn’t move.  ‘You knew about the belt and the well all along didn’t you?’

‘Yes yes! There was a loud whack as Dorothy stabbed at the floor with her cane.  ‘I’ll explain later. Just get on with it before those two idiots find out what’s going on.  I take it they don’t’ know,’ she added warily.

‘They’ve got no idea,’ said David.

‘Good. Now go!  Jennifer and I will catch up.’

Suddenly Dorothy noticed there was no sign of Jen.  She was still on the far side of the telescope.

‘Jennifer?’ said Dorothy.

‘I’m here,’ said Jennifer weakly.

‘A moment David, ‘ said Dorothy

‘Are you alright Jennifer?’  Dorothy had started to make her way around the back of the telescope when Jen emerged from behind it.

‘You look very pale my dear.’

‘I’m alright,’ said Jen.

‘Headache again?’

Jen nodded. ‘It’s not too bad.  Have you any aspirin?  Or that drink you gave me yesterday, that would be better.’  At the thought of the drink Jen brightened.

‘You probably just need to rest in the quiet for a while.  David you go on.  I’ll see Jen down to my study and then join you.’

‘Are you sure you’re going to be alright Jen?  said David  taking a step back into the room.

Jen waved him away.  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, but she had started to wince, and was shading her eyes from the sun which, now the clouds had broken, was starting to shine in through one of the tower windows.  ‘Go and get this belt of yours.’  David hesitated a  look of concern on his face.  ‘Go on go!’ repeated Jen.  ‘I’ll be alright.’

‘Well, ok,’ he said.  ‘If your sure you’ll be alright.’  With that he ducked through the doorway and was gone.

‘Can you make it down to the study my dear?’ said Dorothy turning back to Jen.

‘Yes I’ll be ok.  I’ll be fine once I’ve sat down for a while.’

To Jen the next few minutes seemed to last an age, the pain in her head had become a heavy black throb, and for the last few yards she kept her eyes shut and let Dorothy lead her. On reaching her study Dorothy guided her into a chair and then turned and locked the door.

‘To keep those two out,’ she said, but  at that moment Jen didn’t care what the old lady was doing.

Jen then felt a  hand on her forehead. She managed a weak smile and opened her eyes.

‘That feels lovely and cool,’ she said.

Dorothy returned her smile, but her eyes were troubled.  ‘It’s getting worse isn’t it.’ she said.

‘I didn’t want to say, but yes it is,’ she said Jen thickly.

Dorothy then got up and turned to the kitchen door.  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said,  opening the door and  passing through.  Again the fragrant, perfumed smell of fruit wafted out of the kitchen.  It smelt more delicious  than ever.  Before she knew it Jen was on her feet and walking unsteadily towards the kitchen.  At that moment Dorothy was in the doorway with a small tray in her hand.  On it was a plate and what looked like a  piece of fruit cake, and next to the plate a glassful of the steaming golden liquid.  Jen’s eyes went straight to the glass, but she stopped short at reaching for it.

Dorothy took one look at Jen and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Sit back down,’ she said quietly.  ‘I’ve brought you some more.’

Jen sat, the thought of the drink completely filling her mind and boring a hole through the veil of pain that was now hammering in head.  She could quite literally see a light at the end of a long, black, thumping tunnel, and it was a deep honey gold.

Dorothy brought the glass up to Jen’s mouth.  The moment the liquid touched her lips Jen’s entire being focused on  one sensation. Taste!  She drank greedily, the sweet draft filling her mind, a golden warmth flooding through her body. Jen brought her hands up to Dorothy’s, not noticing the old lady pushing against them as she fought not to loose control of the glass as Jen tried to tip the contents too quickly into her mouth. Like before, as soon as the warm sweet liquid glided  down her throat Jen felt the pain in her head immediately begin to ebb away.  As the last of the liquid flowed from the glass Jen opened her eyes and sat back,  her thirst was sated.

‘It’s gone.’  It was a statement and came not from Jen, but Dorothy.

Jen drew a great sigh of contentment.  ‘Yes, ‘ she said dreamily, closing her eyes and relaxing back into the chair.  Dorothy drew a great heavy sigh and sat down opposite her.

Neither woman spoke for several minutes, then Jen blinked her eyes back open and sat up.  She felt refreshed, as if she had just stepped from a luxuriant bath, or as if she had just awoken from a deep restful sleep on a bright spring morning.

Dorothy was on the edge of her chair, and for the last few minutes hadn’t taken her eyes from Jen.

Jen smiled.  ‘You really ought to sell that stuff  and make your fortune, ‘ she said.

Dorothy smiled again but her eyes were still troubled.  She took the plate with the morsel of cake on it and offered it to Jen.

Jen shook her head.  ‘I’m not at all hungry.’ The plate stayed where it was.

‘You didn’t eat  anything last night did you,’ said Dorothy.

‘Not really. I couldn’t even drink any orange juice this morning.  Everything seems to taste really bitter.’

The old lady sighed again.  ‘Well you ought to eat something.  The cake is a little more homemade medicine that’s all.’

Jen once again looked at the plate  and felt her throat tighten.  She really didn’t want to eat anything at all. At that  that moment there was a fierce knocking at the door.

‘Ms.  Woolcott!’ said a muffled voice. It was Phillips.  ‘I must insist you open the conservatory to us immediately.’

Dorothy turned towards the door. ‘I’ll be right there Mr. Phillips.’ she said.

There was  no sound of footsteps walking away.

‘I assure you that I’m coming Mr. Phillips,’ she added tersely,  ‘I’m attending to Jennifer, she’s not very well, and standing out there in the dark will not make me go any faster.’

From behind the door came a sigh followed by a muffled ‘Very well,’ and the sound of  retreating footsteps.

Dorothy put down the plate and turned back to Jen. ‘I’d better see to those two.  The sooner they’re satisfied the sooner we’ll be rid of them.’

‘I’m fine now,’ said Jen. ‘You go on.  It’ll be nice just to sit in the quiet for a while.’

Dorothy nodded, took one last look at Jen and squeezed her hand, then she  picked up her cane and left, closing the door behind her.

Jen let out a contented sigh and settled back into the chair.  She couldn’t believe it. Starting to get headaches now at her age.  She was nearly thirty years old, and headaches were something she’d never suffered from before, not to any great extent anyway.  Still the cure was very pleasurable.  Jen ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth  trying to eke out the last residue of taste.  She still couldn’t quite place the flavour.  Strawberries, or peaches in syrup seemed to be closest, but without the sticky, cloying sweetness she would usually have associated with the fruit.  It was also odd that she liked it, she didn’t normally  have a sweet tooth, never-the-less  it was wonderful whatever it was.

She could feel the draft still working, the migraine had vanished and wasn’t even a memory now, it was as if unseen hands had slipped into her head and in a few deft strokes expertly massaged her mind free of pain.  But there was still  the question as to why she had got the headache in the first place?  And why it kept coming back, that was worrying.  It had started yesterday with her waking up on the study floor. There was something about that that still bothered her.  As  she thought of the incident she felt her mind  once again filling  with the those blue within blue eyes.  Suddenly she could see the  figure in the painting, and  there was that terrible sense of loss again.

‘Stop it!’  Jen said the words out loud.  She then  sat up and opened her eyes. ‘Don’t start that again,’ she muttered.  ‘Don’t’ bring that bloody headache back on.’  As if to remind her a feint throb settled on the edge of her consciousness and like a black crow it eyed her spitefully.

Just relax.  Forget eyes, paintings, sisters or any of it and just let Dorothy’s medicine do its work.  Jen then  looked down at the small piece of cake that Dorothy had offered her. She had said it was  more medicine.  Perhaps she should try and eat it, the drink had worked so well after all.

Reluctantly she picked up the plate.  Immediately  she felt her mouth go dry.  But the cake was barely more than a mouthful. She sniffed  and looked at it more closely.  It looked just ordinary fruit cake.  Ignoring her dry throat Jen popped the cake into her mouth and started to chew.  It is fruit cake she thought. I can taste the almonds.  She continued to chew, and chew; and chew.   She couldn’t bring herself to swallow, the cake was just going around and around in her mouth.  Slowly her stomach started to knot. Jen ignored it and kept chewing, she was just too hungry that was all.  All of a sudden the taste in her mouth became bitter, very bitter, her throat  tightened, and there was a tingling sensation  in her mouth, as if it was full of tin foil that was shorting out on her teeth.

Suddenly Jen gagged and the half chewed lump of cake exploded out of her mouth and sprayed across the room. Her arms shot out in panic, knocking the plate and glass flying, she couldn’t breathe!  Suddenly her strength vanished and she slumped limply back into the chair. She felt like she was drowning, colour evaporated from the room, a tingling grey mist creeping into her vision.  She was looking down a tunnel, the room a distorted dome at the end of it.  She, or somebody she knew, was going to pass out, then as if aware that this other person had taken a strangled breath the grey clouds receded and Jen found herself slumped back in the chair and breathing heavily.  A  sweat had broken out on her face and neck, she could feel a cold bead of it running down onto her chest.  Now she was breathing easily, however there was still that metallic taste in her mouth.

‘Jesus!’ said Jen weakly.  She took a deep breath and tried to relax but she was badly shaken. ‘What the hell was that? Poison?’  Instantly the  word stabbed into her mind like a thorn.

Poison!

Then she could smell the pungent pharmaceutical smell that said ‘dispensary’ in a chemists shop, she could see the blue Victorian  bottles that she had always found so very attractive and only recently discovered were old poison bottles.  Toxic.  Hazardous to health.  Do not ingest; Poison.  Dorothy  had tried to poison her!

‘Don’t be so stupid,’  muttered Jen to herself. ‘Why on earth would she try and poison me.  It doesn’t make sense, and with David and the others around she would never get away with it.  But then the others weren’t around and Dorothy had  locked them in.

‘No, I don’t believe it,’  said Jen jumping to her feet and fighting hard to quash a growing panic. Why would she want to poison me?’

Suddenly she noticed she was at  Dorothy’s bookshelf and remembered her open personnel file.  Dorothy had reacted strangely at the sight of her file. Perhaps it might explain some of this.

Who cares! Squealed her mind, now on the edge of bolting.  Get out, just get out!

‘No,’ said Jen .  ‘I could be mistaken.’

Now where was that file?  David had found it on the right hand side of the bookshelf behind a box of shopping.  The box was still there.  Jen lifted it up,  then paused; it was too light, and the lid was closed.  She put the box back down and opened the lid.  The groceries were gone, and in the bottom of the box was a clean white cloth laid over something.  Jen  removed the cloth and revealed an old enamel kidney dish, the type that used to be used  in doctor’s surgeries or hospitals.  In the dish and still sealed in their sterile packaging there was a surgical wipe, a syringe, a sample tube, and some plasters.  There was hand writing on the sample tube.  Jen picked it up and read,  ‘ Jennifer Anne Lea, day two and the date.’

It was a dream.

Jen was still curled up in bed.  Tomorrow was Sunday, at least she could have a lie in.  Then later she would pop across town and see Mosey, it would be the first time she had seen her in nearly two months.  She could tell her about this awful dream.  How Mosey had died and that her mother had committed suicide; she could tell her about her sister, the hall, Dorothy, the diaries; a very elaborate dream that was rapidly turning into a nightmare.  Reading her own name on a test-tube was just the culmination of her brains nocturnal machinations, and at any moment the alarm clock would go off.

It didn’t.

‘Oh fuck…’   She was still looking at her name on the sample tube.

Instantly every nightmare terror that she had ever imagined poured into her head.  She had been kidding herself.  The painting and the figure was nothing.  The blue eyes she had been dreaming about for all these years, meaningless.  The vanishment of her sister and Mosey cutting all contact with Dorothy suddenly made sense.

At that moment a low rumble came up through the floor. Brief but unmistakable it was another earth tremor and at that moment Jen’s nerve failed.

Run!  Get out, just get out.  Get to David, Phillips, Stoughton, any of them, just don’t stay here.

Panic!  She dropped the tube and dashed to the study door,  jerked down the handle and pulled.  Her hand flew from it and she staggered back.  The door hadn’t opened.  She tried again, this time leaning into the door.  It didn’t budge.  She was locked in!

Poison!   The word wormed deeper into her brain.

She’s going to kill you!

Jen slapped at the door with her hand, but it  did little but make her palm sting.

‘Dorothy, please,‘ she shouted, suddenly noticing how weak and thin her voice sounded.  ‘Let me out you’re frightening me.’

‘Stop panicking!’ squeaked a voice, but it was barely heard, trying as it was to shoe-horn its way into a mind that was rapidly being infected with terror and had little room for reason.

‘Listen to me!’ said the voice again.  Jen tried to block out the panic and listen.

‘You’re younger,’ continued the voice, ‘younger, bigger and stronger than Dorothy.’  Now the voice had her attention. ‘Just keep her at a distance and you’ll be ok.  If it was poison you’d be dead by now.  Try the other door.  There may be a way out through the kitchen.’

With renewed strength Jen dived across the room to the other door and hauled on the handle but again it was locked. There was another rumble, stronger this time. A trickle of dust poured down from the ceiling.  Jen threw herself at the door.  There was a splintering crunch and a handful of plaster fell on her head.  Startled she looked up but the plaster had fallen from the frame around the door, not the ceiling, and the frame along with the door had been forced further into the wall.

‘LET!’  shouted Jen and threw herself at the door. Her shoulder blued in pain but she ignored it.

‘ME!’ Another  jolt of impact, followed by more dust, this time the shock sent something smashing to the floor in the next room.

‘OUT!  Jen stepped back from the door and charged.

In medieval castles, in long forgotten ancient Egyptian burial chambers, even at the bottom of swamps; timber had been found, all of it as strong as the day it was felled, but timber that was only a century old, and almost completely devoured by dry rot and neglect was no match for Jen’s light, but fear driven frame.  The door, the frame, and a good portion of the wall burst into the kitchen and crashed to the floor.

For a few dazed moments  Jen sprawled across the shattered remains of the door, the earth tremor dying away.  Then she picked herself up and gasped at the chaotic mess that was the kitchen.  It wasn’t so much a kitchen, but a laboratory. To one side of the room  and spreading itself from floor, to table, to rusting gas cooker, and finally to an old stained enamel sink was another of Dorothy’s homemade contraptions. This one looked to be some kind of still.

Jen shook herself. You were going to get out here, remember!

‘In a moment,’ said Jen.  Her success with the door had given her new courage and like the telescope the still had aroused her curiosity.

The still had a visceral feel to it, with tubes and plumbing being the dominant theme. Its highest point was an old galvanized bath tub that was atop a crudely made wooden tower that held the tub a good eight feet up in the air.

Various  hoses ran up to and from the bath, including one from a tap on the sink.  On the tub’s underside the hoses  lead down  to a large collection of objects that  consisted of anything that could contain liquid.  There were,  tins, glasses, wine bottles, buckets, both metal and plastic, teapots, saucepans,  a kettle and even an old hot water bottle.  All of them were taped,  placed on top of or  nestling inside one another, and joining them all together was a plumbed maze of tubes and hoses.

Some of the  hoses were joined to the containers by rusty, but still effective Jubilee clips, whilst others were held in place by  wads of sticky tape or by lengths of dirty cloth that was bound and held in place with wire.  Nearly every joint dripped liquid, some like the regular pulse of a clock, whilst others fidgeted drops out erratically. At the spout of an old watering can a single drop expanded for an age like precious jewel  before dropping with  a heavy plop  into a rusting tin that was placed in a strategic position.

The jamboree of containers and tubing spread out across the table to the cooker.  Here a single thin rubber hose stretched out a tentative limb to the base of a near ceiling  high structure that stood on the cooker and was made  entirely of copper and steel. The object was a veritable tower and consisted of pans of various sizes that had been soldered together along their lips  to form layer after layer of enclosed vessels.

At the base of the towers a conjoined set of  pans a good two feet in diameter spread out over all four of the cookers burners.  The burners were alight, but barely. On top of  this cauldron like base there was a second, but smaller pair of soldered  saucepans, and on so on up and up, with each layer of containers decreasing in size, until  finally only a single tin can  sat alone atop this culinary pagoda.  From here  sprouted three hoses. Two of  the hoses lead up to the base of the tin bath, whilst a third and crowning tube sprang out of the top of the can and dived down, finally falling exhausted into the cracked sink where every few seconds it would belch weakly and disgorge a dribble of green residue that would then slide reluctantly down the plug hole.

The sink was stained an unsavory greenish brown, and from it  came the heavy smell of over ripe fruit, similar to the golden drink, except here in the kitchen it was stronger, and had a more of a fermented tang like rotting vegetables.  Steam hissed from the copper pagoda every few seconds, which along with the dripping of the contraptions joints and the  shudder of the tube vomiting into the sink, gave the impression that the whole thing was alive.

On a small table in the middle of the room there was a leather case, it was open, and the internal velvet once a rich purple was now long faded and in places stained brown.  The case contained  a miniature set of scales, the type that could be used for measuring very small quantities such as drugs…, such as drugs!

Suddenly Dorothy’ strange mood swings, her see-saw appearance, all of it now made sense.  The woman had to be an addict.  It must be why she was so reluctant to allow anyone into the conservatory.  It was probably packed with the base plants of whatever drug she was distilling.  No wonder she was so reluctant to leave.  Suddenly Jen wondered what was in the drink that Dorothy had given her.  Again the word poison pushed its way  to the front of her mind. Yet as she recalled the taste she knew that nothing could taste that sweet and be poison.

Then if it wasn’t  poison what was it?  said the panicked voice once again trying to force its way to the front of her mind.  And why the syringe and sample tube?

Suddenly Jen recalled  Dorothy’s books  on  the  Nazis and her mind filled with grainy images of  Auschwitz,  Jewish prisoners and  strange unspeakable experiments.

Get out!  Just get out!

‘No!’  shouted Jen with an effort.  ‘I will not panic. It won’t do any good.’

For the moment  panic was pushed to one side, but it continued to mutter pitifully, then Jen saw another door in the corner of the room and began walking briskly towards it.

At that moment  the  pagoda gave out a low shuddering groan  like an old central heating  system, this was followed by a loud hiss of escaping steam  and a gurgling in the bath tub.

Resisting the urge to run Jen continued on towards the door.  Then just as suddenly  the hissing and  gurgling stopped.  Just as she put her hand on the door handle a luxuriant perfumed  smell washed over her. A moment later Jen found herself breathing in deeply, trying to taste the delicious fruity smell that now permeated the room.

Too late part of her mind screamed a last  desperate warning. The old lady is trying to kill you !

Jen laughed and took in another  lung-full of the sweet air.  Don’t be ridiculous, she thought.  Why on earth would Dorothy try  and kill me, she’s my God-mother, it doesn’t’ make sense. In fact none of it made sense, only the  taste of that wonderful drink. Suddenly Jen felt thirsty, incredibly thirsty.  The most insatiable thirst she had ever known.  He mind once again filled with the thought of drinking that golden liquid. Already she could feel its smooth warmth soothing her parched throat. If she drank just a little more everything would become clear.

What!  Screamed her mind again. You don’t know what the hell it is. Poison, a drug; the syringe, remember.

Once again panic tried to haul  horrific images before her mind,  but rapidly they all disappeared into a  fragrant golden mist until  Jen was left with only one thought.  To drink. She turned from the door and literally followed her nose.  At the lowest point on the still the smell was strongest, and here she found a small brass tap, the end of it encrusted with a sugar like substance.  She snapped off a little and tasted it.  It was the drink residue alright, but although it had the sweetness it lacked something.  She then spotted  a relatively clean glass, picked it up and held it under the tap, all the while her mind screaming the foolishness of what she was doing.   A last desperate thought pleaded with her to walk away, but it had no chance now, drowned out in a golden wave of desire.   Jen turned on the tap.  Somewhere in the bowels of the still there was a shudder and a belch, followed by the delicious perfumed smell of fruit, then a slow thick stream of golden liquid ran into the glass. When there was just about a mouthful  Jen impatiently shut off the tap and lifted the glass to her lips.  Immediately the taste seized control of her mind and drove away every thought but one.

More!

Chapter 6. The Monk’s Folly.

…and then the constables were upon us and all I could do was run.  If it hadn’t been for the tree branch I would have run straight into the well. It was when I fell that I decided to throw the belt in the well.  What choice did I have? Without it he would die. Did he die?

Norman is so like John, and  I know John blamed  me  for all that has  happened. God help me, can I never be free of the guilt!.

A.K. May 1st 1943

 

Outside the hall David saw Jen into passenger seat and then crossed around to the driver’s side. Before he climbed in he looked over his shoulder. It was rapidly getting dark.  Beyond the valley the sun had was setting and as he looked, a last bead of gold melted off  the valleys distant  western edge, and allowed  a deep purple shadow to settle over the hall.   Dorothy was already back in her sitting room and waved to them form the open window before closing both it and the shutter.  It had been the only warm patch of colour in the deepening gloom, and now that it was gone the hall suddenly lost its quaint shabby appearance, the ivy that covered the ground floor  seeming to thicken and tighten its grip as if to reclaim the hall from the present world  and pull it deeper into the forest.

David shivered, jumped into his side of the car and drove off.  Almost immediately the car passed under the trees and into a deepening darkness. He flipped on the headlights.

From the corner of his eye he could see Jen’s eyes sparkling in the reflected light. She was looking at him.

‘Are you ok?’ he said, glancing towards her.

Jen jumped.  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’

David shrugged. ‘That’s ok.’ he said and returned his attention to the road.

‘You’ve got blue eyes haven’t you?’ said Jen.

David laughed.  ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘You’ve got a real thing about blue eyes!’

‘I can’t seem to get them out of my head.’ said Jen.  The really strange thing is they make me feel incredibly sad, but I don’t know why as I can’t seem to look at them, more sense that they are there, if you get what I mean.  Every time I try and look at them a grey fuzzy ball rolls into my mind and tries to push me away.’

‘Weird! You know you really ought to see a doctor tomorrow.  You might have banged your head when you fell.’

‘I’m fine. Besides it’s Sunday.’

‘What’s that got to do with it? There must be a doctor in the village surely.’

Jen laughed.  ‘You don’t know England very well.  If there is one he’s probably off playing cricket or golf somewhere.  If we were in a large town we might  find one, but there’s no need, I feel fine now.’

‘Well…ok,’ said David glancing nervously towards her.  ‘It’s your head.’

They had come to the end of the lane at the edge of the estate.  He indicated and then turned onto the main road.  For a while neither of them spoke.

Jen glanced towards him again.  He definitely had blue eyes she thought.  But his complexion was dark, almost Latin,  his hair black.  Now black hair with blue eyes, that was  unusual, but it did make for a very attractive combination, and now she thought of it she could smell his cologne on herself where he had picked her up.  God he was handsome!  Now if I’ve got brown eyes and red hair, and he has blue eyes and black hair, and if we had children, what would they look like…?

‘What are you thinking about?’ said David suddenly.

Jen coughed. ‘Oh…er…Annabelle,’ she lied.  The truth was far too embarrassing.

‘What about her,’ said David a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, not much,’ said Jen. ‘I was just thinking about some of the things Phillips said about her. I thought he said she was an anthropologist.’

‘More of a naturalist I think,’ said David.

Jen picked up the new thread.  ‘This argument she had with Darwin.  Is there anymore on that in her diaries.’

‘Not really, she’s very brief about it. Why?’

‘Just curious?’

‘Sounds more like professional interest to me?’

‘Actually yes; well sort of.’

‘Really?  I was joking. What do you do?

‘I’m an anthropologist. Well a Cultural Anthropologist to be exact.’

David dropped a gear as they came to a hill.

‘Yeah?’ he said.  ‘You know you could be a great help in finding the belt, I know you guys love digging about in the dirt.  Have you ever tried to find the-‘

Jen cut him off. ‘Don’t even go there!’ she said, but in the dark was smiling.

‘What? said David with mock innocence.  ‘What did I say?’

Jen’s eyes narrowed, but with humour.  ‘I’m an Anthropologist, not an Archaeologist. Please, no daft references to the Lost Ark…or the Holy Grail.’

David looked away from the road and grinned.

‘I wasn’t about to, honestly.’

‘Yeah, right. I hate going on digs, I always end up in the muddiest hole and getting rained on.  That’s how I got into anthropology; less mud.’

‘I know how that feels,’  said David.  ‘I got roped into stock car racing for a season.  Spending weekends freezing my arse off in the rain never struck me as much fun either.’

‘Really?  You struck me as quite the adventurous type.’

David smiled.  ‘Not really. When I was younger I tried joining the army, but I didn’t last more than a month, and up until a few years ago I hadn’t even been hiking.’

‘What do you do to earn a crust then?’ said Jen.

‘I used to be an antiques dealer.’

‘Ahh.  That makes sense.  Now I can see your enthusiasm for that tea-caddy of yours.’  Jen paused. ‘Used to be?’

‘I lost my business,’ said David grimly, his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.  ‘And my wife.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Jen, but at the same time feeling a guilty spurt of excitement at the news that he was single.

David glanced back from the road again.

‘I didn’t mean to give that impression,’ he said.  He dipped the lights as a car passed.

‘She’s not dead.  I’m divorced.  Anyway it’s my own fault, losing my wife and business I mean.  Booze and gambling.  But that was years ago.  I only have the occasional beer now, and only play cards for bottle caps.’

Divorced. Again Jen felt her heart jump and take on that ridiculous school girl quickening.

‘So Dorothy,’ she said, quickly changing the subject.  ‘She’s a pretty strange old lady.’

‘No shit!’ said David.  ‘You know, I still think she locked us in. Where did she think we were going to go.’

‘That was strange; if she did lock us in that is.’

‘The whole place is strange.  What is all that junk outside about?’

In the dark Jen shrugged.  ‘You know when I was out there with Phillips I spotted part of some iron gates the used to be at entrance to the estate.  I noticed they were missing when I first got here.  Phillips picked up on that and said that as Dorothy’s the caretaker, criminal action might have to be brought against her if they’re not recovered.’

‘That would never stand up in court.  It sounds more like Phillips trying to get the old lady to leave.’

‘I thought it sounded a bit thin.’

‘There’s something screwy about this whole place and Dorothy!’

‘I’m surprised you left your diaries with her. If she finds out where the well is she’ll probably spend the night trying to find it.’

‘She’ll be OK.  The well isn’t mentioned in the diaries, but in one of Annabelle’s letters to Norman, which I’ve kept.  I wasn’t about to show it to Dorothy with the state she’s in.  She’d break her neck if she tried to find the well in the dark.’

‘But what about Annabelle’s coded entries? Dorothy said she might be able to decode them, and if she does she might find the wells location.’

David shrugged. ‘I don’t care how clever she is,’ he said.  ‘There’s hundreds of pages of code.  Even if she can decipher it, it would take days her days, if not weeks to get through it all.  She’ll never do it in one night.’

‘Then why did you loan her the diaries?’

‘Where are they going to go?  If anything when Dorothy asked me to leave them I was more worried about what she would do if I took them away.  I could hardly say no.’

‘No I suppose not,’ said Jen.  ‘There’s definitely something strange about her. It’s like she’s got a constant battle going on; almost like she’s schizophrenic.’

‘She’s one complicated old lady.  Perhaps we’ll learn more tomorrow.  Anyway we’re back.’

They had driven clear of the tress, and now up ahead were the first lights of the village.

It was nearly dark when David turned into the car park at the Greenman and parked in the last available space.  Some of the drinkers had spilled out from the pub onto the benches outside and were enjoying the warm spring evening.

Before Jen had released her seat belt David had sprung from the car and dashed around to her door and opened it.

‘I say,’ she said, ‘very gallant,’  David gave a mock bow and took her hand.  He smiled but only briefly.

‘You still look rather pale,’ he said.  Jen wrinkled her nose.

‘Ok the real truth is that I didn’t want to get sued if you fell out of the car.’  Jen saw the twinkle in his eye and prodded him in the ribs.

‘You ruined the moment beautifully.,’ she said and stood up. ‘Honestly I’m fine.  Just a little tired that’s all.’  She stifled a yawn and then breathed in deeply.  The air was cool and  sweet and had a clean damp smell of early dew settling.   In the deepening twilight clouds of midges drifted in the air like patches of rain, attracting  swifts that dived and swooped above their heads, their shrill calls echoing off the buildings as they hunted for their supper.

To the east a large golden harvest moon had cleared the edge of the valley,  pushing through a thin tattered veil of cloud. Despite the cloud Jen could  make out every detail on the moons surface, easily seeing beyond the melancholy man-in-the-moon,  to  some of the smaller craters and mountains.

Suddenly from the back of the pub came the sound of a clattering whack followed by a cheer.  As they stepped around the car David looked questioningly at Jen.

‘Skittles,’ she said to David’s puzzled look. ‘Like bowling only smaller.’

This satisfied him. A moment later a large figure emerged from the pub and came puffing across the car park.  It was the pub landlord.  He stopped at the edge of the road looking one way and then the other, hands on hips, a look of annoyance on his face.

‘Hello Bill,’ said David. ‘Lost something?’

‘Oh, hello Mr. Stone,’ said the landlord distractedly, and then seeing Jen, ‘and to you Miss Lea.  Yes I have lost something.  That dratted dog of mine.  He often goes wandering about, but not normally at this time, and the wife’s nagging me about how old he is. I’m not that young either I said, but she didn’t take any notice, and I’ve got a pub full of people so I haven’t got time to go traipsing around the countryside after that bloody animal.’

‘He can’t have got far,’ volunteered Jen as they walked over to join him.  ‘Yes.  Look, there he is at the end of the lane.’

‘Where I can’t see him., ‘ said the landlord peering up the lane.

‘There.’ Jen pointed. ‘Under the willow tree by the pond.’

Both David and the landlord squinted into the darkness.

‘I can’t see a thing,’ said David.

‘Nor can I,’ added the landlord.  ‘But there again he’s black as pitch.’

‘He’s right there,’ insisted Jen.  ‘I’m amazed you can’t see him.  He stands out quite clearly and is looking straight at us.’

The landlord squinted again.  ‘No,’ he said.  ‘I definitely can’t see him!. Mind you my eye-sight’s not what it was, neither’s my hearing for that matter. Ahh! Now wait a minute.’  The landlord then dug into his pocket and pulled out a small metal cylinder.

‘My wife brought me this only last week.  A dog whistle.  He put it to his lips and blew.

‘Jen looked surprised.  ‘I can hear that,’ she said.  ‘I thought most people couldn’t?’

‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ said David.

‘Nor me, but like I said my hearing isn’t what it was.  Perhaps it didn’t  work?’  The landlord peered down the whistle and then blew on it again.

Jen winced.  ‘I can definitely hear that.’

A moment later, and from where she had been pointing a large black dog sprung clear of the trees, and with surprising speed sprinted straight up the middle of the lane and dashed into the car park, spraying gravel in all directions as he jumped up at them  his tail lashing  with pleasure.

‘Yes, yes Buster. It’s nice to see you too,’ said the landlord grabbing his collar before he could run off again.  ‘Come on you old bugger.’  The landlord turned, and with the dog in-tow started to make his way back to the pub.

‘Oh by the way,’ he said over his shoulder.  ‘That Phillips bloke has been asking after you two.  I don’t know what you’ve done but he looks none too pleased.’  With that he disappeared back into the pub.

‘I suppose my shutting  the window on him this afternoon did nothing for his humour,’ said David.

‘He’s probably desperate to know if I managed to talk Dorothy into leaving,’ said Jen. ‘And I forgot to get her to sign for her file.’

‘That’s ok.’ David and patted his pocket.  ‘I got Dorothy to do that whilst you were getting your bag.

Suddenly Jen swayed slightly and stepped back.

‘Are you ok?’ said David reaching out to steady her.

Jen blinked, then folded her arms and shivered.  ‘Yes I’m all right,’ she said.  ‘Just a little chilled that’s all.’

David took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. ‘I wonder if your going down with the flu or something, and that fall has not done you any good.  You ought to go straight to bed.’

Jen smiled weakly.  ‘I could do with something to eat first, although I can’t say I fancy being in amongst all that smoke and noise.’

David put his arm round her shoulder and picked up his rucksack.  ‘I’m sure the landlord can find a quiet spot for dinner, and if we’re lucky we may avoid Phillips.’

Five minutes later, and having not seen anything of Phillips they ducked into the pubs lounge.  Luckily it was empty with everyone else preferring the noisy bustle of the Public Bar and skittle alley.

The lounge was a small, snug room, with the same twisted beams and low ceiling that ran throughout the rest of the building. There was the smell of old wood-smoke and home cooking, and the room contained half a dozen small four seater tables.  By the fire there was a high-backed lounge chair. Unlike the worn flagstones in the bar, the floor in this room was carpeted.  One wall was dominated by a  fireplace that had a small made-up, but unlit fire with Buster sprawling lazily before it.  Hanging on the opposite wall was a section of what looked like an old painting.

‘That looks like a Giotto,’ said David, putting down his rucksack and crossing to the painting, whilst Jen made herself comfortable in the lounge chair by the fire.

‘Painter?’ asked Jen.

David nodded.

‘Don’t tell me you’re an art expert as well.

David shook his head.  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘I can recognise a handful of artists but that’s about it.

The picture had been painted onto a wooden panel four feet wide by about two-and-a-half feet high, and consisted of six vertical oak planks that were a good half-inch thick, and was contained in a simple and more modern looking  frame that was attached firmly to the wall.

Most of the painting could still be seen, but in places it had suffered considerably, especially around the edges and corners of the panel which had succumbed to attack by wood-worm and dry rot, the decay softening the panels overall shape.  Most of the planks were pretty much intact, however the bottom quarter of two of the planks had disappeared completely, and a large section, about a third  was missing from the right-hand lower corner, giving the  impression that the planks hung down in the frame like so many uneven, rotten teeth.  However the wood-worm and dry rot was not recent, and looked to have been ‘cured’ some time ago.

The pictures general composition was of  several independent but linked looking scenes, each scene consisting of several people, and a variety of ‘church-like’ buildings in varying states of repair. The main subject of the picture was a central dominating  figure giving the impression that the  painting was really a portrait, and that the collected scenes around it rather incidental.. David was taken straight to the figures eyes.   They were very dark, almost black, yet even through the layers of dirt David fancied they looked an intense blue.

The figure had beautiful, finely chiselled features that gave the face a serene almost Madonna like quality, its bone white, flawless skin not having even the vaguest hint of flesh tone that brushed the faded faces of the pictures other figures, leaving David with the impression that this was how the face had originally been painted; frighteningly stark.  Framing the face was, what at first he thought to be a mane of fine gold hair, but on looking closer he realised it was a great mass of undulating orange, yellow flame.  Yet all this demonic touch  did was emphasise the  faces serenity. At first David thought it was a woman, a very beautiful woman, but then  it could easily be a man; or was it a boy?  As to its age he couldn’t vaguely guess,  the strange but beautiful face giving nothing away.  He turned his attention to the figures clothes, they were heavily luxuriant, and dominated by a great blue-black sable  cloak that flowed  from the figures shoulders.  As for  the cut of the  rest of the clothes it was difficult to tell .  They could be doublet and hose, possibly Italian Renaissance in style, but the clothes were as black as the cloak, dark within dark, and were only revealed in places by a constellation of gold embroidery. One item on the figure did stand out noticeably.  At the figures waist and peeking out from beneath the folds of the cloak was an elaborate golden belt.

‘What the..’ muttered David his nose now only inches from the panel.  He dug his hands into his pockets and  pulled out Annabelle’s drawing, looked at it and then looked back at the painting.  The painted belt was too small to see any real detail, but the overall shape, especially around the buckle matched Annabelle’s drawing exactly.  Quickly he stuffed the letter back into his pocket and turned his attention to the rest of the picture.

Other than the face of the central figure, the rest of picture was predominantly dark with  little in the way of bright colours, the whole thing being covered in the grime of centuries that gave the  picture an overall grim yellow-brown hue. In places, especially around the panels edges and along  dark splits that had appeared between the planking, the  paint  had flaked off completely, allowing  the bare wood to show through.

Some of the pigments had faded badly, some colours  more than others;  reds having faded most, and in places having disappeared completely, especially from the faces of  what could be seen of the pictures remaining dozen or so figures, leaving one or two of them with  pale, ghostly  almost green complexions. Blues and greens had survived better, but they were still difficult to see as not only was the picture dark from the dirt of several centuries, but it was also a painting of a series of events that looked to have taken place at night.  Behind the main figures head there was a scattering of brighter points of yellow-white paint  that David thought must be stars.

The stars peeked out from  behind what at first looked like lightly scumbled regularly shaped clouds, but then as he looked closer David saw that the clouds were too regular in shape, they looked for all the world like… like moons. He counted them, they were a variety of sizes,  two of them barely an inch across, the biggest nearly a foot, and there were five of them in all.  Why five moons?

David  then moved his attention toward  the mid-ground of the painting.  Here there was a low band of green-brown looking smudges that looked like trees, but again very little detail could be made out due to the darkness of the picture.

The band of smudges broadly cut the picture into thirds, the top third being sky, containing the strange collection of moons, whilst the remaining two-thirds contained individual  tableau’s that were gathered together on either side of the main figure. What little  perspective there was looked to be all over the place, the rules having been completely ignored, or more likely not yet discovered. Of course! That would date it, thought David. That would place the painting sometime around the fourteenth century if not earlier.

David continued his examination.  In front and slightly below these trees, but still very much part of the background, was the first of a series of five stone circles. Immediately he thought of the stone circle up at the hall.   Within each of the circles and in a differing stage of being built, or perhaps of being knocked down, he couldn’t tell which, was the low ‘church like’ buildings. Also in each of these circles there was also a group of riders mounted on horses.  For a moment David had the impression that they were warring American Indians, the buildings in each circle huddled together like wagon trains.  Then through the dirt he saw that all the horses were white, and all of the riders had long great flowing black robes and heads aflame,  just like the main figure.

He moved on.  Each subsequent circle was similar, containing the flaming riders and the buildings, except as the crude perspective made each circle slightly bigger, the buildings contained within became more and more ruined.  However in the fifth and last circle which  disappeared behind the central figure, the building was split in two,  the figure standing in between the two halves,  in a great crack.

David now found himself looking at the foreground to the left and right of the figure.  Here the remaining scenes took place.

On the far left there was a lone individual.  He was crouching on the ground next to a group of rocks, from which flowed a spring.  On the ground next to him was a cross, staff, and what David supposed be a bible, as the figure was hooded like a monk or priest.  The next scene contained the same person, this time he was waving his hands in the air, and looked as if he were directing  half a dozen similarly dressed figures who were constructing a building. Next to this was a completed version of the building.  Through the buildings open doors could be seen figures, monks he supposed, at prayer.

The scenes continued on the right side of the central figure.  Here the next scene was of a group of monks,  most of them cut off at the waist, as this portion of the painting was where most of the planking  had disappeared.  Some of them looked to be praying, whilst others were stooping down and repairing a low section of circular wall that looked like it might be part of…,of a well. Of a well!

For a second time David’s stomach flipped over.   It definitely looked like a well. The last scene was missing, in it’s place a gap where the plank had rotted away.  He completed his examination at the bottom of the panel.  Written across the width of the painting were  several lines of  hand-written script.  It was barely legible, and in places sections were missing as it passed across the gaps of  missing planking.

David tried to read the first few words of the script out loud.  ‘’Insipi… Insipi-entia-mona-chorum…. ‘Insipientia monachorum’.’  He looked towards Jen.  ‘?’ ‘Any ideas?’ he said.

‘Latin by the sound of it,’ said Jen. ‘My Latin’s pretty rusty.  Monks mistake I think is the general translation.

‘The Monks Folly’  corrected a voice.  ‘Fourteenth century that is.’

David looked up.  The voice came from a large ruddy faced woman, her cheery Devon accent curling around her words unmistakably.  She had to be the landlord’s wife.

‘Mary’s my name, ‘ she said.   She had just entered the room and was carrying a tray of cutlery and china.  She nodded towards the picture.

‘My Bill made the frame for it. Found it at the back of the cellar only a few years ago we did.  Creepy old thing, especially the fella in the front, a handsome chap, but his eyes follow you if you know what I mean.  Still Bill likes it and it does have a certain old world charm to it.’  She crossed the room, nodded a greeting to Jen and then started to lay one of the corner tables.’

‘What’s it about ?’  said David turning back to the painting, ‘There’s so much going on.’

‘It’s a series of scenes from a  poem  called ‘The Monks Folly.  It’s a local legend,  my Bill will be able to tell you more about it.  In the background you can see  the old priory in various stages of being built and falling down, or being pulled down, supposedly by that fellow and  his demons,  as the legend would have it.  That chap in black was supposed to have appeared one night and demanded the Monks remove the priory.  Built it in his stone circle or some such.  The ruins of it can still be seen up on the Monkswell estate.’

‘What are the monks doing here,’ said David  pointing to the damaged sections.

The woman looked up and squinted.

‘Digging  a well in that bit I think.  It’s how the village got its name Monks-well.  Obvious really.  After the fellow in the front appeared  they kept running out of water. Like I said Bill can tell you more if you’re interested, bit of a  hobby of his, local history and the like, that and talking of course.  Still you can’t expect much else running a pub… there you are!’  The woman stepped back from setting the table.

‘You can sit up as soon as you’re ready.’

Jen got up from her chair and crossed to the table, as she stepped around Buster, the dog  raised his head and growled.

‘Buster!  You cut that out you old bugger!’ said the woman.  The noise ceased abruptly, the dog lowering his head back onto his paws.

‘Take no notice of him. I’m sorry if you’re feeling a bit rough Miss, my Bill  said he thought you looked a bit unwell.  You rest  quiet whilst I fix you’re supper.’  The landlady smiled.  It was a broad generous smile, at ease with itself and others.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jen and sat down at the table.

‘Married long?’ whispered the woman leaning forward and winking conspiratorially.

‘Sorry?’

‘You two been married long?’

Jen laughed.  ‘We’re not a couple actually.’

‘No? Well you look like one, go together well you do.’

David overheard this and turned from the panting with a big grin on his face. The landlady had her back to him, but over her shoulder he pulled a face at Jen, trying hard to  catch her eye.  Jen looked away quickly  before she laughed.  David then left the panel and walked over to join them, stepping around Buster and  patting his  head as he went. He  sat down at the table.

‘The well,’ said David looking towards the painting once again. ‘Does anyone know where it is?’

The landlady shook her head. ‘I think it was filled in, or fell in donkeys years ago.  To be honest I don’t really know.’   From her apron the woman pulled a small pad and pencil.

‘Now.’ she said. ‘Let’s start with the drinks.  What would you like? We’ve got some good beers brewed right here  in the village, there’s Greenman; that’s got a distinctive hoppy taste,  Maiden’s Sorrow’  The landlady then smiled, and glanced out of the window, ‘Or if you fancy seeing more than one moon tonight we’ve got Monk’s Ale or Five moons;  they’re the strong ones.’

‘Five moons?’ said David glancing back towards the panel. Did I see five moons in the painting?

‘You did,’ said the landlady. ‘ Bill’l, tell you more about that if you’re interested.  Try a pint of it.’

David looked doubtful.

‘Spirits?’ offered the landlady. ‘Whisky, vodka…?’

‘Just a coke thanks.’

The landlady turned to Jen, paused, then clasped her pad and pen under her large bosom like a scolding matron, her eyes sparkled.

‘And you should be in bed,’ she said.

Meanwhile Buster started to chew on another  mumbling growl.  The landlady shot him a look and he swallowed it grumpily.

She turned back to Jen. Jen returned her smile. ‘I’m just a little chilled that’s all.’

‘Let me get you one of my ‘Winter Bracers’. My Bill swears by ‘em when he’s got a touch of the flu.  It’s got  honey,  lemon,  a little red wine, a hint of brandy, and a smidge of cinnamon, served piping hot. That’ll warm you up’

‘That’ll be lovely. Thanks.’

‘Now, what would you like to eat?’

‘Steak?’ said David none too hopeful.

‘No steak I’m afraid, I can do you a burger.’

‘Ok.’

The landlady scribbled on her pad.  ‘Chips, or rather “Fries?” she said playfully.

‘Please,’ said David

‘Side salad or vegetables?’

‘Salad please.’

‘And you Miss, what’ll you have?’

‘I’ll have the same,’ said Jen wanly.

‘You poor old thing,’ said the landlady kindly. ‘Get my Winter Bracer inside you and you’ll feel better.’

Suddenly Buster stood up and looked straight at Jen and started to growl again, loudly now, the fur  stiffening along his back.

‘Right you, out you go!’  The Landlady stepped across the room and grabbed his collar. ‘I’m sorry about him, he’s not usually this cantankerous. I’ll get Bill to pop back  in with your drinks.’ With that she left the room taking the dog with her. Just after she shut the door  Jen burst out laughing.  Rapidly her laughter turned into coughing.

David held up his hands, his face open. ‘What?’ he said innocently, ‘What’s so funny?  Her thinking we’re married?’

Jen shook her head and then between laughs and coughs managed to get control of herself.

‘It’s not that.  You should’ve seen the look on your face when she said about the well being filled in.  I thought you were going to burst.’

David smiled. ‘I hope it isn’t. If  we’re lucky the landlord might  know where it is,  then  we’re nearly there.’

‘Possibly, and with a great deal of digging by the sound of it.’

‘Let’s hope not. Anyway…’ David got to his feet and went back to the painting.

‘Come and look at this. He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out Annabelle’s drawing again and pointed to the golden belt in the picture.  ‘The belt is  exactly the same as the one in Annabelle’s drawing I’m sure of it. Also, I think this painting is at least four hundred years old.  If the figure is wearing Annabelle’s belt, then it is a lot older than I thought.  What do you think?

Jen didn’t answer.

He looked up from the painting to find her standing just behind him, her eyes fixed on the figure.

‘Annabelle’s drawing…,’  he said again.  ‘It’s the same.’

‘Huh,’  said Jen distractedly taking a step closer to the picture.

‘I think it’s the belt in the picture… Jen are you ok?’

Again Jen didn’t reply, but lifted her hand and as if to caress the painted face.

‘I know this face she said.’  Her eyes narrowed as she tried to search her memory.  Suddenly she jumped back, turned to the table  and grabbed a napkin from it.  Swiftly she stepped back to the painting, licked the end of the napkin, which she had pulled over one of her fingers, and rubbed at the eyes.

‘Jen!’ hissed David.

‘It’s ok, I’m not hurting it, look the dirt’s coming off.

Where she had been rubbing Jen had indeed created a clean band right across the eyes.  The effect was alarming.  The clean strip intensified the effect that they eyes were studying them, but now with an almost predatory detachment, yet at the same time they looked incredibly sad.  Even with most of the dirt removed they still looked very dark, but now t David could  see that they were definitely blue.

Jen shivered.  ‘Isn’t he beautiful.’

‘He?’ said David.  I thought it was a woman.’

‘No, I’m sure it’s a he.’ Jen took a deep shuddering sigh. ‘But he’s gone!’  Her voice had started to crack.

‘Jen, stop it!’ said David only half joking.  ‘You’re scaring me.’

‘So beautiful,’ said Jen wistfully, her voice cracking now as tears welled up in her eyes.

‘Cut it out!’ said David grabbing her shoulders and spinning her away from the picture.

Jen brought her hands up and cupped her face in her hands, for a moment David thought she would burst into tears, but she pulled them slowly across her eyes as if trying to wake up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.  ‘I felt so peculiar for a moment.’  She went to turn back to the picture, but David stopped her.

‘Then don’t look at it,’ he said and took her  by the arm and  guided her back to the table and sat her down.  This time with the picture behind her.  He then sat opposite her and gave the picture a wary look.

‘You look pale,’ he said.

‘My heads throbbing a little, but I think it’ll pass.’  On the table was a jug of water and a pair of glasses.  Jen poured herself a little and sipped it.

At that moment the door to the room opened. David looked over Jen’s shoulder expecting to see the landlord with their drinks, but it was Phillips. He looked as if something unpleasant was fermenting in his mouth

‘Deep breath,’ whispered David to Jen who had her back to the door. ‘It’s Phillips.’ He then stood up and stepped around the table.

‘Hello Mr. Phillips,’ he said and smiled. ‘Drink?’

Phillips paused, looked at him as if he were mad, and then broke into one of his hideous grins.

‘Hiding?’ he said acidly.

‘What!’ said David

‘Why should we be hiding?’ said Jen

‘I asked the landlord to convey a simple message, and  that was that I would like to speak with you.  Either the publican is more of an idiot than he appears or you ignored this simple request.’

David went rigid  ‘Look pal-’ Before he could finish a swift kick from Jen caught him on the back of the calf.

‘I take it that there is some sort of explanation as to why you so rudely shut me out this afternoon?’ continued Phillips.  Through some odd quirk of nature Phillips was managing to articulate his words without moving his face. The hideous grin had remained unmoving for the entire question.

‘Dorothy was very tired,’ offered David.

‘But not too tired for the two of you to spend another good few hours ensconced in her company.’

‘How long  we choose to stay in Dorothy’s company has nothing to do with you Mr. Phillips,’ said Jen. ‘I’ve done what I can but as I said earlier this afternoon we have other personal business with her.  We’re not here for your convenience.’

‘We?’ said Phillips. The hideous grin still in place. ‘I thought the two of you were rather comfortable together.’

Before he could speak another kick landed on David’s leg.

Jen tried to keep her tone low and sound reasonable, but found she was talking through her teeth.

‘Look Mr. Phillips  Dorothy sends apologies, and says to  assure you she will let you into the hall tomorrow morning around nine.’

‘And not too soon,’  said Phillips, ‘and I’m sure  Ms. Woodcut’s co-operation will be looked on favourably when the authorities arrive.’

‘What do you mean?’

Phillips sickening grimace evaporated.  His lips becoming thin and spiteful. ‘I mean Miss Lea, that I am now  unacceptably behind schedule.  The surveyor arrived earlier this afternoon, and could have done a considerable amount of work if you had but let us in.  I have been assaulted twice, and am now out of patience.  Consequently I have filed a formal complaint with the police.’

‘But I thought-’

‘Look Dorothy’s really sorry about her behaviour,’ interjected David quickly. ‘She will apologise to you.  She’s signed for her file and says she’ll buy you a new suit.’ David whipped the signed form out of his pocket and gave it to Phillips, who received it distastefully.

‘This is not just about an item of clothing Mr. Stone,’ he said.  ‘I nearly lost an eye this afternoon,’  Phillips’s voice had taken on a tremor.  ‘I have had enough of Ms. Woolcott’s unreasonable behaviour, and of you and Ms. Lea’s play acting.   I can see straight through you’re thin charade, you are obviously not here to purchase the hall, but to delay my entry to the building for your own purposes.  The hall will be sold, and the police and social services will ensure Ms. Woolcott does co-operate.’ He paused, turning his flat, colourless eyes on Jen.  ‘I am hereby giving the both of  you formal notice not to return to the hall.  You will be trespassing on Government property.’

Unblinking, Jen returned his stare. ‘If we don’t return to the hall tomorrow Dorothy will not let you in and you will be back where you started.’  She paused, her own eyes hard. ‘What  is it they call you?’ she said  icily.  ‘A Civil Servant. I think you’d better remember what you are. You can start by being more civil!’

What little colour Phillips had drained from his face. For a moment he lost control of his eyelids.  They fluttered desperately as if, along with his eyebrows, they wanted to  fly off and, leave the rest of his face to cope with the situation alone.  Suddenly the lids flew back open, revealing eyes that had no pupil.  For a second Jen thought he was going to explode, but for a long moment nothing happened, his eyes drilling into her, then once more, his hideous egg swallowing grin returned. ‘Until tomorrow then,’ he said simply, then turned on his heel and left.

David let out a deep breath. ‘God that man’s a creep! I’m not surprised Dorothy keeps trying to kill him.’

‘You didn’t help!’ snapped Jen.

‘Wha… Yeah right,’ said David leaning down and rubbing the back of his leg. ‘Way to go!’

Jen leant on her elbows and massaged her temples.   ’I’m sorry,’ she said.  ‘It’s not your fault.  I just couldn’t help myself.’

‘I don’t blame you..  He’d probably called the cops already.  Although I think  that parting shot of yours really pissed him off.’

David then  sat down.  Just as he did so the door opened again.  This time it was the landlord. He backed into the room and turned towards them.  He was carrying  a tray of drinks.

‘Sorry I took so long,’ he said. ‘There’s a hell of crowd in the house tonight.’ He slid the tray onto the table. ‘I saw that Phillips bloke a moment ago.’

‘He’s just been in to see us,’ said David.

‘I don’t know what you said to him, but he looked very unhappy. Weird sort. Looks like he can be nasty with it.  Still it takes all sorts I suppose.’

David and Jen exchanged knowing glances, then  David stood up and crossed back to the painting.

‘I’ve been looking at your old picture,’ he said. ‘The Monk’s Folly.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the landlord.

‘It looks  interesting. Your wife said you  might be able to tell me a little more about it.  She said it’s about the monks  building the old  priory and digging a well…’

‘Aye that’s right.  The landlord placed the drinks on the table and then took away the tray and stood up.

‘Cursed it is that place. Bits of the priory kept falling down, collapsed completely in the end it did, and the well never gave water for more that a few months at a time. It’s part of how the village got its name.‘

‘What was the monks mistake, their ‘folly’ I mean.  I tried reading the inscription at the bottom, but it’s impossible to read.  What is it? Latin.’

The landlord nodded. ‘It’s part of a poem called the Muneches Jest.  We had a scholar come through here once, he translated  what could be read of it. The landlord walked over to the painting.  Broadly speaking the woman in the front  destroyed the priory.

‘Woman?’ It’s a man surely,’ said Jen cautiously, and without looking directly at the picture.

‘It’s a woman I’m sure, although it’s funny you should say that.  I think it’s a woman, but you take my Mary, she thinks it’s a bloke as well. In general  most lady’s that sees it think it’s a gentleman, and most gentlemen thinks it’s a lady.’ The landlord shook his head. ‘Strange that is.’

‘Who is the figure anyway,’ pressed David.’

‘Ah, well, Satan himself  the monks thought, although others say  the creature was Eve returned, as in ‘Adam and Eve,’ returned to earth in the form of an angel and come to punish the wicked prior. Handsome creature whoever they were…’ the landlords voice drifted off again as he gazed at the figure.

‘There’s a lot going on?’  said David.

‘Hmm, what,’ said the landlord as if shaking himself  out of a dream.

‘I said there’s a lot going on. It’s quite a complicated picture. Can you guide me through it.’

‘Oh, right yes. Starting here on the left,’ the landlord pointed. ‘We’ve got the original friar.  Randy old sod by all accounts, a bit too fond of the ladies he was,  so as a penance he was sent out by his abbot to start a new priory in the West country, anyhow this friar came across the spring and  ancient stone circle.  Well he thinks, what an ideal site to build the priory. Fresh sweet water, and plenty of building  material, in the form of stone circles,  there were several of them back then. An ideal place, he thinks. He would be spreading the gospel, and destroying a heathen place of worship in one fell swoop.’

‘Why did he build it right  in the middle of the circle?’  said David.

‘It used to be common back then, especially,  just after the Romans left,’  said the landlord. ‘There’s old stone circles with churches and villages built in the middle of them all over the country.  An effort to quash old  heathen beliefs I believe. There’s Averbuy ring in Wiltshire. That circle’s got a road and an entire village running through the middle of it.  And there’s  St. Paul’s cathedral in London,  the medieval one, not the one built by old Christopher Wren, that was built on top of a circle as well.’

The landlord turned back to the painting.   ‘Anyhow off goes the friar, to  gather  more members of his order and together they sets to smashing up the stones and building the priory.

Hundreds of monks there were at one time, all of ‘em busy as badgers.   After a few years there’s only one circle left, and smack in the middle of it their nice new priory, although why they didn’t smash up the last circle is a mystery.

For  years they live peaceable enough until one  moonlit night and out of thin air charges this figure. Mounted on a bone white horse she is, her and her company, all of them dressed in a great finery, their heads aflame with the very fires of hell.  They come bursting in on the monks right in the middle of matins.

Well at this all the monks flee in terror, there’s only one  left standing to face them, the friar who had founded the priory, and who by now was the Prior.  He curses them and throws holy water and an iron cross at them,  in a flash and a deafening clap of thunder  they vanish.

The  next day the monks return, and the prior, tells them how he has cast out the demons, and how they need not be afraid. However there is now a great crack in the wall of the priory, and before they can do anything about it part of one wall collapses.  At that same moment the spring suddenly dries up.

Well our prior is not about to leave,  so he sets the monks to repairing the priory and digging a well on the site of the now dry spring.  A week later they gets deep enough to reach the water. Everything’s fine for a time,  a year and a day, as far as the legend goes, but then the riders  return  there is another fight with the monks, which leads to more of the priory falling down.

‘This place is  cursed!’ cry all the monks. ‘The evil one is amongst us, flee.’’

‘‘We cannot leave,’ says the prior, ‘We will not be beaten by the agents of Satan. God will  prevail here.’ The monks weren’t convinced, the riders kept appearing; every year it would happen, each attack and accompanying earthquake more violent than the last, until in the end there was only the prior and a few of his most loyal monks left.

On the fifth and last time the riders appeared the sky was supposed to have been filled with moons, there was an earthquake that was so violent that it brought what was left of the priory crashing down.  Apparently that very same night not only did the earthquake bring the priory down, but sent the prior tumbling down his own well.  It’s said that he was  never heard to hit the bottom, but went straight to hell. The day after the spring appeared again, but down here just outside the village, where it’s flowed to this day.’ Pleased with his story the landlord the stood back and wiped his hands on his apron as if expecting a round of applause.

‘You mentioned earthquakes’ said Jen.

‘Aye, we had a tremor today, they happen every so often.’

‘Can the old well still be found?’ said David.

‘Old Stan Gamgee said something about it still being there between the wars, but I think the military filled it in when the government took it over in the thirties.  It’s gone now so it can’t have been bottomless as the tale says.  Nobody has seen nary a sign for donkeys years.’

‘Is he still alive? ‘Old Stan,’’ said David hopefully.

‘No.’ laughed the landlord. ‘He was known as ‘Old Stan’ when I was a young ‘un, and that was a fair time ago.  No I doubt if there’s anyone around now that’ll know where it is.  You seem very interested in it.  I take it you’re after the buried treasure.’

‘Treasure?’ said David trying to sound nonchalant.  ‘What treasure?’

‘It turned out the prior was a corrupt old bugger, not only had he continued to have secret ‘carnal’ relations with some of the village women, but he’d been making himself rich on the backs of the villagers and the priory.  Had a big purse of gold on him when he fell in the well.   The treasure’s supposed to still be resting there. When I first hung the painting old Dorothy used to come and look at it from time to time, and I asked her if she’d ever tried to look for the treasure. Nearly bit my head off she did, told me not to be so stupid.  Anyhow nothing’s ever been found.’

‘It would be nice to find the treasure,’ laughed David nervously and giving  a quick side long look at Jen, but her face remained unchanged as she sipped at her drink.  ‘I’m just curious that’s all. It’s a strange picture though.  Who painted it?’

‘One of the monks,’ said the landlord.

‘That doesn’t sound right,’ said David.  ‘If one of the monks painted it, why give so much prominence to the one responsible for the destruction of the priory, and the death of the prior.  It all seems the wrong way round.  Usually the most important figure is the biggest.  I thought that would have been the Prior.’

‘Ahh, now.  The rumour is that one of the novices fell in love with Satan, this figure, had ‘relations’ so the story goes.  It was him that painted the picture.  By all accounts it drove him insane.‘

‘That could account for all the moons in the sky,‘ said David.

‘Could be,’ said the landlord.  But the legend says they did appear, five of ‘em in all.

‘Why five?’

‘The tale says  that  when the priory finally collapsed five moons appeared in the sky, yet another version of the story says the riders appeared every year for five years until the  priory fell down.  It may be that the moons just date the events in some way.’  The landlord laughed.  ‘ I don’t think you have to look much further than the monks themselves to see the reason the priory kept falling down, or why they kept seeing more than one moon.  Earth tremors, subsidence and beer!  That’s my theory.  The monks had a reputation for brewing a very potent ale.   Strong stuff it was.   We still brew some of it locally, based on their old recipes.  Hence ‘Monks Ale and  ‘Five Moons.’

‘Did anyone discover who the figure really was?’  said Jen.

The landlord shrugged again.  ‘There’s all sorts of rumours about, her, him…. it,’ stumbled the landlord.  ‘Like I was saying  some stories say the figure was the original Eve returned, others say  Adam, yet another tale says the figure is Satan himself and he and can still be seen riding through the forest on moonlit nights on a great white horse.

‘A white horse?’ said Jen. ‘I saw a beautiful white stallion this afternoon .’

‘On the estate?’ said the landlord.

Jen nodded.

‘That’s the one,’ said the landlord with a twinkle in his eye.  ‘Did you catch him, if you did he’ll give you wishes; or carry you off into the realms of hell.’

‘What?’ said David.

‘I’m only joking,’ chuckled the landlord.  ‘Miss Lea has seen just one of the wild horses of the valley.  Very rare they are, ever so shy.  You’re lucky to have seen it.  On it’s own I expect.

Jen nodded.  A beautiful animal. She smiled.  ‘And this is supposed to be the same animal.’

According to legend at any rate.’  The landlord nodded towards the painting.  One story says the figure is a fairy, the original Greenman. That’s how the pub got its name.  Once the monks had gone it was said the figure would pop up every so often and  kidnap wicked  children and carry em off to hell.  Come to think of it  bad luck  has befallen anyone that’s ever come into contact with that  old circle.  There was some chap who owned the hall at the turn of the century,  his child was supposed to have gone missing, then there’s old Dorothy,  her child was rumoured to have been stolen in the forties. How she lives up there on her own I don’t know.  It was supposed to have happened even more recently.  A pair of little girls who disappeared in the seventies. They found one of girls alive and a child’s body. Not long after it was found  the body was stolen from the village surgery, they thought the girls mother did it, that was back in nineteen sev-‘

‘Bill!’  said a voice sharply.  The door to the room had opened again.  It was the landlord’s wife.  She  smiled an apology at Jen and David. ‘Stop jawing and lend a hand, old George has got behind the bar and is helping himself, and Busters got out again.’

The landlord raised his eyes to the ceiling, in silent prayer.  ‘I’d better get on, I’ll get Mary to bring in your food as soon as it’s ready.’ With that he left.

David turned back to the table.  Jen was massaging her temples again.

‘Is you’re headache back?’ he said.

Jen shook her head.  ‘No, no it’s not that, it’s the last thing the landlord said.’

‘What, Dorothy’s child?  I wondered about that but didn’t dare ask her? said David. ‘Although all this stuff about demons kidnapping children is a bit thin.’

‘I would agree with you, but now I’m not so sure.’

‘What! Oh come on Jen.  It’s a great tale, the sort of stuff Hollywood would love but let’s get real here.’

‘Actually it’s the reason I came to see Dorothy.  Those children the landlord was referring to;  the sisters, one found alive the other missing, assumed murdered, well that was my…my sister.’

David’s eyes widened. ‘Oh hell!… hey, look I’m sorry if I; that is…‘

‘It’s ok,’ said Jen waiving away his embarrassment.

‘That’s the reason why Dorothy fell out with my grandmother.  My grandmother blamed her for the disappearance of my sister and for the death of my mother.

‘I’m very sorry .’ said David.

Jen gave a thin smile ‘That’s ok, , and besides she’s not dead, my sister I mean.

‘No?’ said David looking puzzled.

Jen shook her head.  ‘I’m certain of it.  I don’t know why, something inside me knows she’s still alive.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ said David gently. ‘Didn’t the landlord say there was a body.’

‘Yes but he also said it disappeared.’  Supposedly taken by my mother, but it was never re-recovered.’

‘No…,’ said David tentatively,  ‘but  that doesn’t seem much to go on.’

‘No it’s not, not on its own, but don’t you see. Now we discover that Dorothy’s  own child went missing, it might explain why she is so reluctant to leave the hall. Added to that you’ve got  John Kingston’s son as well.’

‘It’s just a set of coincidence that’s all,’ said David. ‘And they’re decades, if not a century  apart.’

‘I know it’s all very tenuous, but inside I can feel my sister. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever been certain of in my life.’   Her eyes poured pleadingly into David’s.  She desperately needed him to believe. Suddenly she felt something flutter inside.  Was it a flicker of doubt? Was she just kidding herself?  This story of the landlord’s was pretty fantastic.  What if she was just desperate not to face a terrible truth?  But no, it wasn’t denial, her sister was still alive and burning brightly inside her was that certainty. She wasn’t blind to the facts, as overwhelming as they were, they simply weren’t the facts!.

David held her gaze for a while longer and then dropped his eyes.

‘We’ll stranger things have happened I suppose,’ he said. ‘ But if she’s still alive then where is she?

Jen shook her head  ‘I don’t know.  But I do know where to start. What with everything that’s happened today I didn’t dare press Dorothy anymore on the matter, but I’m sure she’s the key.   When I spoke to her earlier  I asked her about the letters she wrote to my grandmother.  Immediately she started to back-pedal on them, saying how at the time she was convinced that my mother didn’t hurt my sister, but now twenty-five  years later she has her doubts.  But even as she said it I knew she was lying.  She knows a lot more about  what happened than she’s saying I’m certain , but how I’m going to get her to tell me I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps when all this screwing around with Phillips is over with she might be more willing to open up.’

‘I hope so,’ sighed Jen.  ‘I just hope Dorothy can weather it, she’s pretty old.  She told me she was eighty-four this year.’

‘Well she looks pretty fit for her age, well at times she does, if you know what I mean.. But at other times she seems to age suddenly, it’s almost as if  she’s older than she is in some kinda way.’

Jen nodded. ‘I noticed that, it’s weird.’  She then looked into space.  ‘It’s as if …’  Suddenly she turned to David.  ‘Have you noticed her eyes.’

David shrugged.  ‘Not really.’ Then it dawned on him.  ‘Don’t tell me, they’re blue.’

Jen nodded.

‘What is it with you and blue eyes?’

‘All my life I’ve been having the same dream, it varies a little, but essentially it’s always the same.  I’m wandering through a tangled wood or forest, looking for someone, for part of myself. I always end up at a  lake, looking in the water.  As I look I see my own reflection.  It’s only now that I’ve  I found out about my sister that it’s started to make sense.  Except now when I come to the pool I don’t see myself, but a pair of blue eyes looking back at me.’

Suddenly her own eyes went wide and she jumped out of her seat.  Before David could stop her she had leapt across the room to the painting.  She paused. Suddenly she was afraid. She kept her eyes at the figures feet , steeled herself  and then slowly lifted her eyes up the body, past the golden belt and onto the face, not stopping until she once more held those blue within blue eyes.  Slowly like the returning of a black tide she felt grief creep up on her,  but this time she returned the gaze unflinchingly.   For a moment she thought the tide would overwhelm her, but as she tried to push down on it, a voice suddenly spoke inside.  ‘It’s not real, it’s a trick an illusion…’ as the voice tailed off, and like a fresh wind that blows away a morning mist the grief suddenly evaporated and was gone. Jen found herself looking at nothing more than a dusty old painting.

‘My sister is alive,’ she said quietly, ‘And it’s got something to do with Dorothy and  this figure.’

Chapter 5 David Stone

…and then everything went wrong. First the police arrived with a warrant for John’s arrest, then one of the Fae took Nicholas. I shall never forget the look of hatred as John bore down on him. I thought he would kill the Fae for certain, but all he did was cut off his Chaegnon, take his belt and go after his Nicholas. I just pray he made it.
A.K. October 24th 1897

Age had fallen heavily on the old lady. She looked frail, dazed, like a wounded bird that had flown blindly into a window. Confusion played across her face, her eyes darting wildly about the room torn somewhere between fear, and hope. Finally they came to rest on the hitch-hiker. He had returned from the window and was crouching before her.
‘Are you ok now Ms. Woolcott,’ he said.
For a moment there was a brief struggle in the old ladies eyes, then she relaxed, her eyes looking into his for a long moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally, her voice trembling with emotion. She dropped her eyes to the floor. ‘You’re being very kind to a cantankerous, bitter old woman, who ought to no better.’ She looked back up. ‘Call me Dorothy,’ she said, and smiled.
‘David, David Stone,’ said David and stood up. He then offered his hand to Jen who was standing at Dorothy’s shoulder.
Jen looked at it suspiciously, then realised how churlish it would be not to accept it, especially in the light of Dorothy’s reaction. She took it.
‘Jennifer Lea… Jen.’
David’s handshake was firm and dry, and Jen was pleasantly surprised to find there was attempt at the ridiculous crushing grip that most men insisted upon. For someone that was looking to buy a stately home he didn’t look very wealthy, in fact he looked as if he had walked all the way from America. It wasn’t that he was dirty, more that his clothes were on the edge of being threadbare, as if they were the only clothes he possessed and had been washed too many times. The collar of his blue plaid shirt was washed almost white. His sheep-skin-leather ‘bomber’ jacket cracked and travel worn, whilst his large, bulging orange rucksack sun bleached. However, for all his clothes worn appearance the man’s dark Latin face had a youthful freshness, yet he was old enough to have a few lines of character, especially around his eyes, which were a deep brown, almost black, and twinkled mischievously. Jen thought he looked a little older than her, mid-thirties at a guess, although his shock of jet black hair had no hint of grey. She caught his scent as he took her hand, freshly laundered clothes overlaid with a subtle cologne which spoke of pine trees and deep forests, and as she looked into his eyes Jen felt her heart give a ridiculous school girl quickening. She coughed and took back her hand.
‘Are you ok now Dorothy?’ she said turning away from David. ‘Do you want me to make you a tea or something.’
Dorothy’s colour had returned and she was sitting more upright in her chair.
‘I’m fine thank you dear,’ she said, ‘perhaps later for tea. Mr.Stone, pull over another chair would you, and then the both of you can sit down.’
David turned to the table that was balancing the typewriter, and from one side pulled out another of the dining room chairs. After turning it towards Dorothy he sat down. Jen returned to her seat.
‘David. Please call me David.’
‘Very well, said Dorothy. ‘Now; you were saying that you have Norman’s last letter for me. How did you come by it?’
‘Norman was my great-uncle. If you two had married you would have been my great-aunt.’
‘Your saying Norman Sutherland, my Norman…’ Dorothy’s voice faltered ‘…is your great-uncle.’
David nodded. ‘That’s right Ma’am.’
The old ladies eyes rimmed. She closed them and paused for a long moment. When she reopened them her voice was once again steady. ‘And that you have his last letter for me.
‘Not just his last letter to you, but all your letters to him.’ David pulled his rucksack over and opened it. From it, he took out a small bundle of letters. It was tied neatly with string and had little tufts of paper sticking out here and there where some of the envelopes had been torn open untidily.
‘I’ve read them I’m afraid,’ he said as he handed them to Dorothy. ‘Reading them helped me find you.’
The old lady took the bundle as if receiving the sacrament and for a long while said nothing, just sitting with her thoughts and turning the little parcel over in her hands. Then she looked up and began to study David’s face, hunting for a link with the man she had lost. She smiled. ‘Norman was all slick hair and white teeth and called me Ma’am when we first met as well. He used to wear one of those bomber jackets all the time. She looked down at the bundle of letters. ‘He only used to come to the hall once a month. That’s why we wrote to one another so often.’
‘Love at first sight with a dashing young pilot?’ said David and smiled.
Dorothy laughed, her eyes sparkling. ‘Actually we despised one another the first time we met, and for a long time all we did was trade insults, but then, I can’t remember how it came about, I challenged him to a game of chess, which I won! That’s what kept him coming back. Norman hated loosing, and I beat him nearly every time we played.’
‘What did he fly?’ said David.
Dorothy shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could talk about then. I never asked, and he never volunteered anything, although I don’t think he was a pilot, more a navigator or something. He was part of U.S. air force intelligence.’ She paused, her smile pushing back the time. ‘He looked so handsome in his uniform.’
‘They were happy times then, despite the war?’ said Jen.
‘Oh yes,’ said Dorothy dreamily. ‘The hall was too far out of the way to worry about air raids, and at times it seemed impossible that a war was going on at all. But then every so often the reality of it would come crashing back. Most months one of us would loose someone, more often than not it was a husband, brother or sweet heart away fighting.’ Dorothy’s face darkened. ‘Or sometimes from an air-raid back home.’ She let out a deep sigh, the parcel of letters once again turning in her hands. ‘I lost both my parents towards the end of the war. They were killed in an air-raid on Coventry in the summer of nineteen-forty-four.’
She looked at Jen. ‘That’s when I started to become close to both Norman and your grandmother.’
‘Mosey knew Norman as well?’
Dorothy nodded. ‘Both your grandmother and I were stationed here during the war, that’s how we met.’
‘Mosey never told me anything.’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘No, she wouldn’t have done. The work we did here was of the utmost secrecy then, and, well…, you know the other reason she never spoke of me.’
Dorothy’s eyes returned to the bundle of letters. ‘You said she knew Norman as well.’ said Jen.
Dorothy looked up, she was smiling wickedly. ‘I think your grandmother was quite jealous that I managed to get him. The fact that we hated each other at first and then fell in love irritated Rosemary no end. But then when my parents died all that jealousy was forgotten, and both Norman and your grandmother were there for me.’
Dorothy sighed. ‘Without them I don’t think I would have got through my parents death. Norman and Rosemary were a tower of strength, and after my parents were killed they were all the family I had. I came to love them dearly, and the three of us became very close. Anyway, it was only a little later that Norman and I started to use our games of chess as an excuse to be together.’
Dorothy’s eyes became distant again. ‘The death of my parents brought out the best in him. When all the loud brashness disappeared I found him to be quiet a shy and sensitive man. The gum-chewing G.I. image never did sit very well with him, and in the end I think he was only too glad to get rid of it. He was very handsome.’ She looked at David again. He smiled.
‘After that it was only a matter of time before we fell in love.’ She paused. ‘For most of the war we only saw one another once, maybe twice a month here at the hall. Eventually the chess playing more-or-less stopped, and we would sneak off for private walks around the estate. Towards the end of the war we spent a weekend together on the South coast. I don’t think we got out of bed for two days.’ Dorothy blushed. ‘Unsurprisingly I became pregnant.’
‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ said Jen. ‘We’ve all fallen in love.’
‘Oh I know that,’ said Dorothy looking back up. ‘Today it doesn’t matter, and to a certain extent it didn’t back in the war. None of us knew how long we had, but that’s an excuse really, we were comparatively safe here at the hall, and Norman’s flying didn’t usually take him into Europe. Besides, the hall was a military establishment, we were part of that and should’ve known better. What was so embarrassing was that we weren’t even married.’
Did you tell Norman? said Jen.
Dorothy beamed. ‘He was wonderful! The war was such an anxious time for all of us, and in a lot of ways being pregnant was a happy positive thing amongst all the uncertainty. I needn’t have worried really, most people rallied round, especially your grandmother, and of course Norman. We decided to marry as soon as possible. We had talked about getting married for some time, so all being pregnant did was just bring it forward. Norman got me this beautiful engagement ring.’
Dorothy held her hand out to Jen. The ring was a plain gold band with a single emerald surrounded by diamonds. Jen had noticed the ring, but hadn’t dared to ask about it.
‘It’s gold, and the stones are real,’ said Dorothy proudly. ‘I felt so luck, what with all the shortages. I didn’t dare ask Norman how much it was or where he got it from. I also felt terribly guilty and rather ashamed.’
‘Why?’ said Jen. ‘You said everyone rallied around when you fell pregnant.’
‘It wasn’t that. The thing was, Norman was already engaged!’ She caught Jen’s pained expression.
‘Oh he wasn’t a rogue in that sense. He told me about this other girl long before we fell in love, and for a while it helped keep everything platonic between us, but I think we both knew we were swimming against the tide right from the beginning. I felt terrible about it, especially when I became pregnant.’
‘Did he ever tell her about you; this other girl in America I mean?’ said Jen
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Norman insisted that he should tell her face to face when he next went home. I doubt if the poor girl ever did find out about me.’
There was a long heavy pause.
‘The war in Europe had almost finished!’ blurted Dorothy suddenly. She was on the edge of tears. . She paused again and took a deep shuddering breath. ‘It was his last sortie, and the only time he ever went near the war. He never came back!’ She stifled a sob. ‘I didn’t know what happened for months. It was only after the war ended that they found the wreckage of his aircraft. He’d crashed somewhere in North Africa.’ Dorothy blew hard on a handkerchief she had plucked from her sleeve. Her voice steadied. ‘It was so unfair. He wasn’t even shot down by the Germans, it was engine failure. That made it worse somehow.’
Jen could feel her own tears welling up in sympathy. She leant forward and squeezed the old ladies hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
Dorothy patted her hand and smiled. ‘It was a very long time ago. I’m fine.’
‘The other girl never did find out if it is any consolation,’ said David.
‘I’m glad,’ sniffed Dorothy dabbing at her eyes. ‘It was probably kinder that way.’ She gave one final blow on her handkerchief and then tucked it away. Already her voice was back under control. ‘I take it you’re not here to buy the hall then?’
David shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid not. That was just to get Phillips to talk to me. Although other than meeting you it is the hall itself that brings me here.’
‘Oh?’ said Dorothy. ‘Why’s that?’
‘How much did you discuss the hall with Norman?’ said David. ‘Did you discuss who built the place, who first lived here, that sort of thing?
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘We may have chatted about it from time to time. Why?’
‘Well in some of his letters home Norman discusses the hall with his mother.’
‘And?’
David went to say something then changed his mind.‘It might be better if I show you,’ he said, and pulled his rucksack into the middle of the floor.
‘My mother died late last year and with her death I decided the old family home could do with a real sorting out and renovating. That’s when I found the letters from you to Norman, but I also found something else.’ David started to open his rucksack as he spoke.
‘Now there is an old family legend about one room in the house.’ David laughed. ‘It’s a funny tale, and tells of how fairies lived up the chimney in one room, and that if a fire was ever lit in there terrible luck would befall the family. I remember the tale from childhood, and how all the adults used to laugh at the story, but none-the-less I don’t remember a fire ever being lit in that room. Anyway when I got a cleaner in to sweep all the chimneys, we found the chimney in that room blocked. A few feet up the flue we found this.’
David inched the sides of his rucksack down to reveal a small wooden box. He lifted it out and placed it on the floor
‘It’s a Regency style English Tea Caddy. Early nineteenth century and made of Brazilian Rosewood wth finely inlaid with brass Celtic features. Unfortunately the original lining has been removed, which is a pity, because with it the caddy would have been more valuable.’
Jen smiled. ‘You know you’re antiques very well for…for a’
‘For an American.’ David laughed. ‘We’re not all baseball fanatics and cultural heathens you know. I love antiques, and Victorian English in particular.’
‘Yes, yes! It’s delightful,’ interjected Dorothy irritably. ‘You said Norman wrote to his mother about the hall?’
‘Ok ok. Give me a minute and I’ll get there.’ For a moment Jen saw something acidic boiling on Dorothy’s tongue, but she swallowed it. All traces of the distressed frail old lady of a few minutes ago had vanished.
‘Norman Sutherland, ‘continued David, ‘was my great-uncle. His mother was my great-grand-mother, Victoria Sutherland.’
‘Yes, yes I gathered that!’ said Dorothy impatiently. ‘Norman told me about his mother.’
David nodded. ‘Yes, but how much did he tell you? Did he tell you his mom’s name, her maiden name?’
‘Yes it was, was…’
‘‘Mathews?’ Prompted David.
‘Yes Mathews, that was it.’
‘Did he tell you her other name, the one she changed from, the one she was known by before she got to the States.’
Dorothy frowned. ‘No, no he didn’t. I knew his mother was English, but I didn’t know she had changed her name.’
‘Neither did Norman, not until just before he was killed at any rate. There was a couple of things he was going to tell you about, one of which was his mother’s real name.’
‘And…?
‘And.’ said David. ‘Victoria Mathews’s real name was Kingston: Annabelle Kingston.’
‘Oh my God.’ Dorothy’s mask of impatience suddenly vanished, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper.
‘Are you alright Ma’am?’
The old woman blinked in surprise and looked up as if suddenly aware she was in company.
‘Yes yes!’ she said, and then sank back into a thoughtful silence.
‘Kingston, Kingston…?’ Jen turned to David. ‘Phillips told me something about him. Wasn’t it a John Kingston that had the hall built. He also said something about him and his sister stealing a load of gold and disappearing. Are these the same people?’

David nodded.
‘So it’s true,’ said Dorothy quietly. ‘Annabelle didn’t follow John.’
‘Pardon me?’ said David.
Dorothy looked up quickly. ‘I mean, so that’s what happened to Annabelle, She fled to America.’
David nodded. ‘And given all the immigrants that were on their way into the U.S. at the time it must have been easy for her to disappear, especially as she changed her name. After only a year or so she met and married Peter Sutherland, my great-grand-father. Annabelle Kingston was my great-grand-mother.’
‘So you know also know something about these people then Dorothy?’ said Jen.
For a moment Dorothy’s eyes flashed with irritation, then it passed .
‘Not a great deal, ‘she said. ‘All I know is that Annabelle Kingston was very interested in natural history. It was in learning about the woman that got me interested in the subject myself.’
Jen turned to David.
‘This gold then,’ she said and grinned, ‘did you find any of it stashed up your chimney.’ Jen then saw that Dorothy was suddenly siting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes on David.
He looked first a Jen, then at Dorothy.
‘No, yes; well kind of,’ he said.
‘What?’ What did you find?’ said Dorothy loudly. She was on the edge of her seat.
David looked startled. ‘Hair,’ he said after a moment. ‘ A kind of plait. Again it would be easier if I show you.’ He then opened the wooden chest he’d taken from his rucksack. From it he took a parcel of letters which he placed on the floor, then he took out a folded bundle of blue silk. He placed the bundle on the floor and unwrapped it. Coiled on the cloth was a great plait of blonde hair. It was over three feet long, and woven in amongst the hair and keeping it in place was a filigree of gold wire. The hair itself was as fair as the gold, and interwoven amongst the braid there were tiny diamonds, rubies and sapphires.
‘It’s beautiful!’ said Jen. Then she pulled a face ‘But weird. Did it belong to Annabelle?’
David nodded. ‘I think so. It’s a strange thing isn’t it. At this end,’ he lifted one end of the plait, ’it’s got this brooch clasping the plaited ends together.’
The brooch looked to be art noveau in style, intertwining gold vines clasping together a series of five overlapping discs of varying sizes. The three smallest discs looked to be made of ivory, the next biggest what looked to be a smooth polished sapphire, and the largest of all, again polished smooth, was a ruby. Dominating the assembly was what looked to be a star made of silver, in the centre of which was a small diamond.
David lifted the other end of the braid. ‘But at this end it’s been crudely whipped with blue thread to stop it falling apart, but look at the ends of the hair and the gold wire beyond the whipping. It’s at an oblique angle, as though it’s been hacked off of something, or rather someone.’
‘Can…can I hold it.’ The voice was a hoarse whisper. It was Dorothy.
David shrugged. ‘If you’d like,’ he said. ‘You’ll be surprised at how heavy it is.’
Dorothy held out her hands and David laid the plait over them. He then saw that the old lady was trembling. He caught Jen’s eye and glanced at Dorothy. All Jen could do was shrug discretely.
‘Are you ok Ma’am?’ said David.
As David spoke the early evening sun sent a beam of orange-pink light in through the window. It caught the plait, the hair suddenly glowing brightly as if set ablaze with spun fire. The old woman mumbled something inaudible, that same fire now burning in her eyes.
‘Are you ok Ma’am?’ repeated David.
Dorothy looked up. ‘It’s beautiful, ‘ she said numbly.
David nodded. ‘Pretty isn’t it.’ He then took the plait from Dorothy and rewrapped it in it’s blue cloth.
As it disappeared from sight Dorothy let out a long breath and relaxed. Suddenly aware that Jen was watching her the old lady coughed.
‘So,’ she said, and smiled, but it was thin and nervous. She then nodded towards the floor. ‘What are those other letters I see.’
‘Ah,’ said David enjoying a moment of intrigue. ‘The rest of the puzzle. These are the letters to and from Norman and his mother whilst he was stationed here in England during the war. Originally I think the letters were sent in pairs, but after they were opened Norman’s mother divided them into two lots. Of each pair, one letter usually talked of generalities, the weather, how he was, you know the sort of thing. The others,’ he then reached into the caddy and took out a last bundle of letters. ‘These; which I’ve come to call the ‘Uncle John letters, talk about the hall, which Norman discovered whilst posted here in England.’
‘Why did Norman talk about the hall to his mother?’ said Jen, ‘and surely he couldn’t mention where he was or what he was doing because of the war.’
‘He never mentioned the hall by name, and there was no need to. You see, Norman started talking about the hall to his mother because as a child, Annabelle’s used to tell him fairy stories that took place in and around this strange old house. When Norman came here during the war and discovered Monkswell hall, he was reminded of his mother’s stories to the point where he made the connection and realised she had based her tales on a real place. ’
‘But why all the secrecy with the pairs of letters?’
‘The other letters were meant to be read by the rest of the family, Norman’s father and his sister, my grandmother. You see, my great-grand-pa was a real bible bashing puritan, and never approved of his wife and son’s shared interest in history and literature. Apparently he would periodically thump his bible and say how tall stories and digging up the past never did anyone any good.
‘The ‘Uncle John letters,’ were I think, Annabelle’s idea to keep the correspondence with Norman about the hall private between themselves. Anyway when Annabelle discovered that Norman had found her old family home she was not only astonished at the coincidence, but I think she then also realised something else. Something she had been trying to ignore for many years. She realised how desperately she missed her brother. You see when Annabelle fled to the States after the scandal involving the gold, her brother John never came with her.’
David once again reached into his rucksack. This time he pulled out a couple of photographs.
‘These are pictures of Norman in his uniform, just before he came to England in nineteen-forty-three. Look at the one on the left in particular.’
David handed the photographs to Jen who then passed them to Dorothy. The photographs were of a dark good looking young man in his twenties, complete with air force uniform and cap. The photographs were identical, but on one Norman had a large handlebar moustache. As she looked closer Jen realised it had been scribbled on with a pen.
‘Now look at this one.’ David pulled out another photograph. It was a blurred and very grainy image, but Jen could see it was Norman, he was dressed in Victorian dress coat, tie and wing collar. He was again sporting a bushy moustache similar to the hand-drawn one, but this one looked real.
‘Fancy dress?’ said Jen.
‘Nope! That’s not Norman, but his uncle, John Kingston; Annabelle’s brother. Norman was a dead ringer. I think Annabelle scribbled the moustache on the photograph as a way of confirming to herself how like her brother her son was becoming.’ David then opened the wooden tea-chest and pulled out a small, black velvet bag. Out of it he tipped a gold chain and locket. He popped it open and handed it to Dorothy.
‘That last picture is a blow up made from the photograph in this locket. The locket’s engraved and says ‘To my dearest Belle, on your coming of age. Your loving brother John. May first, eighteen-eighty-seven. And then we come to these.’ From the tea-chest David then took out a number of small, black, battered leather bound books.
‘These are Annabelle’s diaries. They span a period of more than fifty years. She started writing them on the boat on her way to America. They are the story of her life until she died in nineteen-forty-seven.‘
David opened the first book and turned it towards Dorothy and Jen.
‘There’s a ticket pasted in here. I assumed it was Annabelle’s, but the name on it isn’t Annabelle Kingston, but Victoria Mathews. It isn’t until later in writing to Norman in the last ‘Uncle John’ letters that she confesses the truth. She never mentions her real name until then. I think her diaries, especially the first one, were an aid to ensure that she got her story straight about her past life in England. A past life that, unknown to her family in America, was completely fabricated.’
‘Fear of being discovered because of the gold she and her brother are supposed to have stolen?’ said Jen.
‘Sort of, but I’ll get to that in a moment. You see as I read through the diaries I realised that everything wasn’t quite right. Annabelle was starting to have doubts about the lie she was living, especially in later years. I think she believed her brother was dead, and in some way she blamed herself for it, especially when she sees that Norman has grown into the spitting image of him. Then when Norman joined the airforce and gets posted to England and writes her to say he has found this strange old house that reminds him of the stories she told him as a child, Annabelle realises that her son has discovered Monkswell hall, the home she fled from as a young woman. At this time I think she got it into her head that she needed to repent for her past in some way, especially given she had a ‘Bible Bashing’ husband.
To Annabelle, her sone finding of the hall may have been an omen or a sign, who knows; but I think the pressure to tell the truth about her past must have been unbearable. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine her son would come across the hall. Annabelle instigates the ‘Uncle John’ letters with Norman, and then falteringly at first starts to make a confession, but not to her husband, to her son, who by now in her mind is her brother. She got as far as telling Norman what her real name was when he was killed.’
‘But why did she feel responsible for the death of her brother,’ said Jen. ‘Phillips knows something about the history of this place, including a little on John and Annabelle, and from what he says nobody knew what actually happened to John Kingston.’
‘To be honest I’m not certain either, even with the diaries. The problem is that Norman’s death tipped Annabelle over the edge, mentally I mean. Don’t’ forget that by the time Norman died Annabelle was an old woman over eighty years old. She didn’t have any children until quite late in life, very late for her day. She had my grandmother in nineteen-hundred when she was thirty four, but didn’t have Norman until nineteen-fifteen when she was forty nine. In the last diary and after she discovers that Norman has been killed, her writing becomes very erratic, and in places impossible to read. She rambles a great deal. Shock, senility and guilt make for a confusing cocktail. Not only that but there’s an additional problem with the diaries, and that’s where I’m leading to. A lot of the entries in the them are in some kind of code, and in the later diaries she writes entire pages in it.’
‘Why code?’ said Jen. ‘There again it’s obvious I suppose, to hide it from her ‘Bible Bashing’ husband.’
‘Not so much him I think’ said David. ‘You see, Annabelle wasn’t just some unknown member of the English gentry. As Dorothy pointed out, she was a naturalist, and quite well know, and not just in England, but internationally. She had several controversial papers published, one of which was an alternative view of ‘Origin of species.’
‘Phillips mentioned that.’ said Jen. Also something about her brother being pretty wealthy and well connected. ‘
David nodded. ‘And this is where it gets all ‘Cloak and Dagger.’ Apparently John Kingston was a high profile Victorian diplomat and was involved with a group of royals from Eastern Europe. That jewelled plait of hair is something to do with them I’m sure. You see Monkswell hall wasn’t just a family home but some kind of diplomatic refuge.’
David pick up one of the diaries and thumbed through the pages. ‘Yes here we are. I could make out some of the names at this point. A Katrina, or maybe a Katherine, there’s also a Nicholas, that crops up a number of times, at least I think it’s Nicholas, but it’s so hard to read, something about him going missing, kidnapped I think. It’s these names that made me think they were Eastern European, they’re pretty Russian sounding anyway.’
‘It wasn’t Tsar Nicholas, was it?’ said Jen.
David shook his head. ‘No, far too early.’
‘Hang on a moment! Phillips told me something about John Kingston’s s child being kidnapped. Could that have been what she’s referring to?’
‘Could be,’ said David. ‘ The thing is Annabelle’s writing is almost illegible by now, so it’s difficult to tell. She also goes on about a guy called Putin. Some kind of prince I think. From what I can gather he was in love with her, but I get the impression she didn’t or couldn’t feel the same. I’m sure it’s something to do with her involvement with him that is tied up with Annabelle blaming herself for her brother’s death.
Anyway when you add all this together I think you need look no further as to why Annabelle wrote so much of her diaries in code. If the diaries ever fell into the wrong hands she wouldn’t incriminate herself.’
‘It sounds to me like Annabelle and her brother did steal the gold then,’ said Jen.
‘That’s just it they didn’t. Not according to Annabelle anyway. With Norman’s death I think Annabelle felt she had nothing to hide anymore, and in her last diary she gave up using her code altogether. Amongst her last entries she talks of government conspiracies, even murder, but it’s pretty unreadable, however at one point she is quite lucid, saying that there was a cover up. She says that the gold was never stolen, and that she and her brother were framed. Apparently the gold was part of some kind of international aid package, and was given to these Eastern European Royals, a group of people she refers to as the Faes.’
For the last ten minutes Dorothy hadn’t said a word or so much as moved. Suddenly she was on the edge of her seat.
‘Did you say Faes?’ she said trying to sound nonchalant.
‘I’m sure she calls them Faes,’ said David cautiously, with one eye towards her. ‘ But it’s difficult to make out, as the entry is in amongst her code and is written in a strange flowing script.’ David thumbed his way to a page in the diary and then handed it to Dorothy.
Trying hard not to snatch the book Dorothy took it and started to scan the page furiously.
‘At first I thought the script was a different language,’ continued David, ‘Sanskrit maybe. But I’ve never found anything like it anywhere. In the end I came to think it was a code Annabelle made up. I believe the coded entries contain accounts of her real life here at the hall, and this is the reason why I’m here. I’m sure that somewhere within those coded pages are the clues to the whereabouts of a magnificent treasure.’
Dorothy looked up from the diary and smiled, but it was uneasy, and her eyes burned fiercely as if she were finding it difficult to contain a growing, trembling excitement.
‘I assure you there is no gold to be found,’ she said.
‘How can you be so sure?’ said David. ‘Have you looked?’
Suddenly the old lady looked defensive, then she laughed nervously.
‘Only half-heartedly. I heard the old stories about the missing bullion of course, but I never took much notice.’
‘Well I think the jeweled plait of hair is pretty convincing,’ said David. ‘Also there is the letter at the top of the bundle I gave you. It’s the last letter Norman wrote you, but he never mailed it as he was killed. From the tone, it sounds like the two of you had been puzzling over the hall for some time, as in it he not only tells you who his mother really was and that she used to live here at the hall, but it also describes an object of great value, a piece of jewelry that was, I think, given to Annabelle by one of these royals, which she then hid somewhere on the estate before she fled.’
The parcel of letters that Dorothy had been nursing in her lap suddenly exploded as she tore into them. A few seconds later she slapped the top letter open, her eyes dancing wildly as she scanned the text.
‘The belt!’ screamed the old woman suddenly. ‘Annabelle says her belt is hidden here on the estate.’ Dorothy flipped the page over. ‘It doesn’t say where!’
For a moment neither Jen nor David didn’t say anything, still reeling from Dorothy’s outburst, then David recovered.
‘Whoa! Calm down and take it easy. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’
‘What!’ I am calm, what’s the matter with you?’
Suddenly the mask of fury that had been threatening to gain control of Dorothy’s face returned, colour boiling into her cheeks. Jen felt herself cringe. The old woman looked as if she would literally explode, but then as she caught sight of both Jen and David’s shocked expressions her face relaxed, and she was sitting there as meek and expectantly as a child on a Christmas morning. However Jen could see she was shaking.
‘Ok., said David nervously, and keeping a cautious eye on the old woman he reached into his jacket, pulled out a letter and opened it.
‘This is the last letter from Annabelle to Norman, but again it never got sent, probably because news had reached her that her son had been killed. By now Annabelle’s writing has deteriorated to the point where all I can really make out is a wobbly drawing, which I think is this belt she’s referring to.’
Dorothy, like a taut bow suddenly loosed, exploded out of her chair and snatched the letter out of David’s hand. The old ladies eyes darted across the page for a moment she then jerked her head upward again, her eyes burning into David’s.’
‘Have you got it?’ she spat. ‘The belt!’
David reeled. ‘No, no I haven’t.’
‘And you can’t read this letter you say.’ The old lady was by now shaking visibly.
‘I can only read bits of it, most of it is illegible. All I can gather is that this belt, or whatever it is, was a gift from one of these royals, this… this Putin guy I think.’
Dorothy was no longer listening. She was now out of her chair and striding about the room wringing her hands. She then stopped and leant on the back of her chair. She swayed slightly and took a deep breath.
‘Are you ok Dorothy,’ said David jumping to his feet and taking a step towards her.
The old lady had her eyes shut. She took another shuddering breath and then opened them. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled weakly. ‘ It’s just all rather exciting that’s all.’
Jen shot a worried look at David who returned her glance. She then stood up.
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll see to that tea,’ she said gently to Dorothy.
‘No, really I’m fine. I just need a little air that’s all. Dorothy then picked up her cane, turned and marched briskly towards the door.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ said Jen
‘No!’ It was almost a shout, then Dorothy collected herself. ‘ Rather, no thank you my dear.’ Dorothy cleared her throat and then said quietly. ‘I just need to powder my nose that’s all.’ With that she opened the door and left.
After a long moment .
‘Phew,’ breathed David . ‘Is it me or did she get a tad over excited.’
‘No kidding!’ said Jen. ‘ She was on the edge of her seat from when you showed her that plait of hair.’ She looked nervously towards the door. ‘Do you think she’ll be alright on her own.’
‘I think so,’ said David sitting back in his chair, ‘Besides I don’t think she’d be too keen on you taking her to her own rest-room.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Jen, she then crouched down and began gathering up the letters Dorothy had scattered on the floor .
David suddenly thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, then jumped up and moved his chair.
‘What’s the matter,’ said Jen. She had picked up the last of the letters and was stacking them in a neat pile on the table.
‘Annabelle’s drawing, I can’t find it It wasn’t amongst the letters was it?’
‘No I would’ve seen it. Hang on, there it is. Dorothy dropped it under her chair.’ Jen picked it up and handed it to David. ‘I’ve a feeling showing her that drawing wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘Yes I think your right,’ he said, tucking the drawing back into his pocket and sitting down. ‘I should’ve spotted that from her reaction to the plait.’
‘Is that why you didn’t tell her where this belt is hidden?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said David quickly, his face deadpan.
‘Oh come on,’ said Jen sitting back in her chair, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. ‘You’ve got some idea where this belt is. It’s written all over your face..’
For a moment David grit his teeth, trying to keep his face impassive, then he broke into a mischievous grin.
‘You do know where this belt is don’t you!’ said Jen.
‘That obvious huh?’
Jen shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘I was going to tell Dorothy, but she got so over excited. ‘Did you see her start to shake when I brought out the plait.’
‘You could hardly miss it. I think she knows about this belt as well. She said ‘The belt, Annabelle’s belt.’ So where is it then?’
‘In an abandoned well.’
‘A well? Here on the estate?’
David nodded. ‘Annabelle threw the belt in there just before she left for America.
‘Threw it away? It must be worth a fortune, surely she wouldn’t just throw something like that away. You said yourself Annabelle made up fairy stories, this one sounds like the tallest of the lot.’
‘Why should she lie? Even the tale about fairies in the chimney was told for good reason, she hid her diaries and the plait up there.’
Jen’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something about all this that bothers me. If this thing is as valuable as you say it is why are you telling Dorothy and me all about it?’
‘Simple,’ said David. ‘I’ve been in the U.K. for over a month, and it’s taken me nearly all this time to track Dorothy and the hall down, and now I’m here I can’t find the damn well. Not a trace of it. I’ve looked everywhere. I got a good look at Phillips’s collection of plans, but there’s nothing on there that shows the location of a well or anything that looks vaguely like a well anywhere on the estate. All I can do now is ask Dorothy if she knows anything about it, and it’s taken me nearly a week just to get in here and see her. Besides she is a relative; kind of.’
Jen looked towards the door again.
‘There’s more to this you know. Did you hear what she said when you first told her who Annabelle was.’
‘Something about Annabelle fleeing to America wasn’t it.’
‘Yeah but you missed some of it. What Dorothy actually said was ‘So Annabelle didn’t follow John, but fled to America.’
‘Yeah?’
Jen nodded. ‘ She knows far more about Annabelle and John Kingston, and this hidden belt than she’s letting on. Also she’s desperate not to leave.’
‘I overheard you talking to her about that. What’s it all about? I got the impression she owned the place, but from what Phillips says she’s just the janitor right?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Jen, ‘but you wouldn’t have thought so, going by all her stuff here. I think she’s been living at the hall for years, even though she’s got a house in the village.’
Suddenly realisation jumped onto Jen’s face.
‘Of course! She’s been searching for the belt herself!’
David thought for a moment and then shook his head.
‘No. No I don’t think so. I think she’s known about it for some time, but I don’t’ think it’s crossed her mind it might still be here. She was completely surprised when I said I thought it was hidden here on the estate, although like you say, I think she knows far more than she’s letting on. Which reminds me. ‘
David got to his feet and crossed to Dorothy’s bookcase. Bookcase was a generous description for what was really a set crudely nailed planks that were heavily overloaded with books, and balanced precariously on an old desk.
‘Have you noticed any of her books?’ said David as he reached the shelves. ‘I caught a glimpse of some of them when I first climbed in through the window.’
The shelves were sagging dangerously, and over all the books there was a thick blanket of dust.
Jen got up and went to join David at the bookshelf. She was almost at his side when she stopped and sniffed at the air.
‘There’s that smell again,’ she said.
‘Smell?’ said David. ‘What smell? All I can smell is dust.’ He had by now tipped his head to one side and was examining the books more closely.
‘I noticed it when I first came in here.’ Jen sniffed again. ‘It’s like decomposing vegetables.’
‘Yuk! Sounds hideous, I’m glad I can’t smell it.’
Jen then walked over to the door that she assumed must lead to Dorothy’s kitchen and sniffed again. ‘It’s strongest over here,’ she said. ‘It’s quite pleasant now,… it smells like peaches in brandy, or perhaps strawberries. It’s a strange smell, though, there’s something not quite right about it. Come on take a sniff.’
David looked skywards then crossed to the door and sniffed.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Very pleasant. Perhaps she’s making jam in there or something.
He tried the door handle, but it was locked. Immediately he returned to the bookshelf. Jen poked her tongue at his fleeing back and then joined him and started to read out some of the book’s titles.’
‘Everything appears to be on natural history,’ she said. ‘‘A Compendium of British Trees, ‘ An Encyclopaedia of English Flora and Fauna, ‘ nothing that unusual surely. It ties in with what her work.
‘It’s not those I mean.’ said David. He was further along the shelf. It was one in particular that I saw. An here it is.’ He pulled one of the books from the shelf and passed it to Jen. ‘She’s into more than just pressed flowers.’
Jen looked at the cover. It read ‘Principles and practice of dissection, a theatre guide.’
‘So? It’s a little odd I suppose, but I can see how a book like this might tie in with her studies. On natural history she’s self- taught.’
David shrugged, returned the book to the shelf and then like Jen had done started to read out the spines. ‘’Cephaolopods by Burgess,’ he said. He pulled it off the shelf and opened it. ‘Huh! Squid.’ He put the book back and continued. ‘A field guide to British herbs, by A. Heron,’ Natural carcinogens,’ also by Heron. ‘The Bristol and Harris diesel engine, a service manual.’ He looked up at Jen and grinned. ‘She certainly keeps herself busy.’ He returned to the books. ‘‘Practical Astronomy,’ ‘Working with metals, a workshop handbook.’’ He looked up again. ‘Have you seen that strange junk wall that leads out into the forest?’
Jen nodded ‘Earlier today with Mr. Phillips. ‘You don’t’ think she built it do you, the junk wall I mean?’
David shrugged. It looks pretty old. Perhaps when she was younger, though God only knows why.’ He turned back to the shelf.
‘There are books here by Darwin, some guy called Wallace.’ He paused, grinning. ‘Wasn’t he played by Mel Gibson in ‘Braveheart’?’
Jen pulled a face. ‘Wrong Wallace,’ she said.
‘I know, I know, just kidding. Anyway if you’re so smart who was he?’
It was Jen’s turn to smile.
‘A contemporary of Darwin actually. A naturalist like Annabelle Kingston. He was into all sorts of things, including spiritualism I believe. A humanitarian and quite a man. What’s the title?’
David turned back to the bookshelf.
‘There’s a couple of books by him; The first is ‘On miracles and modern spiritualism.’ Smart ass! he said over his shoulder good naturedly. ‘This other one is ‘Man’s place in…’He paused. ‘The spines torn, hang on.’ He stood up and took the book from the shelf, turned to the front cover and started again. ‘’Man’s place in the universe; A study of the results of scientific research in relation to the unity of plurity of worlds.’’ He feigned breathlessness. ‘Sounds pretty heavy going.’
He returned the book to the shelf and continued to read. ‘’A treasury of world mythology,’ ‘Human biology, ‘ volumes one to,… eight.’ ‘Electrical engineering’ ‘Circles in stone, a study of Neolithic monuments.’ Well she’s been researching the local history that’s for sure.’ David paused again. ‘’Isis unveiled,’ and ‘The Secret Doctrine,’ by Helena Petrova Blavatsky,’ he said slowly unused to the name. He looked questioningly at Jen. ‘That name sounds familiar.’
Jen thought for a moment.
‘I’ve heard of her before, she was a spiritualist, into something called theosophy, but more into it than Wallace I think. They had a system of beliefs derived from sacred Buddhist texts, but denying the existence of a God.’
‘Now you say that I’m sure Annabelle mentions something about theosophy in her diaries. Well if she was into the denying God you don’t have to look much further to see what caused so much friction between her and my great-grandfather.’
David turned back to the shelf.
‘It goes on. There’s books her on chemistry, anthropology, biology, physics. Wait a moment there’s a box of groceries in the way.’ David lifted the groceries onto the floor and continued to read. A moment later he laughed.
‘There’s even a book on Atlantis, … Oh shit!’ Suddenly his smile vanished.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Jen leaning round his shoulder.
David’s face was grim. ‘’Mein Kampf, by a certain A. Hitler.’ He continued along the spines. ‘Madame Blavatsky and her influence on the Third Reich,’ Eugenics, its fundamentals.’ Huh!’ he said grimly. ‘These last two are real peachy. ‘Mengle, his impact on modern medicine,’; and ‘The Aryan race: Fact or Fiction, a definitive study.’ David took out the last book and stood up.
Jen could see the look on his face. ’Don’t be silly!’ she said. ‘Just a few books on the Nazis doesn’t mean to say she’s a Nazi!’
‘No? Well she’s got a guilty conscience then.’ All these books were hidden behind her groceries. And look,’ David dragged his finger across the last few books. ‘No dust.’
Jen shook her head. ‘Coincidence, the box just happened to be placed there that’s all.’
David didn’t look convinced. He then opened the book he had pulled from the shelf. It fell open at a bookmarked page. The bookmark had handwriting on it. He read it and handed it to Jen.
‘Can you be that sure about her?’ he said.
Like an irritated teacher intercepting a childish prank Jen read the bookmark out loud.
‘‘Truth is born into this world only with pangs and tribulations, and even fresh truth is received unwillingly. To expect the world to receive a new truth, or even an old truth, without challenging it, is to look for one of those miracles which do not occur…’’ Her voice trailed off. ‘….Alfred Wallace.’
Jen gave a thin laugh. ‘We’re mistaken. She can’t believe any of this fascist rubbish.’
‘A moment ago you were singing this Wallaces praises, you can’t have it both ways.’
‘Wallace has got nothing to do with it!’ said Jen angrily. ‘Dorothy’s just quoting him, nothing more.’
‘None-the-less, she believes in the quote.’ David turned the book towards her. ‘And look at what she’s underlined on the bookmarked page.’ Silently Jen read it.
As mother nature instructs competition in the animal kingdom, so does she enforce the same amongst humans. Consequently the ancient Aryans were once pure, but became corrupted over the course of history through inter breeding with inferior biological strains. This produced a weakening of the original bloodlines, and consequently gave rise to weaker subhuman specimens, or non-Aryans.
A little lower down the page there was a second passage underlined.
The Nazis were greatly enamoured with the Aryans of racist literature, especially a number of German and Austrian academics, who were immersed in a Romantic Ideal and attempted to recreate the mythical world of pre-Christian times, unsullied by Semitic influences and the ‘Church.‘ Church was fiercely underlined.
‘For God’s sake!’ said Jen, but as she spoke she felt her stomach flip uncomfortably.
‘She’s worked for the Ministry of Defence all her life. It’s just a couple of books. She can’t be a bloody Nazi!’
‘I suppose you could be right,’ said David more unsure now. He then turned back to the bookshelf and pulled out another book. He stopped before opening it.
‘There’s something behind the books,’ he said.
He pulled off two more books and reached into the gap and pulled out a dark blue plastic bag. The words ‘Ministry of Defence’ ran endlessly around it in white lettering. The top of the bag had been torn open.
‘That’s Dorothy’s personnel file!’ hissed Jen, suddenly aware of the time and turning a nervous eye toward the door. ‘She’s been gone for ages. Quick! Put it back before she catches us.’
‘We’ll hear that cane of hers long before she gets back,’ said David and reached into the bag.
Suddenly from out in the corridor came a sound. Jen shot David a look. An instant later he had stuffed the envelope back between the books. Jen slammed shut the book she had been reading and shoved it into the empty gap, whilst David darted around her and grabbed the box of groceries from the floor. A few moments later everything was back in place and the two of them then leapt across the room and dropped back into their seats.
Jen threw her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, suddenly seeing herself and David leaping about the room like naughty children. Then the noise came again. This time it was deeper, more of a rumble, and was felt rather than heard.
‘That doesn’t sound like Dorothy,’ said David.
The rumble grew stronger until, almost imperceptibly at first, some of the jars on the various shelves around the room started to clink together. On the bookshelf nearest them an old milk bottle jittered towards the edge of the shelf. Before it could crash to the floor the rumble faded away.’
‘An earth tremor?’ said David looking towards Jen.
‘What in Devon? It’s not unknown I suppose, but I think when they do occur its usually in Scotland.’
‘I’m sure that was an earth tremor,’ said David. ‘I think we should get outside quickly’
David strode up and walked briskly across the room. On reaching the door he turned the handle. The door didn’t move. He tried again, pulling harder.
‘She’s locked us in.’
‘What! She can’t have done. Why on earth would she want to lock us in?’
Then Jen felt the rumble again. It grew steadily like the returning of a tide. She could feel it coming up through the soles of her feet, growing in strength until the jars on the shelves started to rattle again. A moment later the old milk bottle fell from the shelf and shattered on the floor, several books tumbling after them. Suddenly several feet of plaster fell from the ceiling and crashed at her feet.
‘Shit!’ yelled Jen leaping out of her chair. She took one look at the hole in the ceiling and then bounded across the room to David and the door.
‘Dorothy!’ Jen slapped the door as David heaved again on the door handle. ‘Dorothy! Let us out.’
‘It’s ok,’ said David darting back across the room, we can use the window.
‘We can’t leave Dorothy behind,’ yelled Jen attacking the door handle.
Suddenly there was a loud crack and the door flew inwards sending Jen staggering backwards.
‘Quick!’ she yelled and dived out of the door and up the corridor. The shaking continued, in places the still lighted oil lamps illuminating stalactites of dust that were pouring down from the ceiling. Jen reached the end of the corridor, rounded it and ran straight into Dorothy.
‘What the hell are you doing there girl?’ snapped the old woman, a storm brooding on her face.
‘Where have you been?’ retorted Jen equally sharp. ‘I was getting worried, and why did you lock us in?’ At that moment David rounded the corner behind them.
‘I didn’t lock you in, the door sticks that’s all.’
‘There’s an earthquake going on,’ said Jen, disbelief edging at his voice. She started again up the corridor. ‘We need to leave and quickly.’
‘Don’t be so wet, it’s just a little tremor.’
‘Dorothy!’ cried Jen, her voice caught somewhere between exasperation and pleading.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Dorothy the storm on her face abating a little. ‘I should have warned you, and I suppose it is a little stronger than normal. We get tremors here every so often. It won’t last long.‘
‘What!’ This is Devon not California.’
Abruptly the shaking ceased.
‘There we are, and there wont’ be another one for sometime,’ said Dorothy casually as if they’d missed the bus.
‘They only ever come in pairs. Well, that was exciting.’ The old lady smiled. ‘ Now if the both of you are alright, and you look fine, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. It’s getting late and I’m very tired.’ With that she turned and started up the corridor back towards her study.
Jen looked at David. He shrugged. ‘Well it must be reasonably safe,’ he said. ‘ She’s survived all these years.’
‘You might be used to earthquakes in California, but I’m not,’ squeaked Jen.
David laughed. ‘Actually I’m from Boston and we don’t get any there either. He smiled and then turned and followed Dorothy back up the corridor. Jen paused for a moment looking incredulously at his back , then with a last nervous glance at the ceiling followed him.
Both Dorothy and David were already back in the study when Jen reached it. Dorothy was bustling about the room and clearing up as if she had just had guests for tea. She paused by the book shelf where David and Jen had been poking around earlier, pulled off one of the books, turned it over and replaced it. As she did so Jen saw her shoot a suspicious glance at David. On seeing Jen enter the room Dorothy’s face immediately brightened. Of her earlier agitation at seeing the strange plait of hair there wasn’t a sign, neither did she look very tired. She stopped by David’s tea-chest and stooped to pick up the diaries.
‘It’s ok Dorothy,’ said David. ‘I’ll do that. He then started to place the diaries in the chest on top of the blue silk bundle.
Dorothy stood up, bit her lip for a moment and then sat in her chair. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you a favour,’ she said.
David continued to pack away the diaries without looking up.
‘ Oh?’ he said. ‘What’s that?’
‘I know they must be incredibly precious to you, but would you do me the kindness of leaving the diaries here. Just for tonight.’
David got up and sat down in the chair opposite her. ‘I must admit I’m a little reluctant,’ he said. ‘ And it’s not that I don’t think you’ll look after them.’ He added quickly.
‘I’m more concerned that you’re going to upset yourself again. Look at the reaction you had earlier.’
‘I just got a little over excited that’s all,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’m sorry. I made a complete fool of myself.’
David’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you get so excited?’
Dorothy sighed. ‘I must admit it’s the idea of Annabelle’s belt still being here. I thought that if you found it I might be able to persuade you to sell it and buy the hall, a ridiculous notion I know.’ She laughed. ‘I didn’t even ask you. Anyway I’m sure the belt is long gone, either Annabelle made a mistake or it was found and spirited away years ago.’
David still didn’t look convinced. At this the smile left Dorothy’s face.
‘Look David, I’m very old. I’m going to have to leave the hall, I know that now, but my studies are very important to me, and this is the only opportunity I will get to try and find out more about Annabelle and her work. Besides I worked on codes and encryption’s, I may be able to decipher her code.’
‘In one night?’ David looked at Dorothy long and hard. Unblinking Dorothy returned his gaze. She now looked pretty calm. David turned back to the chest.
‘Look after them,’ he said and lifted the diaries back out of the box. He found a space on the edge of the table and put them there. He then stood up and placed a hand on Dorothy’s shoulder.
‘More importantly look after yourself.’
Dorothy reached up and squeezed his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
David then put the chest back in his rucksack and picked it up.
‘Come on Jen I’ll give you a lift back to the pub.’
Five minutes later and with no further earth tremors they were all at the front door. It was late, the sun only just above the edge of the valley.
‘Well there’s no sign of that Phillips guy,’ said David.
‘What are you going to do about him Dorothy,’ said Jen.’ He’ll be back here tomorrow to get in.’
Dorothy took a deep sigh. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Look tell him I’m very sorry I attacked him. I’ll buy him a new suit or something. Tell him I’ll give him an apology and definitely let him into the hall in the morning, around nine. However I’m not letting him in unless the both of you are here as well.’
‘Well I’ll be here,’ said David. ‘My diaries, remember.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Dorothy, ‘and I suppose I ought to sign for my personnel file as well.’
‘Your file?’ said Jen. ‘Of course, what did I do with Phillip’s dratted form . Damn!’ she said suddenly, her hands patting her sides. ‘I’ve forgotten my bag.’
Before anyone could say anymore she spun on her heel and darted back up into the hall with a cry of ‘I’ll only be a sec.’ Floating back over her shoulder.
Two minutes later Jen was back in Dorothy’s study. After picking her way through the junk she saw her bag sitting next to the table where she’d left it. She stooped down and picked it up and then turned to leave. Suddenly she pulled up short.
The other door to Dorothy’s kitchen was open! It was definatley closed when they had left not five minutes ago, and Dorothy had been with them so how…..
Jen went to take a step towards it when suddenly a wave of dizziness came over her. She staggered and stepped backwards in an attempt to keep her balance, but her legs were already folding beneath her. Luckily Dorothy’s high-backed chair was directly behind her and as a wave of nausea passed uncomfortably across her she fell into it.
For the next few moments Jen sat still with her eyes closed. It was from standing up too quickly, she thought; it’ll pass in a moment. She took a couple of deep breaths. There was that smell again. It was definitely some kind of fruit, and the scent seemed layered now, almost like music, a symphony of fragrant subtlety that played across her senses. It had a high perfumed theme, yet there was something about it’s underlying timbre that tapped deeply into her conscience, as if she were part of the scent itself, yet she knew there was more to it than this, but for a long moment the tone eluded her, like a feint scent on a fickle breeze, then she had it. It was as if she could smell the fabric of time itself. Yet it was not the smell of age or decay, it was a fragrant, redolent tone as if she could smell, or closer still, ‘taste’ the very essence of existence.
Jen opened her eyes, There was a new sensation now, or rather the absence of a sensation. It was as if something had been taken away. Then she had it; she was completely deaf…, but no that didn’t feel right. All sound had gone, yes, but it wasn’t so much that she was deaf, it was as if sound itself had vanished, or more, as if it had never been. Experimentally Jen lifted her hands and brought them smartly together in a clap, but no sound came, then as she looked down she found her hands were still lying in her lap. Suddenly a detached voice spoke inside her head. Curious isn’t it. It said, and have you noticed that not only is there no sound, but now there is no air. You’re not breathing.
Not breathing! For an instant Jen felt a wave of panic pass over her, then she noticed that she had no urge to breathe. In fact other than her sense of smell she could feel nothing at all, it was as if she were wandering through an elusive dream, yet at the same time everything seemed so incredibly real.
Suddenly she felt a tingling in the palms, that quickly ran up her arms and disappeared. She looked down again and was surprised to see her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Curious things ‘hands,’ she thought. Never before had she looked at them, really looked at them. There was so much detail. She could see the tiny individual hairs, especially on her left hand index finger where there was one hair there that she had always been rather sensitive about. It was thick and black, an ugly thing that grew out from the center of a mole. A hair she had never dared pluck in case it grew back twice as thick.
Then Jen noticed that it was moving, and not only the hair, but now also the skin of her finger, just below the mole, was also moving. In fact all her fingers were covered in ripples, and as they crossed the back of her hand they grew into wavelets that travelled on up her arm before disappearing under her sleeve, which was billowing in sympathy. Then she spotted the eternity ring that Mosey had given her for her twenty-first birthday. It suddenly jumped forward along her finger, it then paused and jumped back to it’s original position, then it jumped forward again. It continued back and forth, back and forth. Why should her ring dance about like that, and what where those strange ripples under her skin? Suddenly like an incomplete, but remembered task, Jen recalled her clap, something she had tried to do and then dismissed what seemed like hours ago.
So, not only sound, but now time was playing tricks. She had heard of people experiencing strange temporal shifts like this. Pilots, if she remembered correctly, who having ejected from stricken aircraft, could remember those incredible few seconds in remarkable detail. Then Jen remembered her own encounter with the sensation.
As a child she had knocked Mosey’s best crystal vase off the table. She could distinctly remember it hanging motionless in the air, her terror outpacing its fall as she imagined the number of pieces it was going to break into, and wondering whether she could dash from the room and grab a pillow from the lounge to place underneath it before it hit the ground. All these thoughts racing through her head in the split-second before the vase had hit the floor and shattered. Yet both the pilot’s experiences and her own had occurred at moments of extreme stress, and she didn’t feel stressed, and as far as she could tell she was recalling these thoughts as the experience was taking place.
The wavelets were still rolling along the back of her hand, and the her ring was still dancing on her finger, yet as far as she knew she hadn’t broken anything of value, and neither was she being catapulted from a crashing plane. She didn’t feel stressed at all, if anything she felt incredibly relaxed, as if she were on a very long holiday. She felt sure that if she had been able to leave the chair she could journey to some distant Caribbean island and spend as long as she wished ambling through the surf, and when she returned she would still find the wavelets travelling up her hand, and her ring doing its odd little jig. Then she saw something jump from the tip of the little finger of her left hand. As it rose into the air it started to tumble over and over, flashing in the sunset like an early star. For a long moment Jen couldn’t figure out what it was, then as it continued to climb into the orange light she realised it was a fleck of Max Factor pearl nail varnish she had painted on her nails the previous evening. It had pinged off her finger when she had clapped her hands together.
The speck was now a good couple of feet above her hand, and as it continued to climb it disappeared into the background, passing into a blurred patch of bright light. Bright light? With a huge effort Jen tried to focus on it. After what felt like an interminably long time the brightness started to become more clear. It was a patch of light by the open door, a door which when she first entered the room, she felt sure had been closed. Finally the brightness resolved itself. It was a face.
There was no jolt of surprise. If there was shock at that fact she wasn’t alone she hadn’t yet felt it. In fact Jen knew her heart wouldn’t jump into her mouth, now or later. She knew the face. She had always known the face. It was the most beautiful face Jen had ever seen, but it was a strange alien beauty; the very soul of melancholy, as if the source of the faces beauty were sadness itself. The face was framed by a shaggy mane of spun gold, its unkempt appearance framing and perfectly complimenting delicate and dazzling white features that were dominated by deep, deep; deep blue within blue eyes. Suddenly Jen found the eyes pouring into her own, a cold azure blue flame of sadness that pierced her heart like a blade of ice, yet Jen found herself welcoming the pain, opening herself to it. She wanted to loose herself in the forlorn gaze of the creature, even though she knew that to do so would mean her own death. In a heartbeat Jen felt herself slipping away, the eyes now only inches from her own and filled with a deep terrible regret. Suddenly crimson, generous and inviting lips were only a breath away. Jen reached out and buried her hands in the creatures thick golden hair, it was heavy, like warm silk, her hands releasing a musky fragrance, a scent of ages that plunged deep into her mind, swamping all thoughts but desire, her lips parted and then…oblivion.
Suddenly her hands were empty her body tingling with a post, almost orgasmic thrill, a fleeting trace of orange blossom on her lips, then the fragrance, if it had ever existed at all, was gone. Panic fell on her. Where there had once been that beautiful face there was now nothing but darkness. Jen reached forward, hopelessly grasping at its fading memory. Suddenly a tidal wave of grief rose before her, paused, and then as the face finally vanished it fell on her, crushing her utterly. It was the most desperate, most dreadful feeling of loss she had ever known, and never dared to imagine. It thrust her down into a great abyss of despair, yet part of her was already trying to kick and claw her way upward past the forgotten memory and back to sanity. To begin with there was just a weak feeling in the pit of her stomach, then it became a soreness, growing steadily until it became a fierce burning as if her throat were on fire, then suddenly as if dropped from a great height, sound crashed into the room, and Jen’s scream shattered the silence.
‘Jen?’ A weak disembodied voice in the darkness
‘Jen!’ the voice was urgent now. Why wouldn’t it let her rest?
‘Jen, what’s the matter? Talk to me.
Someone was shaking her.
Suddenly air rushed into her lungs, a first clear cold breath in what felt like a thousand years, her chest heaved. She was crying, more than that she was sobbing her heart out, great racking sobs that shook her body with a grief she hadn’t known since childhood. But why was she crying? Abruptly the grief left her. Jen open her eyes. There was a blur next to her face, it was a trousered knee, her nostrils were full of the smell of dust and mouldy carpet, the taste of salty tears on her lips.
‘God-damit woman talk to me!’ The voice was on the edge of shouting and someone was still shaking her.
‘David?, ‘ said Jen thickly, for a moment feeling like she had forgotten how to speak. ‘I’m alright,’ she said more strongly. The shaking stopped.
Jen found herself lying on her right side, her legs balled tightly into her chest, her right arm beneath her and completely dead. She tired to sit up, wincing as pins and needles started in her now free arm.
‘What happened?’ said David helping her sit.
‘I…I don’t know,’ stammered Jen still getting used to her own voice. ‘I picked up my bag…’ she looked into space, searching her mind, but there was nothing but a cold grey mist.
‘I thought the door was open…,’ she waved weakly towards the now closed kitchen door.
‘The next thing I know I’m lying crying on the floor and you’re shaking me. All I can think about is a dream.’ Again she looked into space, ‘A dream that there was…, no that I’ve got… blue eyes.’ Suddenly she burst into tears again.
David pulled her gently into himself. ‘Hey, hey, steady now,’ he said. ‘Your eyes might be brown, but they’re no less beautiful than blue.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ said Jen getting control. She was half crying and half laughing now. She fished out a couple of twisted inches of tissue from her pocket, and ineffectively wiped her nose. ‘Why do I feel so wretched?’ She took a long sniff and then shook her head. At that moment she wished she hadn’t.
‘Jesus,’ she said thickly, ‘I’ve got a thumping headache coming on.’
‘Just be still for a moment,’ said David. ‘I’ll see if I can find some water or something.’ A moment later there was a loud clattering from the corridor and Dorothy burst into the room. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard. In one hand she held her cane, in the other a lit oil lamp. It was getting dark.
‘Jennifer are you alright?’ said Dorothy, concern threading her voice. ‘We heard a scream.’ Dorothy’s eyes were tensely scanning the room. Once they passed the bookshelf and the closed kitchen door they relaxed a little and came to rest on Jen.
‘I’m ok,’ said Jen.
‘What happened?’ said Dorothy lifting the lamp.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jen.
‘She didn’t look at all well when I found her,’ volunteered David. ‘She was curled up on the floor, pale and cold and looked like she was asleep. When I tried to move her she burst into tears as if her heart would break.’ He laughed, but sympathetically. ‘She was upset that she didn’t have blue eyes!’
For the briefest instant Dorothy looked startled.
‘It’s stupid I know,’ said Jen, ‘but I’ve been having confused dreams about blue eyes since I was a child.’ Jen lifted her face towards Dorothy, but slowly, her eyes narrowing, as if the flickering light from the oil lamp were too bright.
‘And I’ve got a terrible head-ache.’
‘A head-ache?’ said Dorothy.
‘A real thumper,’ said Jen, who was by now squinting visibly and had one eye closed. ‘I think it could be a migraine, although I don’t think I’ve ever had one before.’
Dorothy looked nervously at the kitchen door, then turned toward Jen and smiled, but it was too reassuring.
‘It’s probably just the stress of the day that’s all,’ she said.
Jen had shut her eyes. ‘I…I need to lay down,’ she said with an effort. ‘It’s getting really bad and I can’t see, everything’s going dark.’
David swivelled on his knees and grabbed a pillow from Dorothy’s chair and slid it under Jen’s head.
‘I’m… frightened,’ said Jen. She was becoming pale again.
‘A phone!’ said David urgently looking towards Dorothy. ‘We need a doctor.’
Dorothy hadn’t moved.
‘Damn it Dorothy!’ he shouted suddenly ‘We need to call a doctor. Now!’
Dorothy bit her lip. ‘I haven’t got a phone,’ she said. The she appeared to shake herself and come to a decision. ‘Wait a moment, I have something. Sit her up.’
‘What!’ said David angrily.’ She needs a doctor.’
Dorothy’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘There is no phone and the nearest doctor is miles away. Now do as I say!’
David did as he was bid. Moving behind Jen, and as gently as he could, he rolled her off of her side and lifted her into a sitting position, tucking his knees under her back so she leant on him. Jen let out a low moan.
As David was sitting Jen up Dorothy put her cane down and crossed to the kitchen door. She unlocked it and disappeared into the next room.
The smell that David had humoured Jen about earlier that afternoon now washed over him. She had been right. It was an odd smell, cloying, but not overpowering, almost like fallen apples. He craned his head and leant forward to try and see into the kitchen, but he was too far behind the open door, and as he did so Jen let out another weak moan. He stopped trying to lean forward and sat back.
From the open door came the sound of a cupboard opening and closing, followed by the sound of glass chinking. A few moment later Dorothy returned. She closed and locked the door behind her. In her free hand she had a glass. It contained a small amount of honey coloured liquid and steamed slightly. From it came the fragrant ‘apple-peaches’ smell.
‘Jennifer!’ said Dorothy loudly as if trying to awaken someone deeply asleep. She then dropped to one knee beside her.
‘Jennifer. You must drink this.’
Dorothy placed the glass at Jen’s lips. She moaned softly again, her arms remaining limply at her sides.
‘David, tip her head back,’ she said.
David did so. Dorothy squeezed Jen’s mouth open and then poured in some liquid. Jen still had her eyes tightly shut, but she swallowed. After only a moment she blinked and opened her eyes.
‘Quickly,’ said Dorothy, some of the urgency now gone from her voice. ‘Drink the rest of it before it gets cold.’
Jen took the glass from Dorothy and drained it. She closed her eyes again as if returning to sleep, then a broad grin spread across her face, colour returning to her cheeks. She sat up, opened her eyes and looked up at Dorothy.
The old lady relaxed visibly.
‘Wow!’ said Jen. ‘That stuff is amazing.’ She paused, listening. ‘Every time my heart beats the pain recedes noticeably. My headache’s almost gone. What is that stuff?’
Dorothy picked up her cane and pushed herself to her feet. She smiled, but with little humour.
‘Just simple country medicine that’s all.’
‘Well it’s quite something. You could make a fortune with that stuff.’ Jen tipped the glass up again, trying to get out the last drop. She then gave up and wiped out the residue with her finger. ‘It’s got an amazing taste, sweet like fruit, yet almost nutty. Like tasting the smell of pine-resin if you get what I mean. What’s in it?’
‘Just a few woodland herbs and a little ingenuity,’ said Dorothy. She then leant over and relieved Jen of the glass who was by now studying it intensely and looking rather disappointed that it was empty.
‘What was wrong with her Dorothy,’ said David quietly. He was still sitting on the floor behind Jen.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dorothy turning away quickly. She then started to move about the room and light her lamps. At her back David’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he said nothing. When Dorothy had finished lighting the lamps she turned back and peered intently at Jen.
‘How are you feeling?’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Jen. ‘If a little teary.’
Dorothy nodded to herself. ‘And now I really must throw you out.’
‘That’s it?’ said David his voice still quiet. ‘She looked like death five minutes ago, and you’re dismissing it like a stubbed toe.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’ said Dorothy, her voice surprisingly calm. ‘We don’t know what it was other than a bad headache, and you say you feel alright now don’t you Jen?’
Jen nodded ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘although I did feel pretty awful?’
‘There you are then.’
‘Just from a simple herbal remedy?’ said David suspicously.
Jen saw Dorothy’s eyes flash, but when she spoke again she was still calm.
‘What do you think modern drugs are? Most of them are simply refined herbal remedies. I would say that Jennifer’s recovery is evidence enough the old country cures still work. Now if you don’t mind.’ She indicated the door.
David let the matter drop and got to his feet, then went to help Jen.
‘I’m ok David, honestly, ‘ she said, and stood up.
‘We’ll see you in the morning anyway Dorothy,’ said David.
At this Dorothy looked a little surprised.
‘Phillips? My diaries?’ prompted David.
‘Oh yes of course,’ said Dorothy and then ushered them out of the door.

 

Chapter 4 Dorothy

 

Their trust only came with time;  and a great deal of gold.  I always felt uneasy about the bullion.  John took one too many chances this time,  I wish he had never become involved, yet without him none of it could have happened.  The hall is supposed to be a place of utmost secrecy, known only to a few, yet Scotland Yard has become involved.  I knew I should never have trusted the Government. The men in grey suits will destroy the world.

A.K. August  20th 1897

Jen paused,  for the moment reluctant to move, the slam of the door and the clunk of the  bolts still  reverberating off the walls as  her eyes adjusted to the halls cool half-light.  She sniffed. The place smelt old, stuffy, as if it had been kept in an airless dusty gloom for years.

Steadily her eyes became more accustomed.  The first thing to get her attention was the floor.  She was standing on the edge of a vast chess board, the outsized black and white squares of which, lead her eyes on into the hallway and up to the foot of a great wooden staircase.  The staircase swept up and directly away from her to a low landing, where it narrowed dramatically, before dividing and continuing its journey in two sweeping arcs that ran up, over, and back towards the front of the building, ending somewhere above her head and out of sight. To each side of the staircase, and  planted on the black and white squares like oversized chess pieces, were the bases of two  Gothic columns.  Each column consisted of a number of smaller stone stems, the collected girth of which formed the pillar itself, which soared upwards to the full height of the building, where it then divided, each stem parting from its neighbour before curving over and fanning out to form the ribs of a high  vaulted ceiling.

What little light there was came in torn shreds from a vast black curtain that dominated the facing wall, and that Jen supposed was covering a tall, narrow window.  The curtain  looked like a great tattered sail, and stretched from the landing almost all the way up to the vaulted roof far above.  It looked as if it had weathered many a squall, but the shredded holes looked as if they came from the ravages of moth and time, rather than from  any terrible storm at sea. For a second the ragged holes appeared to glow  brightly, then outside as  the sun came out, dusty white javelins of light arrowed out over the staircase and chased the darkness away from all but the deepest corners.

Jen blinked and stepped forward, her eyes once again confused by the change in lighting. For a second she thought she saw the shape of a figure tying to resolve itself in one of the torn bars of light.  Suddenly her heart leapt into her throat as she was startled by a loud rapping noise.  The old woman was stabbing impatiently at the floor with her cane, the sharp sound rattling off the walls.

‘Come on girl,’ she growled.  ‘I haven’t got all day.’  Without waiting for a reply the old lady turned on her heel and disappeared down a corridor to the right.

Jen looked back towards the curtain, but the light had dimmed, allowing the shadows to slink back out of the corners, the curtain gently stirring in the now cooling air.  She must have imagined the figure, but then..?  She shivered and  turned quickly towards the corridor where the old woman had disappeared. This was no place for an imagination.  As she reached the corridor she saw that it wasn’t as dark as the hallway, and glowed with a dirty yellow light.  The light came  from a collection of old oil lamps that were lit and placed at intervals along the floor.  The old lady wasn’t using electricity.

But then she wasn’t supposed to be.  The woman was meant to be the caretaker of the place, not a resident.  Then in the guttering light Jen saw long black soot marks on the walls above each lamp.  It looked as if the old lady had been shut in and finding her way by their light for months if not years.

Following the lamps along the corridor, and after a number of turns, Jen came to a door slightly ajar. Cooler blue daylight crept around it and out  into the passageway.  She stopped and knocked.  The was no reply.  Then she noticed a change in the air.  There was the same stale, dusty atmosphere, but now it was overlaid by a  heavier, yet at the same time fleeting  scent. She wrinkled her nose.  It  was almost like rotting vegetation, but then  she found herself  reminded of strawberries, or was it peaches?  She sniffed again,  and was that a  hint of nutmeg?  Jen knocked again.  A impatient  ‘Come in come in.’ Came from within.  Cautiously she stepped into the room.

The  room was some-what smaller than Jen had anticipated it might be, appearing more like a large study or sitting room in an average sized house,  although this illusion of scale was probably due to the amount of junk that was everywhere, and in places head high.

The room  reminded  Jen of an old junk shop, and as she cautiously  picked her way past stacks of teetering clutter and straining overfull bookshelves she half expected to see an old moose’s head, gramophone horn or elephants foot umbrella stand.  Every surface was covered in junk, including a bed, which hadn’t been slept in for some time, going by the labyrinthine assortment of plumbing and wiring which had no doubt found its way in from the scrap-yard outside. Then Jen noticed that half the stuff on the shelves  was food;  tins,  packets of cereal or  jars of preserve, all of it mixed in with books and papers that overflowed from the shelves and onto the floor.

The room had the feel of a place under siege, which  she thought,  it probably was.  More oil lamps were place strategically around the room, and with all the paper about Jen wondered about the fire risk, although currently none of them were lit, as one of a pair of shutters that dominated the far side of the room had been thrown open allowing in the light through a diamond leaded window.  The light was  dim, as outside  ivy had crowed thickly around the frame, softening the windows regular shape into a ragged hole.  In  places the ivy had pushed through to the inside, sending cracks up the walls and over a ceiling, which bulged down ominously.  In places  patches of plaster had fallen down, allowing the ceilings wooden laths to show through like the pared ribs of some decaying beast.  Some of the ivy had been allowed to grow right around the wall, tendrils of it fingering a rotten looking door frame that led off to another room, and from which Jen thought the strange smell  was coming from.

Although very cluttered the room did have some sort of order to it, with the focus being around a large table.  It had seen better days as one of its legs were missing, the vacant corner being supported by a stack of books whose crisp edges had long been softened by a thick fur of dust.  In the center of the table was a typewriter which looked as old as the hall, and  teetered dangerously on a stack of books and papers.  A battered wooden dining chair that was obviously the seat of the tables labours had been turned to face into the room.  Opposite this and with its back to the door and was a large and rather worn winged  chair. In it was installed the old lady.

Jen walked around to the front of the chair.  The old woman was sitting impatiently on the edge of the seat, with both hands resting on top of her cane as if ready to push herself to her feet and get on with the business of the day as soon as possible. With the light streaming in through the un-shuttered window,  Jen got her first proper look at a woman that until yesterday hadn’t even been a vague memory.

The old lady was unmistakably the woman in the photographs, but there was something strange about her.  Then Jen saw it.  On her last reckoning she figured the old woman to be well into her eighties, but now, seeing her in the flesh for the first time,  it looked as if age hadn’t touched her.  If anything she looked younger than in the photographs, and they were nearly thirty years old.  Her hair was exactly the same, wound into a bun on top of her head, but now instead of grey it was pure white,  odd wisps of it escaping and floating around her head like tendrils of steam.  Her hands had only a smattering of liver-spots, and her face, although pale still glowed with a health that would  be the envy of any woman half her age.

About her eyes and mouth she had  only the merest stroking of lines to give any  indication as to the age she actually was.  It was as if the woman had made a great play on being elderly when she had first opened the front door.  In the photographs Jen had thought she looked rather stout, with a fierce headmistress like bearing.  She had the fierceness all right, but didn’t appear to be as thick set, in fact she looked positively sprightly.  Jen also  thought the photographs showed her to be stooping slightly, and leaning on a walking stick.  Now only a silver capped, ebony cane remained to speak of a woman that must be well into her dotage, but even sitting down there was no sign of a stoop, the woman was ramrod straight, probably now carrying  the cane more from habit than from any genuine need for support.  Then the old lady looked up, and Jen found herself looking into winter-crisp  blue eyes  that were still clear and didn’t have a hint of cataract or glaucoma that would be eroding the sight of many a woman of her age.  Jen felt drawn, almost hypnotized by them.  Suddenly the dream was before her again.  The old woman’s eyes burned with the same abalone blue flame.  Jen felt her heart jump.  Were these the eyes of her dream?  They were close, very close, but no; no they weren’t the same. These eyes had a sadness, a deep tired sadness.  The eyes narrowed.

‘Well girl, what is there to look at!’

Jen jumped.  ‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered taking a step backwards and almost tripping over a pile of books. ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’

There was a hiss of impatience. ‘Well sit down before you fall down’  Jen winced at the woman’s ferocity and sat.

‘What?’ It was such a simple word, yet the old woman  used it like a weapon.  Jen swallowed.

There was another hiss.  ‘What do you want?’

Mosey.  Just tell her about Mosey! Jen grabbed the thought and hung onto it. Forgotten emotions of two days ago were rapidly coming to the boil.

‘My gran…’ She stumbled.  The words wouldn’t come.  With nowhere to go the stumble became a sheepish smile.

‘And?’  Punched the old woman.

Jen felt herself becoming light headed as if she were being slowly turned inside out.  She thought this would be much easier, yet somehow she knew she had been kidding herself.   It’s not that difficult!  Bullied a thought.  Just tell her about Mosey and then ask her about your mother and sister.  But she couldn’t. A confused lump of emotion had suddenly lodged  in her throat.  Why was she allowing herself to be treated like this?  She hadn’t taken this bullying behaviour from Phillips.  The old lady was as much of a stranger as he was.

‘But you wish she wasn’t don’t you?’  Nagged the thought.  ‘She’s the only one left.  You don’t want her to be a stranger.’

Jen pushed the thought away, but it was joined by others, all of them coalescing into a great bubble of emotion.  She could feel  herself filling up, the bubble  rising inexorably upwards.  She went to speak, but felt her voice thicken.  Jen swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

‘Mosey’s dead.’ she said at last, noting like a detached observer the tremor in her voice.

‘Who?’  The old woman stabbed her reply as if warding off a dog, a confused sea of harsh creases that until now had been hidden slashing across her face.

Jen  took a breath.  ‘My grandmother,’ she said too precisely, like a drunk trying to show they were still in control. ‘My grandmother… and your friend.’  Jen felt her chin tremble, and clamped her teeth together.  She opened her eyes.  The old lady wasn’t looking at now her but staring into space.  For a long while she didn’t move, not so much as a twitch.  Finally she turned her head and caught Jen’s gaze.   Jen returned her gaze unflinchingly.  The old woman then dropped her eyes to the floor and slumped back in the chair as if thirty years of lost memory were trying to crush her.  Suddenly she looked her age.

‘It was only a matter of when I suppose.’  The old ladies scowl had evaporated, the flint like harshness to her voice now gone.  She continued to look at the floor.  She looked tired, incredibly tired, as if it took an enormous effort to retain her granite like mask of impatience, and now that she had the opportunity to do so she was only too relieved to let it go.

‘When did she die?’ she said gently.

Jen took a deep shuddering breath, and dropped her own eyes to the floor, her jaw now throbbing with effort.

‘A fortnight ago Thursday.’

‘Hospital?’

Jen nodded.  ‘A stroke brought on by a heart attack.’  She took another breath. ‘I had to come.  There’s no-one left.’

The old lady looked up.  ‘That was very kind, but you needn’t have come all this way.’  She sighed. ‘I don’t think your grandmother would have been too worried if you hadn’t told me.’

‘You were close once weren’t you.’  Jen kept her eyes on the floor.

The old lady sighed again.  ‘That was a very long time ago.’  There was bitterness in her voice, but a bitterness heavy with sadness.  She then saw that a single tear had rolled onto Jen’s cheek.  Jen hadn’t dared  move or make a sound.

Suddenly warmth flowed into the room.

‘Oh Jennifer I’m so dreadfully sorry.  Please forgive me I’m behaving terribly.’

The damn broke.

Jen’s shoulders  silently heaved as she screwed her eyes tightly shut. Her  hands flailing  helplessly in the air as she tried to push away the old ladies kindness.  A sob choked out of her.  A moment later the old lady was at her side and gently but firmly pulling Jen’s head into her shoulder.  Jen flung her arms around the old woman, clinging to her like a pathetic child, sob after racking sob pouring out of her.  There was no  form, no control, just a flood of grief.  For a long while Jen felt she would be washed away, swamped in a great torrent of misery, but slowly and steadily, the tide started to ebb, until Jen found herself sitting on a clean white beach, the sea gently warm and playing around her feet, her hair blowing in a soft  breeze. Quiet, rested.

For a long time neither woman spoke, the only sound the deep steady pulse of an old clock, hidden somewhere in the cavernous pile of junk, the only movement Dorothy’s hand stroking Jen’s hair.  Jen opened her eyes, relaxed and let go of the old lady.  Dorothy returned to her chair and sat down.

‘You look just like your grandmother did when we first met,’ she said.

‘What, she had puffed eyes and a runny nose?’  Jen laughed at the nasal sound of her voice and blew into a handkerchief.   ‘She must have been quite a lot younger than I am now. Mosey would have been what, eighteen, nineteen.’

‘Yes that’s about right. I was a little older.  In my mid twenties.’  Jen caught the edge of a smile, the fine tapestry of lines on the old ladies face once again creasing, but this time they were dancing around her eyes, softening them.

‘I’ll be eighty-four this year,’ she said triumphantly.

‘Well you certainly look very fit for your age.’  For a second Jen was unsure where to go.  ‘I’ll be thirty next year.’  It might be small talk, but at the moment it felt like a safe direction.

Dorothy looked surprised.

‘Are you sure?’ she said.

Jen nodded.  ‘I was born on March the eighteenth nineteen-seventy-one.’

Dorothy’s eyes traced Jen’s face for a moment.

‘Yes of course. I ought to know your birthday,’ she said, embarrassment threading her voice.

‘Why?’

Dorothy sighed .‘I wasn’t just Rosemary’s friend, I was God-Mother to both you and your mother.’

‘Mosey never told me.’

Dorothy looked at the floor.  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no I don’t expect she did.’

She looked up.  ‘Did Rosemary never mention me at all?’

‘Never,’ said Jen sadly. ‘Not a word.  Until a couple of days ago I didn’t know either you or my…my-.’ Suddenly she was aware of her heart, it was pounding furiously.  ‘What happened to my sister?’  She blurted suddenly.

Outside the sun disappeared behind a cloud and the room dimmed.  Dorothy’s face froze

‘Your sister?’  she said cautiously, dropping her eyes back to the floor.  ‘Rosemary never told you about her?’

Jen shook her head. ‘Not a word.  I can’t even remember her. Again, until a few days ago I didn’t know she existed.’  Jen then turned to her bag, pulled out the photographs and handed them to Dorothy. ‘Along with some letters I found these  in an old biscuit tin. Mosey had deliberately hidden it.’

Dorothy took the photographs and started to leaf through them. She paused at one of the pictures and smiled.

‘Yes I remember that day,’ she said.  ‘We spent most of the time trying to stop you and your sister from soaking us as you splashed through the puddles.’  She shook her head sadly.  ‘You’re the spitting image of your mother.’  She looked up.  The pain on Jen’s face was not lost on her.

‘You know about your mother too, don’t you.’

Jen nodded and handed Dorothy the letter from the mental hospital.

’I found this.’

Dorothy took the letter and read it, her face turning grim.

‘Mosey lied to me,’ said Jen.   She told me that my mother died in a train crash in India.  I had no idea.’  Jen took a deep breath.  ‘I’ve also read the letters you sent to Mosey, the ones she never replied to. In them you say that my mother ‘Would not hurt the children.’  What’s this all about, and what happened to my sister?’

Dorothy looked long and hard at Jen and then  stood up and crossed to an old sideboard where she opened drawers overflowing with paper.

‘Try not to feel bitter,’ she said.  ‘From your grandmother’s point of view she was simply trying to protect you, that’s all.’

Dorothy returned to her chair clutching some papers.   She paused for a moment, studying  Jen, then  she handed her the papers.  They were newspaper cuttings. With mounting apprehension  Jen took them and started to read.

The Echo, Wednesday May 7th 1973 ‘Toddler Twins Snatched.’

Tragedy struck the Devon village of Monkswell yesterday when eighteen month old toddler twins Elsabeth and Jennifer Lea were snatched from their mother Ms. Bridget Lea on the edge of the Monkswell hall estate near Monkswell village, Devon.

Ms. Lea, 24 of London SW12,  was found wandering alone near the entrance of the estate in some considerable distress.  Ms. Lea was seen earlier that morning in the local village with both her children, and had come to pay a surprise visit to her God-Mother and family friend Ms. Dorothy Woolcott, long-time resident of Monkswell village and caretaker of nearby Monkswell hall.  Ms.  Lea was taken to Exeter hospital where she was sedated and put under observation.  A hospital spokesman described her condition as comfortable. Police are very concerned as to the children’s whereabouts.

Without pausing Jen turned straight to the next cutting.

The Echo Friday May 9th 1973 ‘Joy turns to tragedy.’

The police in looking  for ‘Toddler Twins’ Jennifer and Elsabeth Lea found one of the sisters, Jennifer, hiding in the roots of a tree on the Monkswell estate early on Wednesday evening.  The child appears unharmed, but has yet has not been able to speak. The joy at Jennifer’s safe return turned to tragedy when the body of a child of similar age was found nearby.  Police are at this time unwilling to comment on the discovery of the body, and although not positively identified, ‘The Echo,’ can confirm that  the body is of a little girl and is thought to be Jennifer’s sister Elsabeth.

Jen felt her heart jump.  She reread the passage.  ‘…body of a child of similar age…’

No!

There  was no panic.  There was no dread, or sinking feeling of realisation.  The cutting was  wrong, simply wrong.  It was like being told black was white.  Regardless of what she was reading Jen simply knew it wasn’t true. Her sister was still alive.  She turned to the next cutting.

The Echo, Saturday May 10th 1973 ‘Tragedy turns to nightmare.’

The tragic discovery of a child’s body on Wednesday evening, assumed to be that of abducted ‘Toddler Twin,’ Elsabeth Lea, turned into a nightmare  when the body, originally found on the edge of the Monkswell estate, went missing from Monkswell village surgery, sometime in the early hours of Thursday morning.  The body was being kept at the surgery overnight, and was due to be taken to Exeter hospital on Friday morning for identification and post-mortem examination.

Suspicion immediately fell on the child’s mother, Ms. Bridget Lea, who went missing from Exeter hospital that same night, and was seen in the village the following morning.  She was found on the grounds of Monkswell hall near the scene of the original ‘So called’  abduction.  Ms. Lea was immediately arrested, and police say at this time they are not looking for anyone else. The child’s missing  body has so far not been recovered.

Jen then turned to the last cutting.

The Echo, Friday May 5th  1974 ‘London woman committed to Grafton Abbess secure unit.’

In a case that has lasted nearly five months, Ms. Bridget Lea was finally found guilty of the manslaughter of one of her daughters on the grounds of diminished responsibility.  Ms. Lea who has been on remand at Mappleston woman’s prison will be  transferred to the secure wing of Grafton Abbess hospital next week, ‘For an indefinite period.’  At Exeter Crown Court today, presiding Judge Mr. Justice Pullen, said that it was one of the most tragic cases he has ever dealt with, complicated by Ms. Lea’s extremely  confused  confession and the theft of the child’s body, which to this day has never been recovered.  Ms. Lea’s remaining child Jennifer has been placed  in the care of her grandmother. Ms. Lea is not expected to appeal.

Her mother a convicted killer. ‘I…I can’t believe it’s true.’ Jen eyes continued to dance across the cuttings.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorothy.

Jen shook her head. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t believe it!

Your sister is still alive. Suddenly conviction was again shining brightly at her side.

‘Elsabeth is still alive.’

It was the first time Jen had spoken her sisters name out loud, as she did so she felt herself grow stronger, quashing the fresh grief that until that moment had been threatening to claw its way back out, and if her sister was still alive, her mother couldn’t be a killer.

Jen looked up at Dorothy.

‘Elsabeth is still alive.  Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.  It’s not wishful thinking, I can …,I can,  feel her somehow. She’s alive somewhere, I’m sure of it.’

For a moment Dorothy held Jen’s gaze, then dropped her own eyes.

‘But if that’s the case,’  she said gently.  ‘Why on earth did your mother make a confession and commit suicide?’

‘I don’t know.’  Jen dropped her eyes back to the cuttings.  She felt no doubt that this tragedy was true.  Besides there was the letter and the death certificate.  She looked up again to find Dorothy studying  her.

‘Regardless of how I feel,’  said Jen.  ‘You don’t think my mother killed Elsabeth either, do you?’  The old lady suddenly looked confused.  ‘Your letters to Mosey.  Remember.’  Jen took the bundle of letters from her bag and handed them to Dorothy.

‘That was a very long time ago Jennifer,’ said Dorothy, pain elbowing its way onto her face. Then, unable to hold Jen’s gaze she looked away.  ‘I’m sorry, but thirty years on… I’m simply not so sure.’

Jen had somehow been certain that Dorothy would confirm  that her sister was still alive, but now along with the cuttings and  the old ladies  unexpected doubt,  Jen waited for  her own belief  to vanish.  It didn’t. If anything she felt even more convinced.  Then she knew why.  The old lady was lying.  It was written all over her face.  She chose a new tack.

‘Why did Mosey blame you for what happened?’

For an instant irritation flashed onto Dorothy’s face, then she took a deep breath.

‘Your grandmother said that I influenced Bridget, your mother, too much;  destroyed her faith in God.’

‘Did you?’  said Jen.

Dorothy looked her straight in the eyes.  ‘No I didn’t.  I never believed in God in the way your grandmother did, especially not all that Papist clap-trap.’

‘That doesn’t fit,’  said Jen.  ‘You told me earlier that you  agreed to be not only  my mother’s, but also my; and presumably my sister’s God-Mother.’

‘That’s because Rosemary was my dearest friend, and she trusted me with the well-being of firstly your mother, and you and your sister. I became God-Mother out of friendship, not for any deeply held religious conviction.’

‘And?’  said Jen.

‘And I encouraged your mother to question,’  said Dorothy immediately.  ‘Not to take things on blind faith alone.’

‘That was a dangerous thing to do, especially knowing how religious Mosey was.  You had no right really.’

Dorothy’s eyes flashed dangerously.  ‘Neither did you grandmother!’  The old lady checked her tone.  ‘What I mean is, nobody has the right to indoctrinate anybody, especially not children. There is nothing more unfair than putting your own guilt and fears on a child.’

Jen nodded.  ‘I have to agree with you there.  Mosey sent me to a strict Catholic school.  If anything that sort of teaching only caused me to rebel against it.’

‘There you are then.  Besides your mother wasn’t around often enough for me to make a difference anyway.’

‘Around?’

‘She was always off travelling.  Your mother had a real ‘wander lust.’  In the  sixties she spent most of her time on the hippie trail in India.  Chasing the ‘Beatles,’ if I remember.’

‘I suppose the India bit makes sense; that ties in with Mosey telling me about the train crash.’

‘Well she had definitely been to India.’  Dorothy then stood up and returned to the sideboard.  A moment later she was back and handed Jen some photographs.

‘Your mother sent me these whilst on her travels.  They were taken before you were born.  That one is from Tibet I think.’

The top photograph was of Jen’s mother and had been taken somewhere in the Himalayas in bright sunshine.  In the background was a mountain range and  dozens of brightly coloured prayer flags fluttering in a strong wind.  Jen’s mother was wearing a bright yellow Shari that was billowing like a sail.  She was standing amongst a group of shaven headed and rather chilly looking Buddhist monks.  She had a honey gold tan, and wild chestnut hair  caught by the wind.  She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, a huge smile lighting up her face.

‘It’s peculiar,’ said Jen, ‘we look identical.’

‘As I said, you are the spitting image of not only your mother, but your grandmother as well. There’s a few more there.  You can keep them and the newspaper cuttings if you’d like.’

‘Thanks, I will,’ said Jen and looked up from the pictures.  ‘You still haven’t explained everything though.  Going by the newspaper cuttings I’d say that my mother’s  suicide was guilt from what she had supposedly done to my sister.  But then in all of your letters to Mosey you insist that my mother wouldn’t hurt the children, and you finish by saying the you have no doubt that Mosey was blaming you for what happened.  What did  happen?

‘Nobody really knows what your mother did.’  Dorothy had picked up her cane and  with the tip of it had lifted the corner of the rug and  was probing the clean patch beneath.

‘As I said your grandmother blamed me for a change that took place in your mother.  Rosemary insisted that I planted enough doubt in your mother for her to go tearing about the world, and still worse, to start experimenting with drugs.  I didn’t of course, the drugs were just a fall out of your mother being young at a time when they were freely available.’

She  lifted the corner of the rug a little further.  ‘Personally I think she simply wanted some adventure after too sheltered a life with her mother, but your grandmother didn’t see it like that. Rosemary knew my views about religion, yet  in the beginning our friendship didn’t really suffer, not on the surface at least; but she must have always been brooding about it, as when your sister disappeared and your mother was arrested, her true feelings came pouring out in a great row.

Dorothy paused for a long moment and then continued.

‘Your mother at first insisted somebody stole your sister, then her drug taking came up at the trial, and soon after that her  confession. Things started to go  against her after that, although later she insisted that she was forced into making her confession.   Personally I think tha-‘

Suddenly a tapping came from the un-shuttered window.  Dorothy flipped the corner of the rug back and stabbed it into place.  Jen swung round in her chair expecting to see Phillips, but instead saw hands cupped around eyes of a much younger face.  It was the hitch-hiker from the pub.  As Jen turned around he stepped back from the window and motioned for her to open it.

‘Who  the hell is that?’ said Jen.  ‘I saw him in the pub.’

‘He’s been trying to get in here all week,’ said Dorothy, her granite mask sliding back into place, ‘along with that Phillips man. One of his cronies I’m sure.’

‘Well we ought to find out what he wants,’ said  Jen and stood up. ‘We can’t leave him standing in the flower bed all afternoon.’

Dorothy grunted.  ‘You talk to him if you wish.  But I’m not letting either him or Phillips into the hall.’

Jen sighed.  ‘You’re going to have to start co-operating soon Dorothy. Phillips will bring in the police if you don’t.’  Dorothy pursed her lips and turned her head away like a pouting child but said nothing.

Jen turned and walked to the window. As she reached it she found that the hitch-hiker had stepped back and was now joined by Phillips.  Jen opened the window.  At the sound of it  Phillips’s suit pulled him smartly to attention  as if he were about to be invited into a crucial meeting.  Phillips stepped  towards the window whilst the hitch-hiker hung back.

‘Please!’ hissed Jen.  ‘I need me a little more time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Phillips sternly, and then raising his voice.  ‘There is a gentleman here who is already showing a keen interest in buying the hall.’  Phillips stepped to one side and indicated the hitch-hiker.

‘Mr. David  Stone.  An American.’  Phillips  wormed the word from his mouth like an unwanted fish bone.  ‘And as soon as the estate agent arrives there is a survey to be done. I must insist that I be given full access to the interior of the hall immediately.’

Suddenly Phillips’s eyes widened, then he vanished as if a trap door had opened beneath him.  There was a rush of air past Jen’s ear and a blur.  It was Dorothy.  She had stabbed her cane at Phillips’s head. Thankfully he was too quick , however she had over estimated the distance, and the end of her cane darted cleanly through one of the windows leaded lights, shattering the diamond of glass. Phillips leapt from the flower bed as if stung, shaking splinters of glass from his hair, the suit flailing his limbs about like some mad puppet.  His hair now given free reign leapt in all directions, giving the impression that his head raged in an inferno of silver.  In any other situation the sight of this spidery middle aged man leaping about as if in some Ealing comedy would have been funny, but the quiver of barely contained  rage in his voice was menacing.

‘That is the last straw!’  shouted Phillips.  Before Jen could say anything he had spun on his heel and walked away.

Jen turned away from the window and walked back into the room.

‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do, ‘ she said.

The old lady ignored her and sat back in her chair.

‘Dorothy you’re going to have to let him in at some point, you can’t keep attacking the man every time he tries talks to you.’

‘This is my home!’  Dorothy stabbed her cane at the floor sending up a small cloud of dust. ‘I won’t be thrown out by that reptile of an individual.’

‘That’s not strictly true is it?’ said Jen.  At this the old lady glowered at the wall.

‘Besides, from what Phillips says, the Ministry isn’t just  going to throw you out.  You’ve got your cottage in the village, a pension and they’re going to give you a generous severance payment.’

‘I don’t care about the money.’  Dorothy waved away the comment as if batting a fly.  ‘This is where I belong!’  She stabbed at the floor again.

‘Dorothy!’ said Jen sternly.  ‘You heard what he said.  If you don’t start co-operating he’ll call in the police and have you thrown out.’

‘Whose side are you on!’ spat Dorothy, the scowl returning to her face.  ‘That’s why you’re really here, you’ve come to turn me out.  How much are they paying you?’

‘Dorothy please don’t do this.’  Jen crouched before the old lady and went to take her hand, but Dorothy snatched it away.  Jen took a deep breath, stood up, collected her bag and then picked her way through the clutter to the door.  She paused.  ‘I can’t help you unless you want to help yourself.  If you need me I’m staying at the pub in the village until Sunday.  Thank you for seeing me..’  Dorothy didn’t move and continued to glare at the wall.  ‘I will be there for you Dorothy.  But first you’ve got to help yourself and co-operate with Mr. Phillips.’

The clock beat its steady pulse for a long moment, but Dorothy said nothing.  Finally Jen turned to leave.

‘If only we had been able to get to know one another better,’ said  Dorothy suddenly, her voice cracking with emotion.

Jen stopped in the doorway.  ‘It’s not too late,’ she said.

The old lady turned towards Jen, her scowl gone.  She looked beaten. ‘I’ve very little time left,’  she said.

Jen came back into the room, sat down and took Dorothy’s hand.

‘What are you on about,’  she said gently.  ‘You’ve got plenty of time left. You’re very fit for your age.  Besides there’s nothing to stop us seeing one another as often as we like.’

For a moment there was a brief struggle in Dorothy’s eyes, then she relaxed and returned the squeeze of  Jen’s hand.  ‘Not if I leave the hall. The place keeps me fit and healthy.’

‘What, heaving scrap metal about,’ said  Jen and grinned.

‘Not that!’  said Dorothy sharply.  She then smiled sheepishly and  lowered her tone. ‘I’m sorry.  You see I’ve been studying the natural history around here for years, particularly the plants, and to leave now would leave my work unfinished. That’s what I mean by having no time.  My work keeps me going.’  She smiled again, but now it was filled with resignation.

‘Can’t you take some of the plants with you?’ said Jen.

Dorothy shook her head sadly.  ‘No. There’s far too many, and besides it’s not just the plants but the trees  as well. There are species here that seem to be indigenous to the estate.  I believe that the valley has it’s own unique eco-system.  I saw you and Phillips go round the back of the hall.  You can’t have missed the Great Conservatory.  I’m sure it was built  to aid in the study of  the local environment.’

‘Phillips mentioned it.  He seems to know quite a lot about the hall and the estate.  He said that-‘

At that moment a voice cursed.  Jen looked up to see the hitch-hiker. He was half-way through the open window.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said.

‘Trying to get in,’ said the man calmly, and dropped to the floor.  He then leant back out of the window and lifted in his rucksack.

Dorothy was on her feet her face screwed into a red-rage. For a long moment she didn’t speak, then .

‘Get out!’  It was barely more than a hiss.

The hitch-hiker held up his hands defensively. ‘Look Ma’am, I just need to talk to you for a moment.’

‘Out!’

The hitch-hiker ignored her and pressed on. ‘Please Ms.  Woolcott this will only take a few minutes of your time.’

Dorothy stepped forward, the tip of her cane lifting from the ground.

‘I said out!’

The man’s face hardened. ‘Jesus woman, I’m not your enemy just listen for a moment.’

Suddenly the cane whipped into the air, but before it had time to reach it’s mark the man caught it.

‘Don’t be so stupid.’ he snarled, the cane inches from his head.

Surprise and a frustrated rage leapt onto Dorothy’s face, the cane trembling as she tried to win the uneven battle.  The man’s voice became quiet.

‘Look Ms. Woolcott,’  he said still holding the cane.  ‘ I know about Norman Sutherland:  your Norman!    I’ve got his last letter to you.’

The livid colour vanished from  Dorothy’s face.  Now she was looking at the man, really looking. For a moment her arm hung forgotten from the cane, then it dropped weakly to her side and she staggered backwards.

‘She’s going!’  Warned the man, dropping the cane and making a grab for her.  Startled into action Jen leapt forward and guided her into her chair.

‘Christ!’ shouted Jen, ‘you could have killed her.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve been trying to see her since Wednesday.’

‘Is everything alright in there Miss Lea.’  A terse voice came from outside.  It was Phillips.  He was back, but standing a discrete distance away from the still open window.

The hitch-hiker  crossed over to it. ‘Everything’s ok thanks Mr. Phillips,’  he said.

‘Mr. Stone?’

The hitch-hiker ignored Phillips’s confused expression. ‘Everything’s  fine.  I’ll drive Miss Lea back when I’m done.  Thanks for your time.’

Without waiting for a reply he closed the window and turned back into the room.

Chapter 3  Mr. Phillips

 

They tell me that our two realms have never been together for so long, yet in all this time I have only  ever once seen Fae as more than a dream.  He ‘borrowed’ the Maerar  and I crossed over with him.  Now I think of it, he was probably  trying to  woo me with the place itself.

Casscalidan drae ti maenor dovet car minom Faejya  –  Casscalidan the brightest of Faejya’s jewels, my heart dwells there forever.

I shall never forget  sunset over  the city of falling water,  that vast  red sun, pouring its crimson light over the  moons and  onto the city  like wine. Casscalidan will be my most  enduring memory. Never have I known a place of  such serene beauty.

A.K. July 22nd 1897.

 

The car was like Phillips, spotlessly clean but  looked older  than it probably was.  Opening the door Jen was hit by  the heavy cloying smell of stale tobacco, and  wondered if  her bravado at accepting Phillips’s offer of a lift had been a mistake. No petrol!  She reminded herself and climbed in.

Even before starting the engine Phillips lit another  cigarette.  Jen immediately started to open her window.

‘I would be most grateful if you would leave the window up Miss Lea.  I tend to feel the cold somewhat.’

‘Well I’m sorry Mr. Phillips,’ said Jen winding furiously,  ‘but I tend to need oxygen somewhat.’ Phillips blinked rapidly but said nothing. He then started the car and set off, turning left out of the car park and on through the village  and away from the lane Jen had come down earlier. Phillips hadn’t  got the car into top gear before the last of the houses were behind them, and the trees were once again arching back over the road.

It wasn’t a wonderful start, thought Jen and  tried to start the conversation again.

‘Have you been with the Ministry long Mr. Phillips,’ she said  brightly.

‘Thirty two years.’

‘That’s quite a time, don’t you want to retire.’ Jen knew she’d blundered before she finished.

‘No,’ said Phillips tersely and drew on his cigarette.

This was going to be a long drive, thought Jen.  Getting a conversation going with the man was like trying to pull a train. Small talk was going to get her nowhere. She decided to come straight to the point.

‘Look, if you want me to help you, you are going to have to help me first. I know nothing about Dorothy…or rather Ms. Woolcott, Monkswell hall or any of it.’

Phillips blinked rapidly and drew on his cigarette before stabbing it out into a dusty, overflowing ash tray.

‘Very well,’ he said, his nostrils flaring as the smoke cascaded out.  ‘What do you wish to know?’

‘For a start how is it that Ms. Woolcott is living at Monkswell Hall if she doesn’t own the place?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Phillips. ‘ Ms. Woolcott  has a house in the village.  She is supposed to be the caretaker of the hall nothing more.’

‘Has she always looked after the hall?  If she has I’ve got photographs that would suggest she’s been there for nearly forty years.’

Phillips nodded. ‘That would be about right.  She’s been the caretaker  since just after the Second World War.’

‘She would have been a young women then.  Why  would she want to spend her entire life looking after an old building?’

‘Perhaps she loves architecture,’  said Phillips icily. ’Some of us do care about our cultural heritage, and not just restaurants and fast cars.’

Jen decided to ignore the attack.

‘Yes,’ she said,  ‘but with respect that’s not typical. Didn’t she ever get married, have a family?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware, although I can say that the years of prolonged isolation has done nothing for her mental stability.’

‘That could be more to do with her loosing her job. Why does the Government have to sell the hall now anyway?  Can’t the Ministry just leave her to it, the women must be at least eighty odd, she can only live for so long.’

‘That is not a practical solution I’m afraid.’  For a moment Phillips almost sounded sympathetic.

‘Like any other Government department we need to save money. The hall has been surplus to  Ministry requirements for decades, and now that it is able to, the Ministry wishes to sell it as quickly as possible.’

‘What do you mean ‘Be able to.’ Haven’t you been able to sell it until now?’

Phillips dropped  a gear and slowed the car into a particularly tight bend.

‘Up until last year everything to do with the hall, especially its wartime activities were still classified as ‘Top Secret.  It was only this year that it was declassified, and only now of course, that we are able to sell it.’

‘Other than the Ms. Woolcott being in the way.’

Phillips said nothing, but Jen saw his eyes narrow and decided not to press the point.

‘How did she come to be caretaker in the first place?’

‘During the war Ms. Woolcott was an employee of the Ministry herself, although it was the War Office then.’

Phillips took a deep breath. ‘I know all this as not only have I got to try and persuade her to leave, but I’ve also been charged with delivering her old personnel file.’

‘That seems unusually forthcoming for the Government.’

‘And rather inconvenient,’ added Phillips,  ‘it’s really a job for personnel, people are not my strong point.’

Jen said nothing.

‘Old documents of this type used to be destroyed,  but as Ms. Woolcott is  still alive,  and with the current ‘Freedom of Information Laws’ the Ministry no longer has the authority to destroy such material, and where possible such documents must be passed on to their respective parties.’

‘Was she a caretaker at the hall during the war then?’

‘No, I believe she became the caretaker after the war ended.  I can’t go into more details about the woman’s war time work as I simply don’t know,  however I can tell you about Monkswell hall’s wartime role, which may in turn give us some indication as to what the woman did during this time.’

They had reached the top of the hill and were now speeding along a narrow ridge. At least Phillips had opened up a little.

‘Please!’ Encouraged Jen.

‘Well, a year or so  before the  commencement of World War Two the Government set up a number of intelligence stations, all of them based  in the countryside so as to guard against air attack.

There were three stations in all, each specialising in an aspect of code and encryption work.  All of them were housed in stately homes. The most well known of these was Bletchley Park in Buckinghamshire, but there were another two.  Sehton  Hall in Yorkshire, and Monkswell Hall, here in Devon. Whilst Bletchley Park and to a lesser extent Sehton Hall specialised in code breaking, the unit based at Monkswell hall turned their attention to the creation of new ciphers and encryption’s.

‘Did Ms. Woolcott create our war time codes then?’

Phillips shrugged. ‘As to her specific involvement we can only guess.  But it is not unreasonable to suppose she was involved in a major capacity, as only the country’s top brains were brought here.’

‘Doesn’t’ Ms. Woolcott’s personnel file tell you more?’

Suddenly Phillips shot Jen a look of disgust.

‘Certainly not, it’s private.’ He turned back to the road. ‘Besides it’s sealed.’

‘Yes of course,’ said Jen feeling foolish.  ‘ Does the Government own all three sites?’

‘Only Bletchley Park and Monkswell Hall.  Sehton Hall was leased from the owners for the duration of the war.  Bletchley park was brought by the Government in nineteen-thirty-eight, however Monkswell hall has been owned by the Government since eighteen-ninety-seven and has a much more colourful and interesting past.’ Phillips turned towards Jen expectantly.  The man was definitely warming to his subject.

‘Please. Do go on.  It sounds as though you know quite a lot about the place.’

‘It’s history is intriguing, although the reason for its construction is quite ridiculous.’

He turned back to the road  and then lit another cigarette, drawing  on it deeply.

‘The hall was a little known project of the Victorian architect Alfred Waterhouse and was built on the remains of a twelfth century priory.

‘Who was it built for?’  said Jen.

‘For the  Victorian entrepreneur Captain John Kingston, ’  Phillip’s glanced questioningly at Jen.

She shook her head blankly.  ‘Was he well known?’

‘You’ve heard of ‘Shiny Kingston’ surely, a decorated Captain of the Tenth Hussars. The Afghan campaign of eighteen-seventy-eight. He was very closely associated with Queen Victoria?’

Jen still looked blank.

‘No matter,’ said Phillips and turned back to the road.  They had be now left the ridge and were descending back into the trees.

‘So the hall was his country home then?’

‘Partly, said Phillips.  ‘He made a fortune trading in Afghan textiles in the eighteen-eighties, and actually brought  the place for his sister Annabel.’

‘His sister?  Wasn’t he married?’

‘Yes,’ continued Phillips, ‘but his sister persuaded him to buy and convert the priory before he married.  Apparently it was for a specific project of her own.’

Jen let out a long whistle.  ‘It must have been a pretty major project or he was very fond of his sister,’ she said.

‘Well John Kingston was a very wealthy man, and at the time his sister’s project was considered important enough to get the Government of the day involved and for them to spin a web of secrecy about the place.’

‘Really?’

Phillips nodded.  ‘Unusually for a woman of the period Annabel Kingston commanded a great deal of respect from certain quarters of the Victorian  scientific community.  However she wasn’t without her critics and one in particular.  What little in the way of records remain point towards her project being a definitive study of English natural history, whist other documents suggest her researches had something to do with ‘Origin of Species,’ and mankind’s evolutionary history in particular.’

‘That’s Darwin’s line surely.  Other than some of the basic  aspects of his work I can’t see what  ‘Origin of Species’  has got to do with English natural history.’

‘Indeed, and neither could Darwin.  And this is where the whole thing gets quite ridiculous. Annabel Kingston  insisted that man’s origins existed deep within mythology. At one point  she was even going on about  the legendary Aryan race of all things.’

‘Her contemporaries must have thought she was mad.  She would have been made a laughing stock surely.’

‘Not necessarily. Don’t forget that during the Victorian period what we now know to be impossible, was then thought of as being probable.  Speculation and theories  that myth and folklore might have a grounding in science were much more readily accepted then than they are today.  And this is where I think the woman was very clever.  She must have been very convincing,  as  her brother managed to convince the Government of the day to lend them eighty-five thousand pounds worth of gold bullion, saying it was essential to his sisters work.’

‘What! They gave them all that gold?’

Phillips nodded grimly.  ‘Well over a million pounds at today’s prices,  and then surprisingly when her research revealed nothing both John  Kingston and the gold disappeared.

Jen laughed.  ‘An superb scam by the sound of it. What happened to Annabel Kingston?’

‘She was apprehended late one summers night here at the hall by the police.  She almost fell down an  old well as she was running from the authorities.  The police caught her but only had her in custody for a short time as on the way back to London she managed to give the police the slip and was never seen again.’

‘And John Kingston and the gold were never seen again either?’

Phillips nodded.

‘By all accounts  John Kingston was very interested in theatrical magic and illusion. Apparently he used this to great effect to get away on the night that Annabel Kingston was arrested. There is some speculation that he fled to Eastern Europe, but no-one ever discovered the real truth. The Government of the time were  very embarrassed.  All they could do was cover the whole affair up, seize Kingston’s remaining assets, which by that time was only the hall. Unfortunately the whole thing finished on a rather tragic note. Not only did Kingston and the gold vanish but also his two year old son. The only one left was Kingston’s wife. She was found alone wandering around the hall babbling incoherently. By all accounts the unfortunate woman ended up in Bedlam mental hospital, where, I believe, she committed suicide.  Soon afterwards the hall was closed up.  It remained  untouched until World War Two  when it was taken over by the Ministry,  and of course since then Ms. Woolcott has acted as caretaker.  You now know as much as I do Miss Lea. Miss Lea!’

Jen didn’t answer. At the word ‘Suicide,’ she’d stopped hearing.  Suddenly Dorothy’s letters were before her.

‘Don’t blame Bridget for what happened.  She would not hurt the children!’ Outside the car it had become gloomy,   the wood pressing round the car like nightmare trees in a Grimm fairy tale. Jen shrank in her seat.  Two children had disappeared.  Both mothers had ended up mentally disturbed and committing suicide.  It had to be a coincidence,  the events were over a century apart. But then both groups of people had been involved with the hall.

‘Miss Lea?  Miss Lea!’ said Phillips loudly.

The wood had opened up again, the dappled sunlight was back strobing across the car.

Jen shook herself.  ‘I’m so sorry. What did you say?’

‘I said Miss Lea, that there is no more I can tell you.  You now know as much as I do.’

‘Yes, thank you, I’m sorry.’ She blustered.  ‘It’s just that last part about  Kingston’s wife was rather sad.’

‘Yes well that’s life’s tragic reality.  We all have our crosses to bear.’  Phillips’s tone had become icy.  For a short while Jen thought she had been talking to a person.  Now the suit was back driving.

Jen then noticed that Phillips had slowed the car to a halt and was turning right into a narrow, wooded lane.

‘We are now entering the Monkswell Hall estate,’ he said

They  had not driven more than a hundred yards when Jen suddenly jumped in her seat.

‘Stop the car!’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Stop the car!’  ordered Jen again, surprised at the authority in her voice, and  grateful for the distraction  from disturbing thoughts of missing infants and suicide.

Phillips stopped the car, his eyes smouldering in irritation.  ‘And?’  he said.

‘There’s something missing.’

‘Missing.  What do you mean, ‘Missing?’

‘Don’t most great estates have gates at the entrance,’ said Jen, opening her door and jumping out.  Phillips uncoiled himself from his seat and followed her.

‘I thought Miss Lea…,’ he said officiously, and striding around the car, ‘that you could not remember coming here.’

‘I can’t, it’s more a nagging feeling of déjàvu. Jen then  opened her bag and took out the photographs.  ‘Of course,’ she said.  ‘There’s something not right here. Look at these.’  She handed the photographs to Phillips.  ‘The landlord said something about these pictures being taken when the gates were still at the hall.  I think they were just here somewhere.’

Phillips looked at the pictures and shook his head.  ‘I’ve never seen any such gates, but they do look as if they might come from the estate.’

‘Hang on a moment.’  Jen stepped  away from the car, her head craned backwards.  ‘Look at that old tree, in fact it’s not a tree at all, but a column. Jen turned and trotted a short way back up the lane.  ‘Yes!’ she cried.  ‘From back here you can make it out more clearly.  There’s another one on the other side of the road.’

On either side of the lane and almost concealed by the trees that grew about them, were two stone columns. The  thick matting of ivy that grew over them added to  the illusion that they were  old tree trunks. Jen ran back up the lane to  the left-hand pillar.  It stretched up above her for the best part of twenty feet.

‘And these bushes crowding up to the columns, are hiding the remains of a wall.‘

At the base of the pillar Jen then  bent over and pushed the ivy to one side, to reveal the rusty remains of a hinge.

‘Yes look,’ she said.  ‘There were definitely gates here at some point.’

‘You’re quite right Miss Lea.’

Behind her Phillips had quietly pulled out a large piece of paper from the car and was spreading it out across the bonnet.

‘Your photographs jogged my memory.  This is a print of some of the original architectural drawings of the hall, showing  how the place would look when completed.’

Jen joined him at the car.  ‘There!’ she said, and pointed to the bottom right hand corner of the plan where there was a small but precise drawing of a pair of gates.’

‘For detail, see…’ She leant forward and squinted, trying to read more of  the drawings accompanying text.  Age of the original document, plus poor reproduction of the facsimile made it difficult to read.  ‘For detail see drawing number W-R-T dot  I-R-N nineteen-one, and nineteen-two.  I don’t suppose you’ve got them with you?’

Phillips shook his head.  ‘No I’m afraid not.  This was just a package quickly thrown together to assist in the survey of the place.’  Phillips then pulled a small notebook from his pocket, and with a surprisingly delicate hand began to write.

‘Why the note?’

‘Just proper procedure Miss Lea.  The removal of the gates might mean that Ms. Woolcott is responsible for criminal damage or theft.’

‘What!’ Suddenly Jen could feel her temper rising.  She threw her arms before her and  crossed them.  ‘All right then, how?  The woman must be over eighty years old, how on earth do you think she took them down.  They must have weighed over a ton each.’

‘Half a ton actually, going by the drawing.’

‘Anyway…’ Continued Jen  glaring at Phillips.  ‘I don’t see how you can hold her responsible for the loss of the gates, if, as you say, she is only the caretaker.’

Phillips calmly folded away the drawing and put it back in his case.

‘I don’t intend making any accusations Miss Lea.  But the fact of the matter is a pair of rather valuable looking gates are missing, and they are going to have to be accounted for, and as I have already told you, the back of the hall has been turned into a scrap-yard. More than just a coincidence I think.  Shall we?’

Phillips had pulled open the door on his side of the car and was waiting for Jen to do the same.  Reluctantly she climbed in. Phillips started the engine and they continued on their way.  The man was an utter shit. Now more than ever she was determined to help the old lady.

A hundred yards beyond the columns the trees closed back over the lane and once again the light  dimmed.  It was as if they had driven through the entrance of a cave, but this time it wasn’t so much darker, more as if the light was softer, as though they had dived into a deep emerald pool.

To the sides of the road  Jen could see shafts of gently undulating sunlight, increasing the sensation that they were underwater, but the light was not disturbed by fish, but by the dance of the woodland canopy far above, the new spring leaves giving the light a soft green coolness that Jen felt she could almost drink.

Before them the trees seemed bigger and older than any she had yet seen in the valley, the ancient boughs arching right over the road, the branches of the trees so intertwined that they shaded the lane from the sun in all but the leafless depths of winter,  the almost permanent shade causing the road to disappear under a carpet of moss that was only occasionally disturbed by the roots of nearby trees that in places had  lifted and cracked the tarmac in an attempt to win back their territory.

‘Mr. Phillips,’ gasped Jen suddenly and hardly daring to breathe. In a glade to one side of the lane something had caught her eye.   Such was her tone that without being asked Philips slowed the car to a halt.

‘Look,’ she whispered.  Without waiting for a reply, and as quietly as she could Jen clicked opened the door and slid out of the car. She took two carefully placed steps and then stopped, squatting on her haunches for a better view.

Less than two dozen yards away, and in an oasis of deliciously golden light, was a pure white stallion.  It was so completely and radiantly white it looked as if it were glowing from an inner light all of its own.  It was quietly grazing, its flank giving an occasional twitch that sent ripples of muscle scurrying up its back.  It seemed to be more than just a horse, there was something timeless, yet at the same time incredibly ancient about the creature.  It was as if in the space of a few yards the forest had aged thousands of years.  Even the air felt different, it was as if it were cleaner, no, older, as if the polluted ravages of the twentieth century had been swept away, or perhaps not even existed at all.

Then  warm air  heavy with the musky scent of the stallion washed over Jen.  It was a strong evocative smell that at first seemed to soothe her, but there was an edge to it, a subtle keenness that went deep into here mind, trying to hook memories that Jen knew were buried deep in her infancy.

She gave a confused shiver, opposing thoughts now writhing inside her mind like intertwined serpents, each trying to suppress the other. The wood and the horse were extraordinarily beautiful, it was like being in a fairy tale, yet it was that, that was what was wrong.  There was something unnatural about it. Everything about the wood was too perfect. Suddenly Jen didn’t feel right, she didn’t belong.  She felt small and vulnerable crouching there, the trees seemed too old, too big, suddenly she had the overwhelming  urge to hide, to squeeze between the tree roots of one of the great trees.

Suddenly the horse lifted its head, and for an instant Jen looked straight into great brown eyes that she felt she almost knew.   Then it snorted, and was gone.

‘When you’ve quite finished with this impromptu nature trail I really would  like to get up to the hall,’ said Phillips tersely.  He was standing next to her.  Suddenly the trees no longer looked  threatening.  The sunlit glade was now nothing more than a bright patch of grass.  The writhing serpents inside her head were gone, forgotten.

‘Did you see him,’ said Jen, quickly standing up and feeling rather foolish.

‘I saw a horse if that’s what you’re referring to,’ said Phillips flatly.

‘Wasn’t he magnificent.’ She peered into the trees, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the animal.

‘Do you mind?’ snorted Phillips.  ‘The time is getting on.’

With that he turned on his heel and got back into the car.  Jen said nothing and climbed back into the passenger seat. The man had absolutely no soul.

Five minutes later and as if surfacing from a deep dive the trees ended and the car emerged into a bright sunlit meadow.  Before them stood Monkswell Hall.

Phillips parked the car in the shade of a beech tree, then both he and Jen got.

The hall sat at the back of the meadow, which  Jen supposed must have once been formal gardens.

‘There’s something familiar about the place but I can’t put my finger on it,’ she said.

‘You ought to recognise it,’ said Phillips reaching back into the car and taking out his leather folder.

‘How come?’ said Jen still looking puzzled.

‘Well you’re from London,’ said Phillips.

‘How does that help?’

‘Kensington?  The museums?’

It was a building she had known since childhood, and one she had visited regularly  in a professional capacity for years.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘The Natural History Museum!’

Phillips nodded.  ‘The same architect at any rate.’

Now that she could see it, the similarity between Monkswell Hall and the Natural History Museum was unmistakable.  It had the same semi-circular arched Roman windows and the same dressing of fawn and blue-grey terracotta.  The main difference between Monkswell hall and its grander London cousin was simply one of scale, with Monkswell hall being considerably smaller.  Whereas the Natural History Museum had a pair of Florentine towers dominating its entrance, Monkswell hall had just one single more modest and somewhat shorter tower.  From what she could see of it, the hall looked structurally sound, but it was difficult to tell as the buildings overall shape was considerably softened in places by the encroachment of ivy.  This effect was especially pronounced below the first floor, where the foliage had become so thick that the building looked as if it had be sired from the surrounding woodland rather than having been built.  The overall effect was that the hall looked more like a quiet rural church that had not quite fallen into ruin, rather than that of a pseudo Gothic cathedral that was the Natural History Museum.

‘I thought you said the place was a medieval priory?’ said Jen.

‘Built on the remains of.  The front is a  façade.’

‘It’s pretty.’

‘Personally I think the invasion of ivy ruins the lines of an otherwise rather well balanced if quite modest building,’ sniffed Phillips.

‘Well I like it, and anyway I thought you said she had turned the place into a junkyard, other than being rather overgrown it looks pretty tidy to me.’

‘All the scrap is at the back of the property.  I have no doubt that Ms. Woolcott  heard the car pull up, and as I do not wish to risk attack from the letter box again, I suggest we try and find a way in from there.’

The road they had come down passed around the meadow and looped before the hall in a great oval. Off to the road’s left-hand-side the grass was flattened, and in places pushed into muddy ruts.  Here a track started and led off  to the  side of the hall.  Jen and Phillips crossed the meadow, picked up the track and  followed it.  After turning the first corner of the hall they came to a narrow gap between the wall of the building and the start of the trees.  The gap was almost completely filled by an old truck.

‘It looks  left over from the war,’ said Jen.  ‘It’s a breakdown truck or something, that looks like a small crane on the back.  Going by all the rust it looks as if its about to fall apart.’

‘It may have been used to remove the gates,’ said Phillips.

Jen snorted. ‘Who knows. I think they’ve been missing for years, besides I find it difficult to believe that anyone could drive this thing, let alone an eighty year old woman.  Anyway the tires are flat.’

‘Well it wasn’t here on my last visit, so somebody must have parked it here.’

Jen shrugged and started  to make her way past the truck.  It was a tight fit, the only way past was to turn sideways and squeeze between it and the damp  walls of the hall.  After a walk of  a further fifty yards, they turned the final corner of the building.  Jen pulled up short.

The scene before her was extraordinary. Although a junk yard it had a bizarre almost fairy-tale quality to it.  It was as if the witch from Sleeping Beauty had not had complete confidence in her thorn forest, and had thrown  junk and scrap metal in amongst the brambles for good measure.  The main  mass of junk and thorns  was at the rear of an open space, which made Jen think that the space  had only recently been cleared.  The smouldering remains of a bonfire stood to one side, and the acrid tang of wood-smoke still in the air confirmed her suspicion.

To the right side of the clearing was a hill of nettles, then Jen noticed that it was in fact a great pile of junk.  Poking stubbornly through the nettles was the discarded viscera of every conceivable type of machine, from old fridge compressors to discarded car tyres, steering wheels and the tubes of television sets.  There was even an old sewing machine.

At the edge of the clearing and nearest to where they stood were two cars.  Their smashed in windscreens and staved in bonnets said car-crash victims immediately. Nettles disappeared under the  wheel arch of one car, emerging again as a green waterfall from its  shattered headlight. The cars didn’t look as if they had been moved for some time. Jen thought the clearing had the look of an abattoir about it, the ground stained red- brown, but not with blood, but rust.  The tools of dismemberment were nearby. Oxy acetylene cylinders, what looked to be an old generator, a scattering of rusting hand-tools, chains, pulleys, and a jerry-built hoist made out of old scaffolding poles.  Underneath the hoist was the skeletal remains of another car.  Everything had been removed, there was nothing left but the chassis, and even this had been partly dismembered.  Behind this was the boundary to the clearing, and the main mass of junk and brambles.

‘Jesus!’ whistled Jen.  ‘What’s the woman been doing?’

‘It’s quite a mess isn’t’ it,’ said Phillips.

‘It’s the scale of it.  When you said junk yard I thought you meant a couple of old push bikes and perhaps a car.  The old woman can’t have done this all by herself.’

‘I have to admit it’s rather peculiar.  The other thing is the age of it all.’  Phillips waved his hand expansively.  ‘All this did not appear overnight.  My guess is that it’s been here for twenty years at the very least. Ms. Woolcott has got some explaining to do. Let’s move on and see if we can find a way into the hall.’

With that  Phillips started to walk across the clearing.

Jen followed him. As they got closer to the main bulk of the scrap  she saw that it had had been piled into a crudely shape wall.  It was about eight feet high and  consisted of outsized bricks,  that as she looked closer, Jen saw  were stacks of old fridge’s, freezers and washing machines, all of it netted to the ground by a great  tangle of brambles, that in places were an inch thick.

The wall was an unbroken barrier that, to the left, lead into the surrounding woods, and to the right,  towards the back of the hall.  As the wall got closer to the hall the brambles got thicker and thicker, the wall’s shape softening as the fridge’s and washing machines disappeared completely amongst the thorns.  Then the brambles spread out into a great green island, from the centre of which sprang a vast conservatory.  It looked to be broadly octagonal in shape, with one wall  attached to the hall.  It stretched up over three stories in height, ending only just short of the hall’s roof, and looked as if it would be more at home in Kew Gardens, rather than as part of a stately home in Devon.

On its inside Jen could see the branches of a tree, the afternoon sunshine picking out bright green gold leaves on the trees upper branches, which bent over as they met and followed the curved apex of the glass roof.

Jen and Phillips had by now walked to a gap in the brambles, beyond which there was a large pair of glazed double doors.  The brambles looked as if they were regularly cut back, to allow access to the doors, and in the gap there was a compressed mulch of grass and mud  that showed a confused pattern of footprints.  Jen crossed to the doors and turned the handle and then both pushed and pulled, but the doors were fast.  She then cupped her hands about her eyes and tried to peer in through one of the windows, but she could see nothing, on the inside the windows were covered by a sodden bottle green  mildew.

‘Well there’s no way in from here,’ said Jen.

‘No.’ agreed Phillips stepping forward and trying the door handle for himself. ‘Let’s try following the scrap into the wood and see if we can find a way around to the other side.  It must end somewhere.’

Jen allowed Phillips to take the lead and then followed him.  A rough path had been cleared along the edge of the bramble and scrap wall which lead from the conservatory out into the wood.   After a minutes walk the wall still hadn’t ended.  Jen noticed that the barricade had started off consisting mainly of fridge’s and freezers, but now after fifty yards, the building material had become car doors and bonnets, sections of oils drum, in fact anything metal.  Here and there old bits of timber poked out, a framework by the looks of it, keeping the whole structure together. They were now back in amongst the trees and the light had become dim again, and as she walked Jen noticed that most of the metal had developed a thick crust of rust.  If it wasn’t for the brambles, she reckoned the whole lot would have fallen down years ago.  She then came to a small clearing and  stopped.  There looked to be an old bedstead in amongst the junk.  But it wasn’t brass, and the bars looked to be too far apart and too heavy.  On looking closer Jen saw that there were animals sculpted between the bars, a rabbit, and that looked like a fox, and a bird. Was it a bird? No a figure with wings. It looked like a fairy of all things. Then the penny dropped.  It was part of the missing gates!

‘Aha!’ cried Phillips. Jen jumped, but Phillips was up ahead.  He had missed the bits of gate.  Jen could see his scarecrow thin silhouette framed against the bright sunshine in another  break in the trees.  He had come to the end of the scrap by the look of it.  Well if he had missed the gates she wasn’t about to remind him.  She jogged the last few yards and caught him up.  He was standing at the edge of another meadow.

‘Have you found a way past.’  She puffed.

‘I believe so.’

Jen lifted her hand to shield her eyes.  The sun felt too hot after the cool damp shade of the wood.  The gentle breeze of earlier had dropped. Now it smelt dry and hot. Crickets chirruped out in the long grass, whilst up above came the gentle warbling of a sky-lark.  The meadow was approximately a hundred yards across and in places there were patches of gorse and bracken.  Jen then noticed how odd all the surrounding trees suddenly looked.  She was reminded of windblown trees along a beach, they all looked distorted in the same kind of way, pushed back as if by a prevailing wind, except here it wasn’t the wind, more as if the trees were reluctant to grow toward the meadow, as if they knew that for them, that the place was strictly out of bounds.  Then Jen saw the objects of their reluctance.  A dozen or so yards inside the tree line, and navigating a circular path around the meadow’s  perimeter was the remains of a stone circle.

The stones were a dark blue-grey colour, all of them sparkling in the sunshine from  embedded particles of mica.  Whilst most had dark subtle striations of blue running horizontally across them, some were flecked with red and occasionally a deep burnt orange.  All of the stones appeared unshaped and no more than five or six feet high, and proportionately around twice as high as they were wide. Some of the stones had fallen down, the backs of them only just visible in the long grass, making them look for all the world like whales surfacing in a green sea.  Crossing the circle were the ruins of low, but quite thick walls.  It looked as if at one time a building had been sited in amongst  the stones.

‘Part of the priory ruins,’ said Phillips before Jen could ask.  ‘This was the chapel I believe.’  Phillips had pulled a drawing out of his folder and was studying it.

Jen walked further into the meadow then stopped and called back.

‘Hey, Mr. Phillips, look at this!’

Coming across a stone circle in the middle of a wood with the ruins of a building  sprawled across it was strange enough, yet considering England’s ancient history it wasn’t that unusual, and  Jen knew that early Christians used to construct their churches right in the middle of ancient monuments as a deliberate act in an attempt to convert the local population.  No it was the meadows other occupant that had caught her attention.

Occasionally, dotted around the countryside,  Jen had seen  old Nissan huts left over from the war.  The old corrugated iron buildings, were usually garden outbuildings, sometimes the larger ones barns.  The one thing she had never considered,  nor particularly cared, was how they were constructed.  Now she could not help but notice.  At the edge of the stone circle  was the remains of several of these old huts.  There were six of them in all, or rather the skeletal remains of five. All but one of them had been stripped of its corrugated  sheeting,  the remaining timber  frameworks covered in tendrils of climbing ivy.   What was startling, was that away from this main group and cutting into the circle was what looked to be a plated insect surrounded by a great nest of brambles. This was the sixth building, and it looked like a giant woodlouse,  reinforced with the corrugated irons skins of its companions, the brambles enclosing the structure in much the same way as the conservatory back at the hall.  Somewhere within two deep holes Jen caught a glint of glass, and supposed that this was where the buildings windows were. However the depth of the holes gave the impression that the creature had had its eyes put out, as if some terrible devastation had rained down from above, flaying the other buildings of their iron hides and only sparing this one at the cost of losing its sight.  The bramble and junk wall  they had been following ended at the back-end of this giant insect like a great tangled umbilical, tying it to the conservatory and hall now out of sight within the wood.

‘What the hell is that!’ said Jen.

Phillips looked up from a folded plan he was studying.  He was still standing at the edge of the meadow, the trees cutting off his view of the structure.  He  walked over to Jen.

‘Ms. Woolcott has been busy,’ he said.

‘But why?

Phillips shook his head, and  walked towards the hut. ‘There appears to be a door.’

It was made out of old road signs, tin cans, and other pieces of flattened metal that was nailed, probably to a wooden door underneath.  There was a path up to the door and windows, it was overgrown, but looked to be virtually free of the main body of brambles that surrounded the building.  The door was slightly ajar.

Jen stepped up to it and pushed.  It didn’t move.

‘Give me a hand Mr. Phillips,’ she said. Phillips hung back on the path.

‘I have already encountered Ms. Woolcott’s wrath,’ he said.  ‘You must excuse my caution.’

Jen gave up on the door and looked in one of the windows.

‘There’s nothing in there but grass.  I don’t think anyone’s been in her for years.’

Phillips walked up the path and looked  in the other window.  ‘Hmm,’ he said.  He then put  his folder down and attempted to push the door but with no result. He changed his position, lowered his shoulder and braced himself against the door. Reluctantly the door moved a couple of inches, then a foot, another eighteen inches, then it was half open.  Phillips stepped inside.  Jen followed.

The door had been blocked by a build-up of moss and grass which more or less covered the ground inside the hut, the movement of the door scooping a curve in the damp earth. There was no sign of a floor. Nettles and ivy had pushed in under the walls, but the main part of the ground was free from the brambles that was pressing against the walls outside.  It smelt strongly of damp earth and rotting timber, and in places the roof had corroded though completely, leaving a number of ragged holes, several of which were a yard or more across. Enough light and water flowed through the holes to allow grass, moss and in places  patches of nettles to grow. In the center of the hut was a shallow depression in the ground. In this  grew a  small tree.

‘Here is the end of the barricade.’  Phillips was on the far side of the hut. There was another door, again it was wooden, and clad in metal.  This door was wide open.  Behind it was a tangled forest of  brambles.  Jen then saw distant shafts of sunlight, peeking through the thorny tangle, the scrap in the barricade in the same advanced state of decay as the hut they were in.  Realisation dawned on her.

‘It’s not a barricade, but a tunnel!’

Phillips thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it might be,’ he said. ‘Impassable though.’

‘Yes but like you said all this metal has been here for years, decades possibly. If that’s the case then before the brambles came along the tunnel would have provided a completely covered passageway from here to the hall.

‘But to what purpose?’ said Phillips.

Jen shook her head. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m getting the impression that Ms. Woolcott is a very eccentric old lady.’

‘Quite. And you haven’t encountered the women’s temper yet.‘

With that Jen and Phillips left the strange hut and then continued walking around to the far side of the brambles and junk.

Phillips stopped and once again looked at his plans.

‘I just want to get our bearings,’ he said.

‘This area where we are now was once the administrative complex of the hall during the war.’

Jen looked over his shoulder at the plan.  Looking at the scale  they had walked about two hundred yards along the barricade tunnel to the remains of the huts. On the plan the huts were laid out in two  rows of three, and then another twenty yards beyond them the drawing showed the stone circle and remains of the priory.   A thicker line showed the edge of  a path leading from the huts back to the hall,  the  tunnel  running parallel with this. Another meadow spread out to their left.

‘The drawing shows the huts well short of the stone circle, but the hut we were in was right amongst the stones,’ said Jen.

Phillips stood up and refolded the plan. ‘‘Curiouser and curiouser, ‘ said Alice. Shall we continue?’

The way back towards the hall was easier going than the outward journey.  On this side of the tunnel the brambles had not gone so mad, the paving doing a reasonable job at keeping them in check and confining them to the junk. Now they were in open space Jen had a clear view of the back of the hall. It was surrounded by trees on all sides, most especially on the left where the trees pressed closest.  Along with the brambles, it looked as if the building where trying to shrug off a rolling green duvet, the ivy clinging so thickly to its lower walls, that now more than ever Jen had the impression that the hall belonged to the wood.  Within two minutes they were at the back of the hall, the barricade and conservatory now on their right hand side. There was much less scattered junk and rubbish on this side of the barricade.  What there was of it looked to be pieces that had been discarded  when the tunnel was being built. Again the  brambles continued to surround the conservatory in an impenetrable bramble necklace,

‘Well I guess it’s back round to the front door then,’ said Jen.

‘I suppose so,’ said Phillips moodily, ‘ but I want to take a last look before I have to try the door again.’  Phillips  was already walking away from Jen and  starting to  inspect the rear wall of the hall, which on this side of the conservatory was a good sixty yards long. Jen sat down on a stack of old car tyres and watched. Slowly Phillips walked the length of the building, carefully picking his way through the undergrowth and rubbish,  looking for all the world  like some giant secretary bird hunting for snakes on a distant African savannah.  Every so often he would go right up to the wall and poke around in the thick ivy.  Ten minutes later he rejoined Jen

‘There are a number of small windows and doors, but they’re all shuttered and locked from the inside,’ he said.

‘I noticed some trap doors over there.’  Jen pointed into the  brambles by the conservatory. The doors were at a forty-five degree angle near the ground, and looked as if they lead down into the cellars of the hall. Some kind of chimney made out of old tins poked up crookedly from one corner.

‘Not very useful Miss Lea there is a thick chain holding them shut, and I don’t fancy our chances against those thorns, let alone the chain.’

‘Well it looks like you’ve no choice but to return to the front door and try and persuade the old lady to let you in then,’ said Jen tersely.  It was hot and she was getting tired.  Phillips  lit another cigarette then turned on his heel and walked away.  On reaching the end of the building and without waiting for Jen, he turned the corner and disappeared.

Jen sighed stood up and followed him.  Five minutes later she had completed her circumnavigation of the hall and was  back at the steps and front door.  She found Phillips hammering on the door with his fist.  His hand was no match for the thick oak planking, and the thin weak sound he was making  didn’t appear to be going anywhere.

‘She’ll never hear that,’ said Jen,

‘Be my guest.’ Offered Phillips and stepped back.

Jen looked about her, saw a  rock, in what was once a flower bed,   retrieved it and slammed it onto the door.  This time they could hear the blow echo faintly within. She hit the door again. Both of them hardly dare breathe, straining  to hear any hint of movement.

‘Nothing!’ said Phillips

Jen leant towards the letter-box.

‘Careful!’ hissed Phillips, stepping back.

Ensuring she wasn’t directly in line with the letter box, Jen gingerly pushed  open the flap.

Nothing happened.

‘Ms. Woolcott’ called Jen tentatively, picking up a nearby stick and waggling it through the hole.

Nothing.

‘Mrs. Woolcott!’ called Jen again.  Then ‘Dorothy?  Silence.  ‘It’s Jennifer, Jennifer Lea, you may not remember me, but you knew my grandmother, Rosemary.’

Still there was no reply.

‘Look please open the door, I need to speak to you.’  Jen waited but there was still nothing.  She stood up.

‘If she won’t open the door, I don’t know what else I can do?  We can’t force our way in.’

Phillips rocked on his heels. ‘That is exactly what I can do Miss Lea. Look I’m very grateful for your time, but as you said you’ve done what can. You’re tried and I’m running out of patience. I think it’s time I called the  authorities.’

Suddenly there was a loud clunk from behind the door. Phillips leaped back like a startled gecko, and for a second Jen thought he might go scurrying up the wall.

There was another clunk, then the door opened a few inches. It was dark beyond the door, and peering into the darkness Jen could only just make out the outline of a figure and a pair of eyes.  They were looking past her suspiciously.

‘Dorothy Woolcott ?’ asked Jen tentatively.

‘Yes?’ The voice was female, but as to its age, Jen couldn’t  tell.

‘I’m Jennifer, Jennifer Lea. You knew my grandmother Rosemary.’

The eyes swung toward her.  ‘Yes, and?’

‘I must talk to you.’

‘Talk then.’ The figure didn’t move but the glittering eyes looked past Jen again.

‘Look Mrs. Woolcott I didn’t come here with the Government.’

‘No?’

‘No, but none the less if you don’t start to co-operate with Mr. Phillips, he is going to bring in the police and have you kicked out.’

Suddenly from behind her Jen felt movement but before she could react there was a rush of air and a loud bang.  Then she noticed the distinctive smell of oak panelling,  her nose was less than an inch from the now closed door. She rounded on Phillips.

‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do.’ Before he could reply Jen ducked down and slapped open the letter box. ‘Please, I’m not here for them.’

‘Quisling!’  Shot the reply.

‘Please Ms. Woolcott. You have to let us in.’

‘I will not let that man into my home.’

‘She is the caret-’

‘I understand,’ said Jen waving frantically at Phillips to shut up.’ But you heard what he  said if you don’t start to co-operate he’ll have you removed.’

Silence.

A long silence.

‘Ms. Woolcott?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘How about just letting me in?’

From behind the door Jen heard a long sigh.

‘Mr. Phillips has brought your old personnel file with him, at least let me bring that in and give it to you.’

‘What do you mean my old personnel file,’ suddenly the voice sounded agitated.

‘From the Ministry.’  ‘But please Ms. Woolcott,’ said Jen feeling her voice crack. ‘I’m not here with the Government.  I’m here for myself.’

There was another sigh from behind the door.

‘Very well, get my file.  But I will only let you in, I want to see that man standing at the bottom of the steps.’

Jen stood up and turned round.  Phillips had his arms crossed defensively, his lips  were thin and white. He was blinking rapidly.

‘I insist I be allowed into the hall,’ he said.

‘There’s no time for this,’ hissed Jen. ‘Just give me the bloody file, I know she’s not supposed to be living in there, but at least if I get in I might be able to persuade her to come out.’  Phillips didn’t look convinced.

‘Look what’s going to happen if the police come? To start with they’ll only get me to try and persuade the woman like I am now. Phillips stilled his fluttering eyelids, then reluctantly opened his folder and gave Jen the old ladies file.

‘And make sure she signs for it,’ he added pushing a form into Jen’s hand. He then turned and walked down to the bottom of steps. Jen turned and knocked again on the door.  A moment later there was a clunk and the door opened again.  The opening door  paused and once again Jen saw the sparkle of  eyes in the darkness.

‘My file?’ said the voice.

Jen hesitated for a moment.  Reluctant to give it up  until she was across the threshold.

‘It’s here,’ she said, quickly stepping round the door and offering the file to the eyes.    An unseen hand snatched the file away and then the  door slammed behind her.

Chapter 2 The Greenman

 

He seemed so much younger than me, yet   I  found him  so very  attractive.  But it was an attraction that even after all that time I found intoxicating in a way that was  disturbing.  It wasn’t so much  his  slightly too slim but graceful frame. Nor that great  heavy  plait of golden hair that hung over his shoulder and reached down to below his waist;  not even his  desperately white flawless skin  did I find odd.  No it was within  the depths of  his blue within blue eyes that I felt most uneasy.   Eyes that despite being cradled in the innocence of childhood, bore an ancient, timeless wisdom that  was familiar yet at the same time so  utterly foreign.

A.K. July 12th 1896.

 

There  had been no surname or telephone number on any of  the ‘Dorothy’ letters, so an initial  telephone call to introduce herself  was out of the question. However Jen had more luck in finding the location of the village, and after an hour trawling the internet and half a dozen phone calls  she had the  telephone number of  ‘The Greenman;’ Monkswell village’s one and only pub.

‘Proper ale on tap. Brewed locally it is,’  growled the pub landlord warmly down the phone.

‘Yes we’ve got a  Rose Cottage.  Down Drovers Lane.  It’s Dorothy’s house alright, although I haven’t seen her for a while. Probably best if you come and find her yourself.  Come for the weekend. We’ve a got plenty of cosy  rooms, and you’ll find the best of Devon hospitality waiting for you.’

That had been over two hundred miles  and two days ago.  Cultural Anthropology wasn’t the most lucrative living in the world, which in turn meant Jen had had to make do with the same worn out old car since her university days.

Once again she  glanced nervously at the petrol gauge. It was also one of those irritating problems that only ever occurred at the most inconvenient times, and never when she had taken the car to the garage to get if fixed. It hadn’t occurred for ages, and until now she had completely forgotten about it.  Had the needle twitched?  She  thought she had a quarter of a tank of petrol left, but she also thought she saw the needle giving its odd little warning dance it always did before diving towards the red zone.  Jen looked at her watch, it was nearly three. So much for reaching the village by lunchtime!

The drive down from London had been fine until she’d left the motorway, when Jen discovered that the road map she had with her in the car was too general to be of  any use in these obscure little country lanes. That along with the rain and  the car’s worn out windscreen wipers had made  the task of finding her way doubly difficult.  Jen slowed the car and  glanced  again at the petrol gauge.  The needle hovered around a quarter full, then twitched and dived into the red zone, before darting back up to a quarter full.

‘Damit not now!’ she cursed.   In  twenty miles she’d be out.  Suddenly up ahead she saw a break in the trees and a lay-by. Time to pull over and look at the directions the pub landlord had given her over the phone.  Jen pulled over and parked, killed  the engine and turned off the loudly  squealing and ineffectual windscreen wipers.  At least  it had stopped raining, which would make a change as rain seemed to follow her perpetually around the world.

It wasn’t that Jen hated rain but why she hated excavation work.  On her last trip to India she  thought she had gone early enough to avoid the monsoon season, only to have it arrive whilst she was still there. She ended up stuck in a muddy hole for a week, and was  why she had chosen cultural anthropology over archaeology;  less mud.

Jen got out of the car, stretched and took a deep breath.  Overhead  the angry storm clouds that had brought the rain had  begun to clear, revealing a sky of pure azure blue.   She had been driving continuously for the last four hours and it was time for a break anyway.

The cool spring air smelt delightfully  crisp after the rain, especially after more than a month stuck in the dank  fug of London. For the first time in she-didn’t-know-how-long, and despite  the discoveries about her mother and sister Jen noticed that she actually felt relaxed.  At least she now had more of an understanding as to Mosey’s years of bitterness, and her own unexplained sense of loss.  But that still didn’t explain what had happened to her mother and sister.  The answers depended on this Dorothy woman, and that of course depended on whether she could find her dratted village in the first place.

With that Jen reached back into the car and picked up the directions she had jotted down. After only a  few moments study she  realised they were useless.  She didn’t know when the pub landlord had last left the village, but his directions seemed to  rely on using  roads and road signs that had long since disappeared.  Jen then took out her mobile phone and looked at it doubtfully holding it in the air and turning first one way and then the other, in the vain hope of finding a signal, but  it was dead.  Suddenly she heard a dog barking.    It was a feint echo drifting on the breeze, and  sounded as if it was coming from somewhere in the trees off to the side of the lay-by.

Jen walked around the car, ducked under the lower branches and walked into  the wood towards the sound. Where there was a dog there was usually people.   Less than a twenty yards into the wood the barking abruptly stopped, and at the same time the trees vanished and  Jen found herself standing on an outcrop of rock that jutted pulpit like into  a thickly wooded valley that curved down and away in a great sweeping bowl.

A moment later the  barking started again, this time followed by a voice cursing it.  Both the barking and the voice appeared to be floating up  from a group of buildings that  were clustered together  at the base of the valley.  The buildings  were a couple of miles  and a good five hundred  feet lower than where she was now.  They looked to be bracing themselves against the trees, which flowed down into the valley and then broke around the buildings like a thick green river around a rock in a stream.

Other than the odd farm Jen hadn’t seen any other signs of life for miles, that had to be Monkswell village.  But how to get down to it? She couldn’t see a road, and  the sides of the valley looked far too steep to drive down. Perhaps the other end? She  peered into the growing afternoon haze, but if the village did have a more approachable direction she couldn’t see it. Well the villagers had to get down there somehow. There was only one thing for it, she would have to keep driving. If she kept the valley on her left, and bearing left she was bound to find a way down eventually.  Then she felt her stomach growl.  She hadn’t eaten breakfast, and then of course there was the petrol gauge. Jen just  hoped  she had enough fuel to make it to the village.

As soon as she pulled out of the lay-by the trees arched  back over the road and the needle started its nervous tick again.   Now that the sun was out Jen found that the dappled light flickering on and off  the windscreen and bonnet made seeing as difficult as  when it had been raining.  Suddenly  something to her left caught her eye. She  jumped on the brakes and brought the car to a juddering stop.  There was a road sign half hidden in the bushes.  She backed the car up.  It was one of those old black and white county signs left over from before the war, and was  leaning over at such an angle that it looked as if it was about to fall down.  Then Jen saw that it wasn’t so much falling as  pointing down   a narrow lane that descended steeply and doubled back on the road.  No wonder she’d nearly missed it, the lane was impossible to see in the direction she’d been travelling.

Gingerly she turned the car down the  narrow road. After ten minutes of snaking hairpin bends  and an increasingly strong smell of over-heating brakes, the  road flattened out the trees disappeared, and the car emerged between the first thatched cottages of what she hoped was Monkswell village.

As she drove  into the village Jen smiled to herself.  The place  was delightful and could easily be described as  ‘One of England’s most beautiful villages,’  in any number of  giant  ‘Coffee table’ books that could be found in any high street bookshop. It was the most unspoilt, most English, and at the same time  most unusual place she had ever been in. Of a neatly clipped village green and cricketers in their whites, there wasn’t a sign. It would  be completely out of place here, it would be too precise, too;…too prim.  The village was ‘quaint’ in the purest sense of the word.  There wasn’t  a straight line or square corner to be seen.  To her right a weeping willow set the tone.  It was stooping over an overgrown pond thick  with duck-weed and  was very bent, very gnarled and looked to be very old, bending so far out over the pond that one of its lower boughs disappeared into the water completely, making the tree look for all the world like a shaggy old man that having dropped something, was up to his armpit in the water trying to fish it out.

Opposite the pond there were a collection of squat cottages whose dishevelled  and rather green looking thatch made them look as if they were long overdue  for a hair cut. They appeared to be huddled together chatting conspiratorially, their warped and undulating roofs  echoing the folding   hillside that circled the valley.  The overall impression was that in a previous and once human existence the entire village had been a group of  strolling Dickensian players, and had, on their wanderings, accidentally stumbled into the valley, and finding it a particularly agreeable and comfortable spot, had  simply sat down and never left.

One of the cottages must have been very fat whilst human,  dark timber beams held back bulging white-washed walls  like a mediaeval scolds bridle, whilst set before it was the colourful feast of a cottage garden.  ‘Bumble Cottage’ had to be its name. Another of the houses was  more upright, having a  haughty, feminine  yet rather unkempt character.  This could only be ‘Havisham House.’ Yet it no way did Jen have the impression the place was falling down.  The village had definitely been cared for, it just looked that for literal centuries,  it hadn’t been fiddled with.

Jen had only driven a hundred yards into the village when the engine started to splutter. It was a familiar noise, the needle on the petrol gauge   now fluttering weakly in the red zone.  The steep descent into the village must have tipped the last of the petrol into the engine.  A moment later she spotted the ‘Greenman Public House’ and turned into its car park, just as she did so the engine gave one last reluctant cough and died.  With only the sound of  tyres crunching on gravel to announce its arrival the car rolled into the pub car-park.

‘Well at least I got here,’ said Jen  to herself. ‘I just hope there’s a bloody garage.’  She then grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car.

The ‘Greenman Inn’ lived up to its name. It was almost completely green from climbing ivy, which having no respect for stone or thatch, had almost engulfed one end of the building, making it difficult to see where walls ended and roof began. At the front and sides there was no pavement, what there was of the cobbled road disappearing under rough cut benches and tables that looked as if they were assisting in keeping the whole structure up.  Around these  sat  muddy  farm hands quietly sipping at pints of beer, the remnants of their  ploughman’s lunches before them.  They eyed Jen suspiciously as she got out of the car.  She smiled a greeting at them but they ignored it, so she just shrugged, took out a small overnight case and her handbag,  slammed the car door shut  and crunched her way across the  car-park and ducked into the pub.

Jen paused in the doorway for a few seconds allowing her eyes to adjust to the cool dimness.   In the air there was the rich smell of home cooking that all but smothered the typical ‘Pubby’ smell of old tobacco and stale beer. Jen pulled her stomach in, hoping to stop it growling.  Half a dozen bar stools covered in  faded red velvet and   brass studs propped up the bar, whilst dark crudely cut beams held back a sagging dough like ceiling.  The floor was made of large unevenly shaped flagstones, worn in places into shiny dips like iced over puddles, and sprawled in front of a blackened but  cold hearth, and on a rug that might have once been red  was an old Labrador.  It was as black as the fireplace, except for its muzzle which was ash  grey.  It didn’t make a sound as Jen came in, but silently lashed its tail as on her way to the bar she stopped to tousle its big velvety head.

To the right of the fireplace in a bay window, sat a solitary man of about thirty five, jet hair, and a swarthy but attractive face, his  faded and travel worn rucksack said ‘hitch hiker’ immediately. He smiled a brief, good looking greeting and then returned to his half-eaten ‘Toad in the hole’ which he was prodding at somewhat dubiously.

To the left of the bar in an upright snug sat a thin, grey and somewhat crumpled looking suit that was wearing a man of about fifty. On the table before him was a half filled ash tray and an empty glass.  The man had a long hawk nose, ill looking  pale  face, and rather bushy eyebrows that were  attempting to defy gravity and give the man’s  eyes  levity, but were failing miserably.  The man had crossed his limbs tightly about himself as if he were desperately cold, leaving only one arm  free which  effetely held a cigarette. One lapel of the suit had been wounded, and hung limply downwards, and  other than the man’s  hand and face it was difficult to see where the suit ended and the person began. The man ignored Jen, his face a storm of irritation.

Jen continued across the room to the bar. On it she saw the tarnished dome and strike of an old fashioned shop bell.  A  hand written note was taped beside it.  The tape was yellow and  curling away at the edges whilst ringed  stains from clumsily placed pints of beer had made the writing almost illegible.

After a few moments study she deciphered the note. It read:

‘If nobody is in the bar ring once and wait!’

‘Once’ and ‘Wait’ were underlined with  faded felt pen.

Jen put down her case and bag and tapped the bell gingerly. A  loud ‘Ding’ bounced rudely around the room.

‘Hold your horses I’m coming!’  said a harried male voice   from somewhere behind and under the bar. Confused Jen leant forward to try and find its owner just as the balding pate and red face of a rather corpulent barman emerged  from a trap door in the floor.

‘I’ve just  put a new keg of Monks on,’   puffed the man, kicking  the trapdoor shut with his foot and wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Now what can I get you?’

‘A large orange juice please.’  The smell of home cooking had set her mouth watering. ‘Any chance of some food?’

The barman glanced at the clock. ‘The kitchens closed for hot food until six I’m afraid, although I’m sure we could rustle up a sandwich.’

‘That’ll be fine,’ smiled Jen. ‘This place is awfully difficult to find.  I was hoping to make it by lunch time.  I take it I’m in Monkswell village.  I couldn’t read the  sign at the top of the hill.’

‘Yes you’re in Monkswell village alright. It can be a bit tricky to find if you’re not from these parts. Nicely tucked away down ‘ere we are. You must  be the young woman that phoned Thursday.’

‘Yes that’s right.’

The man once again wiped his hand on his apron and then offered it to Jen, who, with alarm, saw her own hand disappear into it completely, but the  handshake was warm and dry and not at all crushing.

‘I’m the Landlord, Bill; Bill Bagley.  We’ve got you a nice room ready for you.’

‘Jennifer Lea, call me Jen.’

‘Lea, Lea I know that name, not sure from where though.  Not from around here are you?  Course not, down from London, still never mind, one things drives out another if you know what I mean.’  The man let Jen have her hand back and then began to pour her drink. ‘Anyway Jen it is then. Ice and lemon?’

‘Yes please.’

The landlord  handed Jen her drink.  ‘So if memory serves you’ve come to see  old Dorothy then?’

‘That is if she’s still alive,’ said Jen doubtfully.

She then opened her bag and pulled out one of the photographs and handed it to the Landlord.  ‘That’s her on the right. She must have been seventy odd when that picture was taken.  She was a friend of my grandmothers.’

The landlord took the picture, his face breaking into a  broad grin. ‘Well you’ve come to the right place, that’s old Dorothy alright.’ He flipped the photograph over, squinted at it, and then moved it to and from his face like a trombonist trying to find a note. ‘Seventy-two eh?’  He flipped the picture back.  ‘Taken when the gates were still there.  I dunno how old she was then, but she hasn’t changed much in that time,  although I haven’t seen her for a good few weeks. Good luck on trying to see her though.’  He handed the photograph back.

‘Is she difficult to find?’

‘Oh she’s easy to find alright, she’s up at the hall, hasn’t been at her cottage for sometime.’

‘The hall?’

‘Aye. Monkswell Hall.  That photo of yours was taken in front of the gates when they were still there.  The hall’s another dozen miles further into the valley. Old Dorothy’s not too keen on visitors though.’  The landlord lowered his voice. ‘As I’m sure that gentleman over there will tell you.’  He nodded towards the suit.

‘Who’s he?’ whispered Jen without looking.

‘Government!’ hissed the Landlord leaning closer. ‘I did warn him. He’s lucky he only got his collar torn. Be careful of old Dorothy I said.  She can be a bit techy, especially of strangers.  She almost got him.’

The Landlord stifled a chuckle. ‘He was trying  to talk to her through the letter box, up at the hall.  Got the place bordered up like Fort Knox she has, don’t know why; anyhow she poked her walking stick  at him. Been trying to get in the hall  for the past few days he has.  Didn’t quite get out of the way in time.  Serves him right too.  Nasty looking piece of work he is.  One of those civil servant types.  Come to give  Dorothy the boot he has.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you know?  The hall is owned by the Government, has been since before the war, and now they want  her  out so they can sell it, turn it into one of those wretched technology parks you see on the telly, or something equally daft, although it beats me why they’d want to do that all the way out here.  Anyway old Dorothy’s locked herself in up there.  Hang on he’s coming over.’

The suit had uncoiled itself from the snug, and was walking towards them. At first Jen thought it had an almost  graceful gait. Actually it was more sloth like, not so much in its speed, more as if each step were carefully considered before taken.

‘Another tonic water  Mr. Phillips?’

The suit  turned distastefully toward the landlord. ‘No thank you,’ said the occupant.

It then turned towards Jen, a hand extending.

‘Ministry of Defence Buildings and Maintenance Department.’

Jen was surprised.  The man’s voice was firm almost gravely deep, she had mistakenly thought that it would be as weak and as seedy as the suits appearance.

She took the  hand. It was very thin, the skin soft and dry, and for a moment Jen thought she was holding a small frail bird, but then the  long almost fleshless fingers coiled themselves around her hand like a wire spider.  Gripping  rather more firmly than was necessary it gave one hard tug,

‘Alexander Phillips. Mr. Phillips, or Phillips if you prefer.’

Jen blinked, surprised at the mans formality, then recovered. ‘Jennifer, Jennifer Lea.’

Relieved  that the courtesy and necessary physical contact was over with the hand  snapped open and retreated as quickly as possible  back into its pocket.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ continued Phillips looking for all the world like some emaciated caricature of Noel Coward, the hand with the cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth, ‘but I couldn’t help but overhear.  Am I correct in presuming that you know Ms. Woolcott.’

Jen looked puzzled.

‘Ms. Woolcott…?’ repeated Phillips. ‘I think your referred to her as ‘Dorothy.’’

‘Ah yes,’ said Jen, ‘Or rather no; well not really,  She-’

‘Despite what our local publican has to say,’ said Phillips slicing through Jen’s reply, his eyebrows lifting briefly in the landlords direction. ‘The Government has no intention of simply dismissing Ms. Woolcott.  She will be given a handsome severance package, and of course there is also  a pension in place for her.  I would have thought the woman would look forward to a rest, she is well beyond retirement age.’

‘I see,’ said Jen, ‘but what’s all this got to do with me?’

‘Well, I have had some trouble in trying to see or even speak to the women.  She hasn’t been at her house in the village for some time, and has now barricaded herself into the hall.’

‘Yes?’ said Jen, knowing full well where the conversation was going, but not liking the direction.

‘Needless to say ‘The Ministry’  would be most grateful if you would assist in persuading Ms. Woolcott to leave.’ Phillips had had his eyes shut whilst he spoke, he now opened them, waiting for a reply.

‘Look I don’t actually know the woman. She was a friend of my grandmother’s and hasn’t seen me in nearly thirty years.  You can hardly expect me to turn up on the  doorstep just to say ‘You won’t remember me, but I’m here with the Government to get you to leave!’’

The man’s pallid face suddenly  broke in two somewhere below each ear. His jaw seem to grow miraculously, whilst his eyes vanished and his thin  purple-grey lips cracked and gave birth to two rows of perfectly shaped but yellow-orange teeth. With horror Jen realised he was smiling.

‘No of course not,’ said Phillips. If there was sympathy in his tone she couldn’t hear it.

‘However I must  make the Ministry’s position  clear.’

Phillips’s neck scragged from the edge of his collar, his chin taking on a resolute air.

‘Every effort has been made to inform Ms. Woolcott of the developing situation, including correspondence over a three month period.  The eyes opened for a moment. ‘Which I might add, she has never responded to.’ They closed again.  ‘I have been here for the last three days trying to tell Ms. Woolcott that we must proceed. But now things are getting out of hand.   The back of the property has been turned into a scrap yard, a large ‘For Sale’ sign has been removed a number of times, and  on the last occasion the splintered remains were found in a ditch.’  The smile vanished. ‘ And now I have been  attacked.’ Phillips distastefully lifted the wounded lapel of his suit. ‘My patience is wearing thin. If I do not get co-operation by the end of the weekend I will have no choice but to inform the Police and  Social Services and have Ms. Woolcott forcibly removed.’

The lips curled back over their yellow brood, and as if waking from a trance Phillips opened his eyes.

Jen felt the hairs stiffen on the back of  her neck.  It was hardly surprising the old lady had attacked the man, he was reptiliously vile.  The fact that to Jen, Dorothy would be a total stranger was irrelevant; she could leave the old lady in the hands of this man no more than she could leave a child in the middle of the road.  Besides she had to contact the woman somehow, and  if she was seen to support her, then Dorothy might be more forthcoming in talking to her about her mother and sister.

‘Well I’m not sure I can help,’ said Jen. ‘I don’t remember her, and  as Dorothy hasn’t seen me since I was a toddler she probably won’t remember me anyway.’

‘No of course not,’ said Phillips, ‘but any assistance that you can offer would be appreciated.’  The crocodile grin once again flicked briefly across the his face.

‘Well I’ll do what I can.’

‘Good!  I would offer you a lift up to the hall but I’ve no doubt  you would prefer to drive yourself.  If you would just like to follow me.’  Phillips turned to go.

Jen had met this type of man before.  An inadequate jobs-worth  who strode through life with little or no consideration for anyone else, well she didn’t work for the Government, and wasn’t about to be intimidated.

‘I would like to eat my sandwich first if you don’t mind,’ she said casually to his back and sat down at the bar. ‘And then I would appreciate a lift.  I’ve been driving on my own all morning, and would quite like the company. Besides, I’ve run out of petrol.’

Phillips stopped and turned around.  Jen could see she had been completely wrong footed him.  He was blinking rapidly and for a moment she thought he was going to stammer a reply. At last he managed to open his eyes.

‘Of course,’ was all he said and then slid back behind his ash tray and lit another cigarette.

Ten minutes later  Jen  finished her sandwich and stood up.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said.   Phillips stood, paused, and for a moment Jen thought he was making an attempt to be courteous, but her merely lit yet another cigarette and then swept off in front of her. Jen followed.

A few minutes later  the hitch-hiker gave up on  his toad in the hole smiled a brief goodbye to the Landlord and also left.

I have only ever shown my novel to a few close friends, and whilst I have had positive feed back; they are close friends! So it is time to unzip my fly, and get some of my work out there and, (if people are kind enough to give it,) get some feedback.  If you wish to comment, then please do not hold back in any way. All I ask is complete honesty. I do not care how brutal it is. I am completely new to writing so hack away at it. I will not learn in any other way. With that said I hope it is not too bad and that you enjoy it.

Anyway without further delay here it is. This is the first chapter. It is called The Kiss, and is the first book from a high fantasy epic, called Creation’s Song. The chapter is around 2,500 words long.

When is a biscuit tin not a tin? When it is a box; Pandora’s box!

Chapter 1,  The biscuit tin.

There was no arcane firestorm.  There were no bolts of electric blue lightning loudly rending the air as universal forces battled to thwart the event; the two worlds simply came together, kissed, enfolded and for a short time became one.

At first the figures sat silently on their horses, eyeing me with a curious detachment, a settling  frost causing their  outline to sparkle in the moonlight like  statues on a winters morning.  Yet ‘statue’ implied solidity, and they were more fleeting than this.  Spectral would have been nearer the mark,  like an unwilling dream that was already on the edge of memory and fast fading.  That is how I first saw them.

A.K. May 1st 1896.

It wasn’t the fact that her  mother had spent the last years of her life in a mental hospital.  It mattered little that she had committed suicide. What really hurt, was that her  grandmother,  a woman who had effectively been her mother for the last thirty years had lied.

The biscuit tin had been in the last place she’d looked, in fact Jen hadn’t been looking at all, but had been clearing the house of the last of  her grandmothers things before it was sold.

The tin had been hidden in the cupboard below the stairs  behind a mountain of decaying newspapers that had literally been decades old, and that Jen had been trying to convince her grandmother to get rid of for years.

It had taken her over an hour to clear  the newspapers out , what with stopping rather too often to look at the dates and headlines that grew progressively older the further under the stairs she went.  In the end she had to force herself to stop reading and get on with it. It wasn’t a dig.

Jen hated digging, which was ironic really considering her profession. But then as she had to point out every time some idiot asked her if she had found Indiana Jones or the Lost Ark, she was an Anthropologist, a Cultural Anthropologist, not an archaeologist, and rarely did field work.  She had never found buried treasure, undiscovered tombs or dusted away sand from half-buried statues of pharaohs. For that matter she had never been to Egypt, she preferred to study the peoples of India and South America, insisting that more could be learned from the living than the dead.  Besides Egypt was crawling with archaeologists, all of them thinking they would be the next Howard Carter

Jen took a deep sigh.  Poor Mosey!

The call had come from the hospital a fortnight ago.  Rosemary Olivia Lea, Mosey to Jen; who had called her grandmother by that name since childhood, had had a heart attack brought on by a stroke.

‘Your grandmother is comfortable but somewhat confused.’  The ward sister had said.

‘She appears to be worrying that her house has burnt down along with both you and I think she said something about a tin; yes a biscuit tin.  If you could bring it with you to the hospital then it might help  calm her down.’

Jen had said that both she and the house were fine, and although she knew nothing about a biscuit tin, she would none the less try and find it and bring it with her. Of course  she never did find it, and by the time she arrived at the hospital  Mosey had unexpectedly had a second massive heart attack and died.  What with grief, organising her grandmother’s funeral and arranging for the house to be sold Jen hadn’t given the tin anymore thought.  Until now.  Now the old ladies confusion  was painfully clear. She hadn’t been worried about Jen or her house being burnt at all.  It was the tin.  She had wanted the tin destroyed before Jen could find it.  Well now it was too late! Jen picked up the letter again.

Dr. P. Lavender,

Priory Hospital,

The Priory,

Grafton Abbes,

Sussex.

21st July 1976.

The address was familiar, a secure mental hospital on the South Coast. The place  had been on the news recently, yet another casualty of Government cuts.  Jen continued to read.

Dear Mrs. Lea,

Further to our meeting, it is with much regret that I must give you written confirmation of your daughters death.  I am afraid that the inquest does confirm her death as suicide.  Please find enclosed  copies of the inquest report and your daughter’s death certificate.

My condolences to you and your family.

With deepest sympathy.

Dr. P. Lavender.

Jen looked at the death certificate again. Name: Bridget Anne Lea.  Date of death: First of  May nineteen-seventy-six.

There was no doubt, it was  her mother. And if this was her mother’s death certificate she couldn’t have died in a train crash in India in nineteen-seventy-two as Mosey had insisted upon for the last twenty years.

But why lie?   Jen could feel a knot of resentment begin eating into her stomach.  Mosey had no right, the woman had been her mother for Christ’s sake.

‘Don’t hate me.’   Suddenly Mosey’s memory was at Jen’s shoulder.

‘How do you know I had any control over whether you saw you’re mother or not?  She was in a  mental hospital. You don’t know how or why she got there, or why she killed herself.  You don’t even remember her!’

This was true.  Jen had  no memory of her mother at all.  But that wasn’t the point. She once again looked into the tin.. There were more envelopes, another dozen or so. She took  out the next one, opened it and  read.

Rose Cottage,

Drovers Lane,

Monkswell Village,

Devon.

June 20th 1972

Dearest Rosemary,

Please don’t dismiss this letter.  We have been friends for over thirty years now, and  despite how you feel you must trust me.  Don’t blame Bridget for what happened.   She would not hurt the children. You must believe me. Please get in touch!

Dorothy.

…hurt the children!. Unexpectedly Jen felt her stomach drop.    Pandora like she eyed the tin  suspiciously, then  swallowed hard and  took out another letter.

There were fourteen of them in all, each broadly the same in content as the first, with this Dorothy woman begging Mosey not to blame her daughter for what had happened to the children.  As Jen read each of the letter she noticed that the dates became further and further apart, with each of subsequent letter becoming more pleading than the last.  The last letter was dated April the third nineteen-seventy six,  around a month before her mother had actually died.  It was a complete contrast to the rest.

Rose Cottage,

Drovers Lane,

Monkswell Village,

Devon.

April 3rd 1976

Rosemary,

I have no doubt that as  you haven’t replied to any of my letters you are blaming me for what happened. Well  I can’t say I’m surprised, and  frankly I don’t give a damn.  Stop leaning on all that Papist rubbish and get a back-bone.   I say to you for the last time,  Bridget did not hurt the children!  (Fiercely underlined). Get off your backside and go to her before it’s too late, or are you going to be as blinked and weak as you’ve always been and put trust in a God that doesn’t exist?

Dorothy.

‘Ouch!’ thought Jen, but then to an extent she could sympathise.  Her grandmother could be extraordinarily stubborn, especially when cornered.  But that still didn’t’ answer the question; What, if anything, had her mother done to ‘The children.’?  It looked like Mosey believed her daughter had done something, but  not this Dorothy woman.  Why?

There was a last item left in the tin; a brown envelope.  It was spilt down one side and held together with a perished rubber band.  Jen lifted it out, pulled off the rubber band and opened the envelope. Photographs.  She looked at the first.  Its colours were badly faded, and had an overall yellow ‘seventies’ cast to them. It was a group picture of three women and a child, and looked to have been taken in front of a great iron fence or gate.

Two of the woman looked to be sisters, whilst the third and older woman was holding a child. The woman in the centre, one of the sisters, had her arms around the shoulders of her companions. She had a great fountain of brown chestnut hair, gypsy dark almond eyes, and a full balanced mouth spread into a great cheery grin.  Jen gasped. For a moment she thought she had been looking at herself, but then realised she was looking straight into the eyes of  her mother!

Jen then looked at the woman to her mother’s  left. This woman looked to be her mother’s older sister, but  Mosey had said that Bridget was her only child.  Then realisation dawned.  The  other woman was Mosey.  But what a shock.  It wasn’t that her grandmother was younger, thirty years younger for that matter, or  the fact that she looked so much like her daughter, with only a hint of grey encroaching her own shock of hair, no it was the look on her face, like her daughter she looked so; so alive!  Jen felt her cheek  warm as a tear spilled onto it.  In over twenty years she had never  seen her grandmother look that happy, never giving more than a  thin, sad smile, even on the happiest of occasions.

Jen wiped her eyes and turned  her attention to the right-hand figure.  This woman looked  considerably older than her companions.  She appeared to be holding a little girl of about two years old,  but it was difficult to tell as the child had its face turned away from the camera.  The woman Jen didn’t recognise at all; grey almost white hair bunned on her head and a stout walking stick which matched her stern headmistress like manner, giving the impression she was old before her time. She looked to be fighting to keep her dignity along with her hair in place, as the child, instead of behaving whilst the picture was taken, was attempting to scale the women’s shoulder like a climber  negotiating a particularly difficult crag.  One of its hands had already started to pull  on the women’s boulder like hair, threatening to dislodge it and send it cascading down the her irritated face.

That must be this Dorothy!  Thought Jen; and the child must be me!

Suddenly an unexplained feeling of unease emptied across her  stomach.

Jen turned the photograph over.  Smudged but still legible was a flowing black script;

Jennifer’s first picture.

Dorothy’s.

March ’72.

It was her grandmothers handwriting

Jen felt her heart jump. She had taken the picture?  She’d assumed she was the child struggling in the older woman’s arms, but then if she wasn’t the child who was?  The question skittered away into her conscience and was replaced by a new feeling.  At first Jen couldn’t place it, it  was so out of context, then she felt it bubbling upwards, growing in strength. It was… was… panic!

Suddenly Jen’s  heart was pounding.   There was a darkness in her mind now, a great black fog around the memory of the photograph.  A place where she couldn’t see, in fact a place where she didn’t dare looked. Her hands now shaking Jen turned to the next photograph.

It was  a wide angle shot of a pair of great iron gates between trees.  There were no people.  Quickly she turned to the next picture.  It was of  the Dorothy woman.  She was standing on the steps of what looked to be the entrance to a stately home. Jen discarded it and  flipped to the last photograph.

This picture was almost the same as the first, except  now there only two adults, Dorothy and Mosey, and each of them was holding a child.  Both children were sitting quietly,  both of them were dressed identically, and from beneath flowing locks of curly red-brown hair beamed  two identical faces. Suddenly Jen was there, it had been raining, she had been splashing about in the puddles in her  bright new yellow wellingtons. There had been a shout, she had almost dropped Mosey’s camera in the puddle. Struggling in the old ladies arms had been her, her….

‘Oh Christ!’

The hairs that until now had been standing up on the back of her neck suddenly  tore down her spine, her stomach tipping after them.

Deep, deep, deep within the black fog  something stirred.

‘No, that’s impossible!’ screamed Jen suddenly. ‘It’s a  trick,  two photographs stuck together,  I can’t have had a sister, I would’ve remembered.’ Jen threw her hand to her mouth, choking off a sob and screwing her eyes shut. In the back of her mind a deep black maw loomed.  She took a  shuddering breath.  ‘Mosey would have told me.’  She muttered, but as soon as she spoke she knew it wasn’t’ true. Instantly the reply was in her mind.

‘Yes, but she didn’t!  And she lied to you about your mother as well.’

Suddenly emotion after emotion crashed into her, sending already confused  thoughts into a great writhing mass.  Jen fell  back into the chair and took several deep breaths,  trying to close her mind to the  maelstrom of thoughts that was pouring into her head and threatening to overwhelm her.    Something terrible had happened to her sister, to her twin sister, a sister she had somehow known she had always had, and that something looked to  have been orchestrated by her mother.  Jen could feel herself panic as she struggled through the darkness of her mind, desperate to find a way out. Suddenly she saw an image. No not an image a thought; not even a thought, a dream,  The Dream. The dream that on remembered occasions she knew she had been having all her life.   She was in that horrible twisted  wood again, endlessly searching , all the while  filled with a terrible emptiness and  longing.   She found herself  by the lake again. She had been here many times before, the wood had taken many forms over the years, but the lake was always the same. She had come to look into the water, always hoping to see her reflection looking back, but she never did.  Jen edged slowly towards the lake-edge, knowing that this time, this time, she was sure to see a face, and not her face, but the face of her sister.  She leaned  out of the water, but  there was no face, only a pair of unblinking deep blue within blue eyes, and now, unable to stop herself, the lean became a fall and she  fell slowly into  the lake,  the icy waters  closing over her head..

Jen snapped her eyes open.  She was still sitting  at the table.  The dream was still there lingering in her mind.  She had dreamed of those eyes before, but never like that, and even  as she tried to recall them they faded and were gone.  Yet in her mind there was something still residual, as if she were trying to remember to remember.

Suddenly she  was over-taken  by a trembling elation. The longing, the emptiness of nearly thirty years was still there, but now it had a form, substance.  Steadily the emotional turmoil quietened and was still.  A sister,  she still had her sister!

‘Still had?’ said a voice gently.   ‘What of your mother, the hospital, Dorothy’s letters, and Mosey’s efforts to hide it all.’ The memory paused…’You don’t know where your sister is.’ There was a longer pause.  ‘What if she’s dead?’

‘She’s not!’ said Jen out loud.

There was no hesitation, but Jen knew she hadn’t  spat the answer in panic,  she simply knew it to be true. Regardless of the  overwhelming evidence she could feel certainties granite like presence.  It was as if she had always known.  But if that was the case, why did she have absolutely no memory of her sister at all?  Not a thing, only a shadow in her mind that until now had been  shapeless.

Jen picked up  the photographs and looked at them thoughtfully.

If her sister was alive then where was she?  With Mosey dead and her mother long dead, how could she find her?   This Dorothy woman, could she help?  Would she help?  Could she still be alive? Jen looked at the back of the  picture again.  ‘Jennifer’s first picture, Dorothy’s,  72’  In the photograph the woman looked as if she could be anywhere between sixty and seventy. If she were still alive she had to be at least eighty.

Jen looked once again at one of her letters.

Rose Cottage, Drovers Lane,  Monkswell Village, Devon.

One man’s contribution toward making the world more Splendid!

My very first post, on my very first blog!