Sir Thomas
and the
Abbess Martha
By
Rosemary Sturge
Copyright 2012 Rosemary Sturge
All Rights Reserved
Sir Thomas and the Abbess Martha met on the stairs, and for once they both paused. Usually they ignored one another. Both had been dead for five hundred years, but a feud is a feud. Bold King Hal, in pursuit of the fascinating Ann Boleyn, had ejected the abbess and her nuns from Mayfield Abbey, and, as a reward for dark deeds unspecified, bestowed the place on Sir Thomas. Even the House of Tudor had come to see the error of its judgement on that one! Sir Thomas had been caught wobbling on the outer rim of some dastardly plot by the Duke of Somerset, and was lucky to keep his head. Instead — if only temporarily — he lost Mayfield.
The abbess had dared to hope, under the King Hal’s prune-faced daughter, Mary, that she might retrieve it. But alas, it was not to be. Under Good, but avaricious, Queen Bess, Bad Sir Thomas contrived to buy it back, and for five hundred years the despicable man had sneered at her. Sometimes, as their wraiths wafted towards one another in the north corridor (she on her way to her long sequestered study next to the nun’s dormitory; he to count his phantom gold in his strong room in the tower) he would charge headlong through her incorporeal form, as though she wasn’t there. Abbess Martha knew this co-mingling of their forms did not significantly damage her vow of chastity, but it was boorish, and she longed to pull his spectral nose.
However, the latest news of an assault on Mayfield Abbey was sufficiently alarming to make them both pause.
‘Heard what’s happening?’ demanded Sir Thomas, hovering some inches above a time worn step.
‘Indeed. I was passing through the Great Hall while they were holding the Stewards’ meeting there,’ replied the abbess, the transparent outline of her robes fluttering in the draught.
‘Stewards!’ snarled Sir Thomas, diverted. ‘A bunch of old biddies with labels on their chests, standing around giving the visitors a lot of misleading information! Telling ‘em I was the one who clipped the coins in the Mint! Do I look like a fellow who goes around with a pair of tin snippers hidden under his cloak? Never knew a thing about it. It was all Eddie Seymour’s idea. And pointing out that dreadful copy of the portrait Master Holbein painted of me. Makes me look like a black beetle. Not that the original was much better.’
‘They are Stewards of the Heritage Trust,’ sniffed Abbess Martha, reprovingly. ‘That is what they call them, Stewards. They are volunteers, mainly from the successful yeoman classes, I believe. They do their best. And your history, Sir Thomas, is far from elevating. I often feel the urge to cover the ears of the younger visitors when your career is being outlined. However, we digress. That is hardly what I imagine you wanted to consult me about?’
‘No, it’s this filming business. Do you know, Abbess, what a film is?’
‘Certainly, it is a series of moving pictures of people doing a variety of things, which they capture in a black box and then cause to reappear on the flat surface of a… a screen, is I think the word they use.’
‘You’ve been watching the Hon. Lavinia’s television again.’
Abbess Martha inclined her ghostly wimple ‘She is lonely. The last remnant of the old family, only allowed to remain here in that tiny apartment in the west wing on sufferance. I try to be company for her. Besides, I enjoy University Challenge. So good to see those clever young women getting the answers right.’
‘Pah! Lavinia’s grandfather gave this place to the Heritage Trust because he couldn’t afford to keep it up. She’s just hanging on, renting a corner, pretending she’s still somebody. Anyway, this television film. Doesn’t sound the sort of thing we want taking place here, does it?’
‘Absolutely not! Vulgar in the extreme. “Ghost Hunt” it is called. Several minor celebrities are to spend the night in the house, looking for signs that the place is haunted.’
Sir Thomas looked uneasy. ‘Can they do that? Film us?’ The abbess spent a lot of time in front of Lavinia’s TV set, and, though he hated to admit it, knew much more of these things than he did.
‘All kinds of trickery are possible, but to actually capture our images so that they are visible to the living, no, I don’t think so.’
‘But they intend to try?’
Abbess Martha pursed her lips. ‘A film crew will attempt to film any ‘phenomena’ tonight.’ They’re rigging up cameras in the East Wing. The celebrities will come one night next week, after dark, and wander around, pretending to hear noises, and squealing a good deal. The footage they hope to collect tonight,’ she paused to check whether Sir Thomas was impressed by her command of the technical terms, ‘will be interspersed with their ‘performances’, if what they do can be so described. You must understand that these “celebrities” are not celebrated for anything in particular. Whatever it is they normally do having failed them, they do this for money.’
‘So the whole thing is a cheat?’
‘Just so.’
‘And if we do not, as it were, co-operate? No ghostly footsteps, no softly closing doors, no curtains billowing when all the windows are closed?’
‘Then those making the film will decamp, and try Affington Manor instead.’
‘Ghastly pile! Mill Owner’s gothic. No decent ghost could abide the place, I shouldn’t think.’
Abbess Martha, who never strayed beyond the original confines of her abbey, forbore comment.
‘So, did we get anything?’ The young man in the black “Ghost Hunter” tee shirt addressed his audience, assembled in the blue drawing room. ‘Well, mostly no,’ he pressed ‘fast forward’ and shots of the long gallery in the East wing rolled by. ‘However, just at the end here…’ he pressed ‘pause’, ‘we did get something on the sound track.’ He pressed ‘play’ and the gallery was suddenly filled with the sound of creaking floor boards. Sir Thomas, who was seated between the Head Housekeeper and the Regional Director of the Heritage Trust, shrank down guiltily into his ruff, sensing the abbess’s eye accuse him.
‘Forgot about the cameras,’ he mumbled into his beard. ‘Wanted to compare my farm rents for 1589 with the previous year. Just popped across to the library to get them.’ He had spent the night reading his favourite form of fiction — his account books.
The Abbess, seated next to the Housekeeper, would have made a tart response, but the young man from “Ghost Hunt” was speaking.
‘Sorry folks, I don’t think it’s enough. Hard to build a programme around one sound incident. Could be heavy footsteps, I grant you, but it could just be the floorboards settling as the temperature dropped.’
The Regional Director, to Sir Thomas’s left, sighed heavily. ‘That’s disappointing. We at Heritage Trust were hopeful, very hopeful. Mayfield Abbey has always had a strong reputation as a haunted house, and goodness knows we need the money. And the publicity. Visitors numbers are down by ten per cent this year. You wouldn’t consider having one more go? Tonight, whilst the cameras are still in place?’
‘Well…’ the young man was doubtful, ‘If we could guarantee…’
‘We think there’s death watch beetle in the tower,’ offered the Property Manager, sounding depressed. ‘It makes an interesting tapping sound. Perhaps you could record it?’
‘Death watch beetle!’ The Regional Director and Sir Thomas were equally aghast; the Director fearing the expense of eradicating it; Sir Thomas picturing his strong room crashing to the ground.
‘We desperately need the money?’ pleaded the Housekeeper.
‘My dear, I had no notion!’ said the Abbess, shocked. She patted the Housekeeper’s arm soothingly, although this only caused the woman
to shiver and pull her woolly jacket closer. ‘Cold draught in here,’ she muttered.
The Abbess turned to her old enemy. ‘Sir Thomas, it pains me to admit this, but I believe we’ve been mistaken in our attitude,’ she confessed. ‘It appears that Mayfield is under serious threat! I think we must co-operate tonight. I will provide softly closing doors, and the scent of lavender in the cloisters.’
‘Very well, I’ll do footsteps, and make that dreadful mock Holbein fall off the wall.’
Everyone present, staff, stewards and spectres, looked hopefully at the young man from “Ghost Hunt”.
‘Well… I suppose we could leave the cameras running. Just for tonight. If we get something, fair enough, we’ll go ahead with the programme.’
A huge sigh of relief went around the room. Indeed, so huge was Sir Thomas’s sigh, that the curtains blew upwards (although the windows were all closed) and nearly dislodged a valuable Chinese vase. A nimble conservation assistant caught it just in time.
‘Yeees, y’know folks, I do think this place has…’ the young man blinked and passed his hand across his brow as he observed this, ‘a lot of ….atmosphere. Even in here, in daylight, in the middle of the afternoon, it really is kind’ve…. spooky.’
About the Author
Rosemary Sturge has always enjoyed creating stories, particularly those with a historical background. She has completed a full length mystery novel set in eighteenth century Venice, and is currently working on one set in the period of the English Civil War.
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