Kirkland Revels

  If only it had worked! For a while we thought it would. But the shock had been too much for her to bear and it was necessary to send her away. When she had left we moved to Glen House. It seemed better to cut ourselves off from old associations, and there we were not far from her place of asylum . How I wished I had known! Perhaps then I should have been able to do something to comfort him.

  But the past was over and I was happy on that December morning because I was delivered of my fears.

  Now I would set to work to discover who in this house was my enemy; and I would go to it with such a will that I could not fail.

  My baby would be born in the early spring and I would never for a minute be parted from my child. Uncle Dick--no, my father, but I should never be able to call him that; he would always be Uncle Dick to me--Uncle Dick would come home.

  I would watch over my child, and Simon would be there, and our relationship would develop as such relationships should, gradually budding, flowering, bearing fruit.

  Yes, I was happy on that day.

  It seemed as though the Fates had determined to be kind to me, for another incident took place on the very next day which could not fail further to raise my spirits.

  During the previous day I had hugged the news to myself. I had my meals in my own room because, although I wanted to flourish the letter under the noses of Ruth, Luke, Sir Matthew and Aunt Sarah, I had decided that for a while I was going to keep this news to myself.

  Nothing could have strengthened me more. My fear had gone. I was certain that if I awakened to find the monk at the foot of my bed I should be quite calm. But I was determined to discover who the monk was, and I would do this because I was no longer hampered by terrible doubts.

  Caution, I said to myself. For the time being no one must know.

  Simon? I asked myself. Should I tell Simon and Hagar?

  The wind was bitingly cold and I decided that if it snowed 203 1 might do myself some harm, so I stayed indoors. I did think's of sending a letter to them. But how could I be sure, absolutely sure, that it would not be intercepted?

  The news could wait. In the meantime I would plan what I was going to do next.

  It was after luncheon when Mary-Jane came to me in a state of excitement.

  " It's our Etty, madam," she said. " Her time's come.... Two days before Christmas. We hadn't thought it would be till the New Year."

  " You want to go and see her, don't you, Mary Jane

  " Oh well, madam.... Me Dad's just sent word. Me Mother's gone over there."

  " Look, Mary-Jane, you go along and see how she's getting on. You may be able to help."

  " Thank you, madam."

  "There's a terrible wind blowing."

  " Oh, I won't mind that, madam." J " Just a moment," I said. And I went to my wardrobe and brought out my heaviest cloak. It was the blue one which had been hung across the parapet. I put it about Mary Jane and pulled the hood right over her head. " This will keep out the wind." I said. " It buttons right up, you see ... and the cold can't penetrate."

  "That's good of you, madam."

  " I don't want you catching cold, Mary Jane

  " Oh, madam ... thank you." Her gratitude was indeed sincere. She went on rather shyly: "I'm ... so pleased, madam, because you've seemed so much better this last day or so."

  I laughed as I finished buttoning the cloak.

  " I am better. So much better," I told her. " Go on now ... and don't worry about getting back. Stay for the night if you want to."

  It was about dusk when she returned. She came straight up to my room and I saw at once that she was deeply disturbed.

  " Etty ..." I began.

  She shook her head.

  "The baby was born before I got there, madam. A lovely girl. Our Etty's all right."

  " What's wrong, then?"

  " It was when I was coming home. I came round by the Abbey. And I saw it, madam. It gave me a turn. You see. it was nearly dark ..."

  " You saw ... what?" I cried.

  " n, madam. The monk. It looked at me and it beckoned."

  "Oh, Mary-Jane, how wonderful I What did you do? What did you do?"

  " I stood for a second or two staring. I didn't seem as if I could move. I was struck all of a heap. Then ... I ran. It didn't follow me.

  I thought it was going to. "

  I put my arms about her and hugged her. " Oh, Mary Jane I only needed this."

  She looked at me in some astonishment, and I stood back to gaze at her.

  She was about my height and the cloak was all-enveloping. She had been mistaken for me, because she was wearing my cloak, the well-known cloak which had been put over the parapet.

  She was loyal; there was a bond between us; I knew that she looked upon me as the kindest mistress she had ever had. Ruth was too cold to win affection; Aunt Sarah too strange. Mary-Jane had enjoyed working for me because the relationship between us was warmer than that which usually existed between a maid and her mistress. I decided that I would take Mary-Jane into my confidence to some extent.

  " Mary-Jane," I said, " what did you think it was? A ghost?"

  " Well, madam, I don't rightly believe in such things."

  " Nor do I. I believe that what is inside that monk's robe is no ghost."

  " But how did it get into your bedroom, madam?"

  " That's what I'm going to find out."

  "And did it pull the curtains and take the warming-pan away?"

  " I believe it did. Mary-Jane, for the time being will you please say nothing to anyone of what you have seen. Our monk thinks that it was I who was hurrying home through the Abbey ruins at dusk. He has no idea that it was you. I want to keep him in ignorance ... for a while.

  Will you do this? "

  " I always want to do as you say, madam."

  Christmas morning dawned bright and frosty. I lay in bed happily reading my letters and greetings. There was one from the man whom I still thought of as my father. He sent me, Christmas greetings and hoped that his previous letter had not upset me. A letter from my real father had arrived on the 205 previous day and in tfais he told me that he hoped to be home in the spring.

  That longed-for spring I Then I should have my child What else? But I did not want to look beyond that. Thai was enough.

  As I lay in bed my thoughts went back indeed they were never far away to the desire to discover the identity of the person who was trying to harm my child, and I went over the various monk incidents in detail, for those were the ones in which I was sure I should find the clue to the identity of my persecutor.

  The monk had appeared in my room, sped along the corridor when I hurried after him, and then disappeared. The more I thought of this, the more excited I became. Was there some secret hiding-place in the gallery? The monk had been seen not only in the house but in the Abbey ruins. What if there was some connecting passage between the Abbey and the house? What if two people played the role of monk? What if Luke and Damaris had both worn the robe Damaris, on the first night I had seen it, thus enabling Luke to appear in his dressing-gown on the second floor; Luke, when I was with Damaris in the ruins?

  I remembered the old plan of the Abbey which I had seen when I first came to the Revels. It was somewhere in the library. If I could find some indication on that plan where a connecting passage could possibly be, I might have begun to solve the problem. I did possess two vital clues. There was the arcade in the ruins where the monk had been seen on two occasions by Damaris and me and by Mary-Jane. I would study the plan very closely at that spot. And there was the minstrels' gallery in the house.

  I was so excited, I could scarcely wait to dress.

  Why should I?

  I slipped on a robe and hurried down to the library. I had little difficulty in finding the plan. It was in a leather binding with a few details about the Abbey; the parchment roll on which these were written, was yellow with age.

  As I took the roll and tucked it under my arm I heard a movement behind me and, turning
sharply, I saw Luke standing in the doorway.

  He was looking at me with that alertness which I had noticed m people's faces recently and which had once filled me with alarm but now had no power to hurt me. 206 "Why, if it isn't Catherine 1 Happy Christmas, Catherine . and a fruitful New Year."

  "Thank you, Luke."

  He was standing in the doorway barring my way. I felt embarrassed, not only because of what I was carrying but because I had only a robe over my nightdress.

  "What's wrong, Catherine?" he asked.

  " But nothing."

  " You look as though you're afraid I'm going to gobble you right up."

  "Then my looks are deceptive."

  " So you really feel quite benevolent towards me on this Christmas morning?"

  " Shouldn't one feel so towards the whole world on this of all mornings?"

  " You're taking the words out of old Cartwright's mouth. We shall have to go and hear him preaching his Christmas sermon." He yawned. " I always feel I'd like to time him by stop-watch. I heard of someone doing that the other day. Some local bigwig. It's a fact. He'd go to church, set his watch ... ten minutes' sermon and no more.... When the ten minutes were up he'd snap his fingers and that sermon had to stop--and it did, for the parson had his living to think of." His eyes narrowed and he went on: " I'm thinking of doing it myself one day, when ..."

  I looked at him sharply. I knew very well what he meant: when he was in command.

  I felt uneasy even though the library was full of daylight.

  "Well, what are you reading?" His firm fingers were on the leather case.

  " Oh, it's just something I've seen in the library. I wanted to have another look."

  He had taken the roll, in spite of my efforts to retain it, for I had to let it go; I could not indulge in a tug-o'-war here in the library for no apparent reason at all.

  "The old Abbey again!" he murmured.

  "Do you know, Catherine, you've got an obsession for abbeys ... monks and such like."

  " Haven't you?" I asked.

  " I? Why should I? I was born here. We take all that for granted.

  It's the people who are new to the place who think it's all so marvelous."

  He put the roll under my arm. 207 " Why, Catherine," he went on, " we're standing under mistletoe."

  Then he put his arms round me and kissed me quickly the lips.

  " Merry Christmas, Catherine, and a happy New Year!"

  Then he stood aside and bowed ironically. I went pasil him with as much dignity as I could, and started up the stairs:;

  He stood at the library door watching me. ;

  I wished that he had not seen what I had been carrying. I wondered how much of my thoughts he had read. Lukei bothered me. I didn't understand him; and I had the feeling | that he was the one who resented my presence here more | than any . he and Ruth together. If it were Ruth and i Luke, I thought, it would be easier for them than anyone; | and the fact that Damaris had lied as she did could mean that ; she had done so for Luke.

  When I reached my room I got into bed again and studied the plan.

  It was headed Kirkland Abbey with the date 1520, and as I looked at it, it was as though the place came alive under my eyes, as though walls were built up where they had decayed, as though roofs were miraculously replaced. There it was a series of buildings which housed a community, sufficient unto itself, which had no need of outside resources, since it was completely self-supporting. It was so easy to picture it all.

  I realised that I had learned the topography of the Abbey fairly well.

  It was not that I had visited the place so much but my impressions had been so vivid. The central Norman tower was an excellent landmark. I traced it with my finger. The north and south transept, the sanctuary, the gallery, the chapter house, the monks' dorter. And the arcade, with its buttresses, where I had seen the monk, was that which led to the dining hall, to the bake houses and malt-house. Then my eyes fell on the words: " Entrance to the cellars."

  As there were cellars beneath the Abbey, there would almost certainly be tunnels connecting them with other underground chambers. Such a labyrinth was a feature of abbeys of the period. I knew this because I had read accounts of our well-known abbeys such as Fountains, Kirkstall and Rjevaulx. I noticed with rising excitement that the cellars were on that side of the Abbey which was nearest to the Revels.

  I was so intent that I did not hear a knock on my door, and Ruth had come in before I realised she was there. 208 She stood at the end of my bed in the spot where the inonis had stood.

  " Merry Christmas," she said.

  " Thank you, and the same to you."

  " You seem absorbed."

  " Oh ... yes." Her eyes were on the roll and I guessed she recognised it.

  " How are you feeling?"

  "Much, much better."

  " That's good news. Are you going to get up? Our guests will be arriving very soon."

  " Yes," I said, " I shall get up now."

  She nodded; and her eyes went once more to the plan. ( fancied she looked a little anxious.

  By the time the family was ready to go to church, Simon and Hagar had still not arrived.

  " They are usually here before this," said Ruth. " Perhaps something has happened to delay them. However, we shall go to church. We must be in our pew on Christmas morning."

  Matthew and Sarah came down to the hall dressed for church. This was indeed a rare thing and I realised that I had very seldom seen either of them dressed for going out. The carriage would take them to the church and bring them back, and it was one of those traditions that their pew should be occupied on Christmas Day.

  There was something which I was longing to do, and that was go to the Abbey and look for those cellars; and I wanted to do it when no one could follow me there. If only I could make some excuse for not going to church, I could be sure that for about two hours there would be no one to surprise me.

  I should have liked to go to church with them and to have taken my place in the pew, for I was beginning to feel a fondess for the old traditions and a need of the peace which the Christmas service would give me. But I had a more imperative need--the protection of my child; and I decided to practise a little deception.

  When they were stepping into the carriage I stood very still for a moment, putting my hands to my body.

  Ruth said sharply: "What's wrong?"

  " It's nothing, but I really don't think I shall go with you. The doctor said I should be very careful indeed not to overtax myself."

  "'ll1 stay behind with you." Ruth told me. " You she go to bed at once."

  " No," I insisted. " Mary-Jane will help me. She is we good and understands perfectly."

  " But I feel I should stay behind," said Ruth.

  " Then if you feel that, I must come with you, for I an certainly not going to allow you to miss the Christmas service. " H She hesitated.

  Then she said: " Well, if you insist... What are you going to do?"

  " Go to my room.... I do want to feel well for the rest i the day."

  She nodded. Then she said to the groom: " Go and bring! Mary-Jane to me ... and quickly, or we shall be late forj church." J Mary-Jane came hurrying out. j " Mrs. Rockwell doesn't feel well enough to accompany us | to church," she said. " Take her to her room and look after i| her."

  " Yes, madam," said Mary Jane

  Ruth, satisfied, got into the carriage and in a few seconds they were driving away, while Mary-Jane and I went up to my room.

  When we were there I said: "We are going out, Mary Jane

  " But, madam ..."

  I knew I had to take Mary-Jane into my confidence to a greater extent.

  When the monk had appeared before her he had brought her into this mystery, and the fact that she had come straight to me and told me what she had seen, and had kept her promise to tell no one else, proved her to be an ally.

  " I feel quite well," I said. " I should have liked to join the church party, but there is somet
hing else I have to do. We are going to the Abbey."

  I made her wrap herself ia the blue cloak, and I myself wore another of dark brown.

  Then we set out for the Abbey.

  I was anxious that we should lose no time, for I did not know how long our explorations would last and it was necessary that we should be back in the house before the church party returned.