Chapter 49
Marnie opened the heavy door and walked into the manor.
‘Hello,’ she said in the quiet. ‘Nice to see you again. I’ll be living here soon, if you want me.’
There was no reply, simply a feeling that she would be welcome when she did. She was getting as batty as the Dearmans. She clapped her hands together.
‘Okay, house, you and me are going to find Margaret Kytson. And I won’t take no for an answer, all right? Good.’
She strode into the library where the ledgers had been stored to make way for Emelie’s funeral tea, and she carried them back through to the dining table. She pulled out all the maps and plans of the village that she had found and unfolded them. Oh, where to start?
She turned her head upwards and implored, ‘Come on, Margaret, give me a hand here.’ And her heart nearly bounced out of her chest when someone rapped loudly on the window behind her.
It was Herv. Beautiful, lion-maned Herv with his large blue eyes that seemed to hold the sunshine in them. He pointed to the left and mimed unlocking the door. She was aware of how quickly she moved to do it.
‘Hello, how are you?’ he said.
‘I’m good, how are you?’ she replied. He seemed bigger, wider, his accent sounded stronger, his lips looked even more kissable and the sensation of them upon hers drifted across her mind.
She saw him smile, cross his arms, shake his head. ‘It’s so strange that you’re here. As Lady of the Manor.’
‘Yep, well . . . it’s odd for me too,’ said Marnie, jiggling her head nervously.
‘Are you . . . are you moving in? Do you need any help?’
‘No, I’m not moving in, but I could do with your help. If you aren’t too busy?’ She asked hopefully.
‘You’re the boss.’
Whatever Emelie might have said about Lady Chatterley and the gardener, somehow being Herv’s boss was a further wedge between them. Marnie picked that up in his only half-jokey tone.
She told him her theory and waited for his reaction and his eyes narrowed as his brain spun behind them.
‘It would make good sense, but there is no Spring House or Spring Hill or Little Springs . . .’
Hill. Little . . .
‘Herv look at this.’ She opened up the file and pulled out the drawing found under the floorboards in Winter House.
‘I have seen this before,’ he said. ‘It’s just a child’s picture.’
‘Or is it?’ Marnie positioned the three formal maps they had of Wychwell so they were in date order. She put the drawing in first position. ‘Let’s call this Map A, those B, C, D, okay,’ then she tapped the top right-hand corner of A with a heavy finger.
‘Here, look how it compares to the other ones. Can you see what I’m seeing?’
Herv’s eyes journeyed across the four maps. All he could see was that on the proper ones Emelie’s cottage was in the right place and on the drawing, it was much further into the woods.
‘Obviously not,’ he answered her, flummoxed.
‘Look at the manor and the church and the vicarage and the Wych Arms. The oldest still-standing buildings.’
Herv did as she asked. ‘They are the same on the maps and the drawing.’
‘Yep. These are the only buildings in the village which are in the same position on all four. Exactly the same position. And in the right place. So what if A isn’t a child’s drawing, what if it’s a very accurate map and the earliest one we have of the area.’
Herv looked again, studied the proper maps, compared them all to the drawing. She was right.
‘This isn’t supposed to represent Emelie’s house then?’ He tapped the top corner of map A. ‘This was another house built before Little Apples, is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, I think it was.’ She excitedly flipped over to a clean page in her A4 notepad and started scribbling. ‘Here’s a timeline. I’m guessing but I feel I’m onto something. One: Margaret Kytson’s house gets burned down and the well is closed up in the mid-sixteenth century. Next, trees grow, time passes. People remember the witch but it’s a long time ago. They have a vague recollection of where she lived and the well she was drowned in but by now she’s probably become more of a myth than a real person. Maybe something to scare naughty kids with. Then maybe later . . . yes . . . I know, so that kids aren’t scared, they make up a story that the witch lived at the other end of the village, and in time that’s what leads people to believe that her house was near Little Raspberries.’ The excitement was adding pace to her speech; she was so close to solving this, she could almost smell the hubble and bubble in Margaret’s cauldron. ‘Anyway, the Lord of the Manor decides that he wants a cottage built near to him. Maybe for a worker or his mother or his bit on the side. It’s close, but still tucked away. So he has the trees cleared and up the building goes.’
Herv tapped on the drawing, at the misplaced house they’d presumed was Emelie’s on map A. ‘This one?’
‘Yep. For the sake of argument, let’s call it Spring Cottage. Named after the fabled natural spring that is in the area somewhere nearby, though no one can remember quite where it is. Next, more cottages are built in the village and whoever names them presumes that ‘Spring Cottage’ is named after the season, so it makes sense to call three buildings after the other seasons.’
Herv clicked his fingers. ‘I have it,’ he said. ‘I know. Yes, but the water from the spring has been pushed underground and over the years it makes the land unstable.’
‘Precisely. Here on B – the second oldest map – this is not Spring Cottage because it has collapsed or been pulled down. The house has been rebuilt nearer to the village sometime after map A was drawn.’ She tapped the top right of maps B, C and D where the small square sat on the lip of the wood. ‘This is Emelie’s Cottage. And it’s been put there because it links to the manor house via a tunnel. It’s no longer needed to smuggle priests out into the woods, but it is rather handy if the Lord wanted to secretly visit a mistress that he’s ensconced there.’
‘There’s a tunnel?’ Herv asked.
‘I’ll show you where it is later,’ replied Marnie, resolute on keeping her thoughts on track. ‘Emelie presumed the water was running down the hillside and collecting there, and it does, but that’s not what caused all the damp she’s been getting. The water was coming up from underneath. It’s the spring. It hasn’t been able to drain into the well so over the years it’s got closer and closer to the village and then it found Emelie’s cellar.’
‘She said she didn’t have a cellar.’
Marnie gave a little laugh. Emelie hadn’t wanted anyone snooping down the stairs, that’s why she had lied.
‘We’ve all been thrown off the scent because of that story that Margaret was at the other end of Wychwell. For hundreds of years, we’ve been looking in the wrong place,’ said Marnie, all too aware she’d said we. As if she was as much part of the village as the green, Blackett Stream and the wood.
Marnie pressed her fingertip into map A again, right on the house that was no longer there and felt a tremor of excitement ripple through her like an electric eel. ‘Margaret Kytson is somewhere here, I know it. Have you got a spare shovel, Herv?’
Herv rang Johnny Oldroyd for an extra pair of hands and some tools. Johnny turned up with those and Lionel, the Mumfords, the Rootwoods, Derek, David and Pammy Parselow with theirs. Marnie was ankle-deep in mud when they arrived. Another pair of her trainers were absolutely ruined, but she didn’t care.
‘Where are you, Margaret?’ she said to the claggy ground. ‘We know you’re here somewhere.’
Zoe and Cilla turned up carrying two wide planks of wood so that Griff could ride over some of the mud in his wheelchair.
‘Watch out,’ David grinned, ‘foreman’s here.’
‘Just shut up and get your back into it, you,’ Griff returned.
‘We can’t dig up the whole wood,’ said Roger, surveying the expanse with dismay.
‘We won’t have to, Roger. She’s here,’ said Marnie, hoping she was right otherwise the estate was going to have to cough up for some chiropractor sessions.
‘Look for trees that are narrower in the trunk. They’ll be younger,’ Griff suggested.
‘This is a thin one,’ Zoe called. ‘In fact, there’s a few over here.’
‘It’s as good a place to start as any,’ said Herv, striding towards her in his monster-sized wellies.
Dr and Mrs Court arrived with a bag full of small bottles of pop. Then Ruby and Kay arrived with a spade and a fork and joined in. No one expected Una Price to turn up, but she did. Last, of course, and she hadn’t brought any tools with her, and she stood watching with Griff, arms folded, but she was there. Only Titus was significant by his absence.
The more they dug down, the more water-clogged the mud became and collapsed immediately back onto itself. Some made more impact on the ground than others, none more than Herv. He dug like a machine, and in second place was the string-thin Johnny who had a deceptive amount of strength, and plenty of youth on his side.
‘You be careful with your back, Derek Price,’ Una yelled at him.
Derek looked pleasurably shocked by her concern. ‘I will, Una. I will.’
‘Don’t overdo it, Dr Court,’ Marnie warned him, as he stretched an ache out of his shoulders.
‘I won’t, but I don’t want to miss the find,’ he beamed.
Ruby squealed as she hit something solid, but disappointingly it turned out to be only a large rock.
‘I’ve got to have a sit down for a bit,’ said Una, waddling over to the fallen tree that Emelie had rested on, when she and Marnie went picking strawberries. She was steps away from it when she disappeared into the ground with a screech that owls everywhere would have envied. It was as if a trapdoor had opened beneath her.
Those who could rushed over. Lionel was nearest.
‘Una, are you all right?’ The hole was at least four foot deep.
‘My bloody ankle,’ she winced.
‘Take our hands, Una, we’ll pull you up,’ said Herv. He and Lionel carefully hoisted her out.
‘Chuffing sinkhole,’ she said, putting her bare foot down on the mud. ‘And I’ve lost my shoe.’
‘It’s a well,’ shrieked Johnny, staring into the hole that Una had so recently vacated. ‘It’s a round well.’
‘Oh my lord,’ said Lionel. ‘Here, dig here.’
Una hopped to the tree trunk and sat down to rub her ankle. With renewed vigour, the diggers plunged their spades and forks into the ground around the newly found hole, loosening the stones where they could. Herv reached down, tearing up huge rocks that had been placed there to press down the soil. There was a feeling of great excitement thrumming through the air now, like an engine of anticipation building up steam because this had to be the well – Margaret’s well. Herv scooped out more rocks, Lionel and Johnny threw down their spades and followed his lead.
‘There’s something else here,’ said Herv. ‘It feels like metal, not rock.’ It was lodged under more stones and he was having difficulty getting a purchase on it. Then his fingers managed to grip it and he gave one almighty heave. He handed it to Lionel who took it from him reverently and turned it around in his hands, wiping the mud off it with his jumper sleeve.
‘What is it, Vicar? Treasure?’ Johnny’s eyes were wide with fascination.
‘A chalice,’ replied Lionel.
‘There’s more,’ said Herv, tugging hard and then handing over a tarnished metal cross.
‘Oh my,’ gasped Lionel. ‘Church artefacts. If they’ve been down there as long as Margaret, these must be things stolen from churches and monasteries when they were destroyed in Henry the Eighth’s rule. We’ll have to declare it to the authorities of course.’
‘Will we buggery,’ said Griff. ‘It’s on our land so it’s ours.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Kay.
‘I think you’ll find it’s on Marnie’s land,’ said Derek, and all eyes turned to her. She felt herself colouring under the splatters of mud which had taken over most of her face.
‘I’ll have to check,’ she said. Not the answer some of them wanted, but she would do things properly, they knew.
‘They’re here.’
Attention shifted to Herv who had found something else in the well. Something far more valuable to the village. A human skull.
*
They had to leave the digging there, once there was evidence of a body. Ancient or not, Marnie knew they’d have to phone the police, because she’d found it out from the internet in case it ever happened. If they decided these were ‘bones of antiquity’ then it would be a matter for the county archaeologist. ‘If that turns out to be a sheep, I’ll bleeding murder someone,’ said David, looking down into the hole at the partly unearthed skull.
‘If that turns out to be a sheep, it’ll have had the funniest shape head on an animal you’ll have ever seen,’ replied Roger.
It wasn’t a sheep, it was definitely human: it was poor Margaret, they were sure of it.
‘Can we all say a little prayer,’ said Lionel.
Everyone bowed their heads.
‘Dear Lord, thank you for leading us to find Margaret and her child. May she be buried amongst us soon, properly, where she belongs, and at peace. Amen.’
‘It was me that found her, not God,’ Una argued, under her breath but still loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘Ah, but who led you over there,’ said Roger, with a twinkle in his eye.
Una huffed. ‘I’m changing religions if my God wants to shove me down a well.’
Lionel offered her his arm. ‘Dear lady, you are the hero of the hour.’
Una beamed as a ripple of applause offset the ache in her ankle.
‘I think celebrations might be in order,’ said David. ‘Anyone fancy a pint? Your wellies are most welcome. Oh, the joy of easily moppable rustic stone floors.’
No one needed to answer in words. Their smiles said it all. If ever they deserved a pint, it was now.
*
The whole of the village of Wychwell – bar Titus – trooped down to the Wych Arms. Una hobbled theatrically, but no one minded her being a drama queen on this occasion. If she hadn’t been Una, lazy and very heavy, the ground might not have caved in. Marnie wondered how many times tiny Emelie had crossed over the exact spot where the well lay underneath her feet.
David brought out the carrot wine, Lionel went across to the vicarage to fetch his beetroot, determined not to be outdone. Never had the pub been as full, never had the roof threatened to blow off with the amount of camaraderie stuffed inside its walls. Those who had been slightly worried about how to speak to Marnie now she owned the village, found that a little wine helped ease down any barriers. Una even wished her every success and Marnie thanked her for finding what had foxed so many for so long. Marnie looked over at one point and saw her talking to her estranged husband, although by that time she was plastered and Derek was eager to be off.
The only two people who didn’t speak were Marnie and Herv. But his eyes flicked to her often, and hers to him. At one point he smiled at her and she smiled back, but neither crossed over to the other. She secretly studied him talking to Kay and a very tipsy Ruby and thought how gorgeous he was. Strong, lovely, kind . . . he was absolutely perfect. And she was about as opposite to that as could be. Kay went off to the toilet, strategically Marnie suspected, leaving her daughter with that hunk of Viking and Marnie thought that maybe they’d make a good match after all. Ruby was pretty and bubbly and would probably be really nice away from her mother and she’d love him, oh boy she’d smother him with affection . . . and she was blonde so she was on to a winner with him because he obviously liked those. And, more importantly, she didn’t have a lot of past hanging around her neck like a scabby albatross.
When she saw him crook his arm and Ruby take it, she wondered if he’d eventually realised how uncomplicated and easy a relationship he’d have with her, after the brush with evil that she’d given him. She wished them well and tried not to watch them walk out of the door, though her eyes were so clouded that even if she had turned her head, she wouldn’t have seen them anyway.
Herv showed Ruby to the door and bent to receive her kiss on the cheek. He was okay with that, because he knew that Ruby’s affections had found a new home with a teacher at her school. Change was present in the air; he also knew there had been a seismic shift in Wychwell as soon as they had found Margaret. Marnie had lifted the curse and with it, slipped properly into the role of Lady of the Manor; Wychwell was all hers now and she would make her mark on it. One curse gone, another one started. The curse of good fortune had put her out of his league.