Short Lived

  The intrepid Abigail was already through the door and testing the rungs of the ladder before Robert could comment. As she began to climb, she spoke softly, keeping her back to him.

  ‘You become close friends with your priest, after a while,’ she said, moving further into the shadows, using her smart phone to cast an artificial glow ahead. Robert grit his teeth, feeling nervous, but also reasoning that if the house were allowing tourists up there, it must be safe. ‘All those illegal masses, always on the edge of your seat. The only thing you all want is to be close to God, but if you’re found, you’ll end up closer to God than you’d hoped.’

  ‘Oh?’ Robert squinted into the gloom. Abigail was nearing the top, and suddenly, now that she was compared to it, the hatch seemed smaller. He wasn’t sure what they expected to find. The stone fox? A clue?

  ‘I read that the Hartstone’s priest became a dear friend. He was, ironically, the only one who escaped the raid that night.’ She swallowed, and Robert could hear her shallow breathing. ‘He painted Catherine in wake of it. From memory. That’s his portrait.’

  ‘Then it really is a clue,’ Robert realised as Abigail crammed herself into the hatch, and began to feel around. ‘Maybe he hid the fox up there.’

  ‘Well,’ came the reply, ‘there’s no way anything could be hidden here. It’s a verified cave: there’re no cracks or slats for any hidden compartments.’

  Robert pressed his lips together. It was bad enough that he was procrastinating while in the Last Chance Saloon of writing holidays, obsessed with the idea of an emblem that had been long gone for centuries, but now his only slice of adventure was diminishing. He couldn’t have that. Like chasing the lines of a story to the finish, Robert had to finish this, too.

  ‘You’re right, no space,’ he replied, pulling out his own phone. ‘Unless he wanted to leave a clue.’ It was a long shot, but now Robert Penrose was Indiana Jones, and he had to scour the place for something, anything that could be a veritable reason to stay away from the hippy writing work shop back there.

  He dropped to his knees, and began at the lowest rung of the ladder, the only part of the remaining priest hole that hadn’t been restored or removed. The wood was cracked and ancient, perfect for sliding in messages.

  Like a forensic scientist, Robert concentrated, using the glow of his phone screen to investigate each step he came across. Higher, higher, using his room key to slide in and out of any cracks he found, Robert ended up at the final step before the hatch itself, just as Abigail’s tousled blonde head popped out.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m Lara Croft,’ he replied, and then hastily checked himself. ‘Indiana Jones. CSI division,’ and on that word, the key in the final crack poked browning parchment from the confines of wood, and Robert’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Jesus…’

  Abigail dangled from the hatch, peering down at the slip of parchment as Robert pulled it free with delicate fingers. Her breathing had doubled, and even in the gloom Robert could see that she was quivering with excitement.

  ‘Oh my God…’

  It was a ridiculous idea, to open a historical artefact in a priest hole that really, they shouldn’t have been in, when any of the attending writers could pass by and poke their heads in. Robert felt oddly protective and selfish about the paper, and his and Abigail’s adventure. He hadn’t felt so alive in such a long time, not since his writing drip had run dry.

  With fingers that only just stayed steady, Robert unfolded the paper and smoothed it onto the flat surface of the rung. In fine scrawl, dated 1534, was a small message that would change the lives of Abigail Hayes and Robert Penrose, and the history of Hartstone House, forever.

  Dear Catherine and her beloved family remain on Hartstone ground.

  Beyond the stone foot bridge and in coils of holly are my protectors.

  Rest well.

  Abigail’s breathing had stopped altogether and Robert realised, on one particularly heavily intake, that his had also.

  ‘Oh my God, he buried them. He buried them in the house grounds. But, but how have they not been discovered?’ Abigail whispered, evidently only a couple of revelations away from fainting. Robert noticed her fiddling, pulling off her glasses, wiping them of dust, or twisting her wedding ring.

  ‘I think a patch of holly is enough to ward anybody off, and if it’s far enough in the grounds, it won’t necessarily have been dragged up.’ Robert replied thoughtfully, his own heart setting up a rapid beat of adventure and excitement. Already his mind felt alive with ideas and wonder, and he realised with delight that his muse was signalling its return.

  Abigail had taken the paper in hand, and was reading it over and over again, her eyes glistening.

  ‘The bodies were never found. There was blood, a lot of it, but no bodies, and now I know why…’ Her voice became a disbelieving whisper. ‘Now I know why.’

  Robert began to descend the ladder, knowing that if they didn’t act quickly, time would slip through their fingers, and they would no longer be on an intrepid adventure, but stuck on the plastic chairs of the workshop space.

  ‘If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this now,’ he muttered, glancing up at Abigail with sharp eyes. ‘Are you coming?’

  She regarded him for a moment or so, with an expression that highlighted her difficulty to fathom the situation, let alone the request. Robert wondered why it meant so much to her, why the family history was precious, something she heralded and polished, and spent so much time on.

  ‘Abigail,’ he insisted, holding a hand out, and his voice held a burning need that must have snapped Abigail from her reverie. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

  *

  Abigail and Robert ventured out into the grounds of the house, which stretched almost as far as the eye could see; territorial borders of trees sprouting in the distance and rising up like mushrooms. It was the height of spring, and the beds of flowers had been tended to with care: daffodils and tulips were sitting in fine rows, faces turned to the sky, green leaves held high as if hailing the sun.

  There was the ever cliché ‘Pride and Prejudice’ fountain within view of the dining room, and Abigail and Robert hastily circled it, the running water from the high, grey plinth providing an oddly calm soundtrack to the valiant context of the duo’s mission.

  Down through the greenery, so beautifully set against a cloak of blue sky with waves of cloud, Robert flicked through images on his phone, frowning down thoughtfully at the screen.

  ‘North of the fountain, keep walking. We should come to the bridge,’ he glanced up, and gestured haphazardly ahead of them, into the jungle of trees and conifers. ‘I reckon Catherine liked to have a wander after dinner, down to the stream and the bridge. It’d make a lovely walk,’ he took in his surroundings for a moment, feeling a rush of inspiration abruptly take hold, and he took a contented breath. ‘Still is.’

  Abigail was mostly silent as they walked, barely taking in the carefully preened gardens and the barrage of colours. Robert had hoped that they would rouse her somewhat, but she was lost in her world of history, in the world of the Hartstones and Robert almost felt it would be a crime to disrupt her from that.

  It was a good ten minutes later when they finally came across the bridge, which was obviously as old as the house itself. Its cobbled form arched over the running stream, pretty and ancient, a game of dominoes stacked up and curved lovingly over the rush of water beneath. Robert could almost see it in one of his novels: a secret meeting point for persecuted lovers, or the one last memory of childhood for troubled adults.

  ‘Look!’ Cried Abigail, and this time it was Robert who was torn from the hedge maze of his mind. He followed her quivering finger to see a dainty path ahead, leading through a surrounding battlefield of holly bushes. It had been left this long for beauty, that much was obvious: viciously pointed leaves shone emerald with afternoon sunlight, stray leaves and twigs created a floor of cracking, rustling woodland and Robe
rt stepped over them to get closer, to look back and forth between the armies of bushes.

  ‘It’ll take too long,’ he murmured, looking back and forth. ‘God, four people went missing, just four. The graves weren’t found for hundreds of years, I wonder why?’ He was suddenly sarcastic, tired, and concerned that this had all been for nothing.

  ‘Well, I’m not giving up now,’ Abigail muttered, and she took up the biggest branch she could find, and began circling the clumps of holly bushes, poking and parting and probing. Robert watched her dubiously for a moment, but he knew she was right. The passion they shared for their adventure wasn’t to be ignored, and Robert hadn’t felt this inspired in years. He’d be damned if he was going to let this slip by.

  It should have felt stupid, searching around like they were, but the note from the priest had been so real, Robert refused to believe they were on a wild goose chase.

  ‘So he must have loved them, to have gone to all this effort?’ He called, pricking himself on a particularly nasty batch of holly and swearing under his breath. Abigail laughed in return, a tinkling giggle that sounded more alive than it had when he had met her this morning.

  ‘Imagine what you go through for your religion? Protecting, feeding, housing your priest? They were a good family, the Hartstones. They would have made anybody feel at home, always. It wouldn’t have been difficult for the priest to become close.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Robert asked, and he was suddenly highly aware that he had never really considered this man’s name, despite the amazing things he had done for his faith, and for the family he had trusted with his life. Abigail gave a crestfallen shake of her head.

  ‘His name isn’t written anywhere, not in records, not in history books. They protected his identity to the end.’ She faltered for a moment, and then gasped, loud enough for Robert to know why.

  He turned and streaked back to her, his hands red raw and scratched, a fine sweat beading on his brow. Already he was a shadow of his crisp self from the moment he had arrived at Hartstone House – clean shaven, fresh-as-a-daisy Robert Penrose was now sweating, lank haired scruffy-and-smelly Robert Penrose. It wasn’t a pretty picture, but the latter was far more interesting.

  Abigail had managed to create a small hole beneath the holly, and as Robert dropped to his knees and peered in where she indicated, he found what they had been looking for.

  To anybody else, it would have looked like nothing – makeshift headstones of stone jutting out of the ground at odd, tilting angles, teeth in a decaying mouth; they were only small, evidently made from rocks found around the area - makeshift graves, certainly, with a solitary ‘H’ roughly and crudely carved into each front, marking the body beneath.

  In his mind’s eye, Robert could see the unnamed priest – gathering what he needed and running himself ragged, cutting himself to ribbons on the leaves as he cleared the way to bury his family. Robert only respected him more for doing such a selfless act, and allowing himself to be lost in time. He imagined that all of those hundreds of years ago, the holly was not so great in number and thickness, and it had bordered the graves prettily, but it was too hard to tell. It was fascinating, and beautiful: the miniature plot had been blanketed over time, the house protecting its past.

  Abigail was on her haunches, her bloodied hands held over her mouth. Robert could hear her shallow breathing, he could see the tears in her eyes, smeared over her dirty cheeks, and he ventured to put a companionable arm around her.

  ‘After all this time,’ she said softly, the touch rousing her speech. ‘My family.’

  For a second, it didn’t quite register - what Abigail had said. For a stupid moment, Robert’s mind faltered and stumbled over itself, telling him that Abigail’s second name was Hayes - and then he remembered the glinting ring on her finger. Of course, Hartstone needn’t just be her maiden name, it could be a name long forgotten now, in her family, but still there, in her blood. The book, the research, the bunch of keys… Oh, how it made sense to Robert now.

  He was no Arthur Conan Doyle, but at that moment he wished he was, because he felt ridiculous. His only question was that of how the family had lived on if they had been killed before they could have a future, but he mentally told himself that he would ask that later, at a more appropriate time.

  His arm tightened around Abigail, and he allowed her to cry silent, overwhelmed tears, and while she did, his eyes focused on the small doorway into the past, right in the holly, and then they focused some more, widening as something else came into view: another shape in the shadowy depths of the holly prison.

  He shook Abigail a little, and she wiped her eyes hastily, taking in a deep breath and whispering ‘what is it?’ with that same curiosity he so admired.

  ‘Well,’ Robert said slowly, feeling proud and almost wickedly delighted that he had found something too. ‘It may not have its emerald eyes anymore, but…’ He gestured, and Abigail looked; together they shared a grin.

  The stone fox sat behind the four graves, like a guardian angel, watching with its stout body and pointed ears, even after countless centuries. It smiled bravely, every bit as remarkable as it had been with jewelled eyes.

  *

  The papers got a hold of the story quickly, and the house rode the band wagon of success. Suddenly, there were more open days, sold out to reams of tourists with snapping cameras and ecstatic smiles. The remaining Hartstones – great aunt and uncle of Abigail – came home to the news, and were more than happy to open the house to the public for extra days in summer, delighted to see the house attract such attention and life.

  The Hartstone family had expanded past Catherine and her husband; the siblings of the family taking over the house after the disappearances - and of course they had respected the wishes of the priest to have his portrait placed up in the gallery. There it had stayed until the weekend of the writer’s workshop, and there it would stay forever after.

  Abigail wrote her book in a breeze, renamed it, re-themed it around the discovery over the cobbled bridge of stone, and it sold in its thousands, particularly in the proud areas of Cheshire that boasted its new heritage and newsworthy status. Not that Abigail minded. Her family had reached the forefront of history books: the tale of the priest and his love for his adopted family capturing the hearts of the nation. She remained in touch with Robert. They wrote to one another, and Robert even attended the christening of Abigail’s new born baby.

  In retrospect, Robert Penrose had to admit that he had been wrong about being out of ideas – and, regretfully, he had to admit that the writing workshop at Hartstone House had saved his writing career… though perhaps not in the way that he had expected it to.

  His own book lined shelves and windows upon release, standing proudly alongside Abigail’s, one fact, one fiction. Both brought the story of Hartstone House to life, and complimented each other, smiling down at history, with its heart breaking turns and heart-warming climaxes.

  The stone fox was placed in the entrance hall to Hartstone House, welcoming visitors from it’s podium, watching with staring, jewel-less eyes.

  Because, of course, it had never been about the emeralds.

 

  The Penny and the Biscuit Tin

  ‘Good morning, Mr King; this is Nadia Dawson from the bank, calling to speak to you about the results of our meeting last Wednesday...’

  Jim catapulted in from the bathroom, toothbrush still in one hand, and all but dived for the phone. Snatching it up, he managed to cut off the crackling boom of the answer machine, suddenly very aware of how important this call was.

  ‘Hello, Miss Dawson? Sorry, I couldn’t quite get to the phone.’ There was a momentary pause down the other end of the line, as Nadia adapted her tone from the mechanical drill of a machine message to something more appropriate to human contact. Although, Jim reflected as he remembered their meeting the previous week, human contact was seemingly a variable term for Miss Dawson at the best of times. Personally, he blamed all
this new technology – bank staff were now so used to hiding in their offices while their customers deposited their cheques automatically, or checked their balances remotely, that their people skills were clearly becoming rusty...

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr King,’ Yep, her tone was definitely flatter now. ‘I was just calling to inform you that we’ve come to a decision about your mortgage application, after our meeting last week.’

  Yes, you’ve said all this already, Jim felt like pointing out. He turned towards the large double-window that lined the exterior lounge wall, gazing steadily at the misted scribble of horizon, way off across the fields, to try and focus his nerves. Just tell me the damn decision...

  ‘Right, so...’ He trailed off, awkwardly crossing his fingers over the handle of the toothbrush still gripped in one hand. They needed this so badly, please, please...

  ‘I’m afraid that at this time, given you and your wife’s circumstances, we are unable to offer you both the type of mortgage deal that you would require.’

  Jim felt as though his stomach had turned to rock, huge chunks crumbling away with every word Nadia Dawson spoke to plummet viscerally into a yawning pit of hopelessness. Obviously more accustomed to crushing people’s financial dreams than Jim was to having them crushed, Miss Dawson continued to speak into the silent wasteland of the phone-line, stating the bank’s “reasons”. Jim, still reeling, only heard snatches of the same old tired clichés.