The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries (2 page)

‘Little old box, nothing!' said Nicholas. ‘No. That's a little old coffin!'

* * *

There was no mistaking it. The profile of a coffin lid is in some way branded on the memory. The eternal symbol of death and dissolution, an object of reasonless fear buried in the country memories of us all. It was tiny; not above two feet long. A whiff of profound grief and misery briefly embraced us all as the darkness deepened, the thunderous rain began to fall again and the damp chill of the day sharpened to an icy coldness.

The carpenter ran a knowledgeable hand over the small structure. ‘Must have made hundreds of coffins in his time,' I thought.

‘Oak boards. Nicely made,' he said, absently caressing the joints with a craggy thumb. ‘That were tacked up from below.' He slipped the point of a chisel under the rim of the coffin and pressed upwards against the covering board. ‘Lift it off, shall I?'

‘No! Wait!' I heard my own voice call out. I didn't want him to take off the lid. I didn't want to see what the box held. ‘Perhaps we should call the police? Isn't that what you do when you find a . . . er . . . come across a burial?'

‘If
that's what it is, it's a very ancient burial,' said Nicholas gently. ‘I don't think the police will be interested in something so old. Because it is very old, wouldn't you say?'

‘It went in the same day as the staircase was put up,' said Johnny Bell firmly. ‘The only way you could get it in with this construction.'

‘So we have a date then,' said Nicholas. ‘Diana will know. My wife, Diana. She's somewhere about . . .'

‘1662. That's the year it was put in.' A low clear voice called down to us from the upper floor. Diana came to join us, taking in the strange scene at a glance. ‘Oh, dear! How extraordinary! But how fascinating! Look, with the stairs in their present parlous state I think we should take whatever that is downstairs and put it on the big table in the yellow drawing room and decide what to do about it when we're in no danger of disappearing through a hole. Eleanor is it? Eleanor Hardwick? I'm Diana Wemyss. I was just making you a cup of tea. Perhaps that can wait for a few minutes?'

I smiled as Diana's comforting presence chased away the chill forebodings. She couldn't have been more different from her gaunt husband. Short and rounded with merry brown eyes, she had the cheerful and confident charm of a robin. We all made our way backwards down the stairs and into the drawing room and gathered around the little box waiting for Diana to tell us what to do
next.

‘We really have to open it,' she said. ‘Too embarrassing if we hauled a busy constable all the way out from Norwich to witness us opening an empty container.'

Everyone nodded and Johnny got to work again with his chisel. Hardly breathing, we all peered into the coffin as the lid rose.

‘Ah,' said Diana in an unsteady voice. ‘Nicholas, perhaps you'd better inform the constabulary? Just to be on the safe side.'

* * *

Two hours later, an Inspector had called and viewed the pathetic contents of the box, and had taken brief statements. He agreed that the burial had been clandestine and there'd probably been dirty work at the cross-roads back in the 17th century but, really, this was one for ‘Time Team' not the Norfolk Constabulary. He was quite happy to leave it, as he put it, ‘in the hands of the experts'. That was us. We were on our own.

On a scatter of almost-fresh sawdust in the bottom of the box lay the yellowed bones of a very small infant. It lay on its side in a foetal position and, as far as our appalled and fleeting glances could determine, there was no obvious cause of death. There was no tattered winding sheet, no identifying bracelet. The only other thing the box contained was a slip
of
parchment. It had been glued inside the lid and so remained unaffected by the decay within the box. On it a neat hand had written, ‘
Deus tute eum spectas
'.

‘Good heavens!' said Diana. ‘What have we here? The lost heir of the Easton family?'

I remember even then in the turmoil of mixed emotions I was feeling that something was off key. I felt sick and guilty that we had, however innocently, displaced and disturbed the little body after all those years. With uncomfortable sideways glances at each other, we had replaced the lid on the coffin, Johnny Bell solemnly making the sign of the cross before packing up his tools and leaving.

Gratefully I accepted Diana's invitation, in view of the late hour and the filthy weather, to stay the night in one of the guest rooms. While she put together a supper in their small flat on the second floor Nicholas invited me to come round the house with him as he ‘put it to bed'. I watched him set alarms and lock doors, the whole process taking about half an hour. As we wandered down through the dark house our progress was much delayed by Nicholas's discursions as we passed one beautiful thing after another.

Pausing finally in the gallery which encircled the staircase at first floor level he drew my attention to a run of portraits. ‘I'd like to haul this lot in for interrogation, Ellie,' he said. ‘I bet one of them could tell us more about the
contents
of that box. The Easton family. They were all here the year the staircase was put in. They came up from their London home for the jollifications in 1662. The celebrations covered the restoration of the monarchy two years earlier but also the marriage of the younger brother of the Earl.'

He lifted the shade of a table lamp and held it upwards. ‘Here he is, with his wife alongside. This is the chap whose anniversary we're celebrating this Christmas. Father of the dynasty. His descendants still live hereabouts—they gave the house to the Trust thirty years ago. Robert Easton took over when his elder brother died childless in 1672.'

I looked up at the handsome florid features of Robert Easton, Earl of Somersham. An impressive man in a curling brown wig to his shoulders, he wore a coat of dark blue velvet with gold frogging over a ruched shirt of finest white linen, a lace jabot at his throat. The painter had conveyed his subject's confidence and pride by the seemingly casual placing of one elegant hand on his hip.

Nicholas for a moment dipped the lamp to illuminate the left hand corner of the painting. I was impressed but not surprised to read: ‘P. Lely
pinxit
.'

‘A Peter Lely!'

Nicholas smiled. ‘Yes, the Dutchman who painted all those sumptuous portraits of Charles Stuart's mistresses. The Windsor
beauties.
All white bosoms, floating draperies and slanting invitation in their sloe-black eyes. Hmm . . .'

We looked together at the lady in this painting. She was young and fair and quite lovely but here were no sloping shoulders, no flirtatious glance to the artist. Her gown was of chestnut silk, draped and shimmering, and the luscious autumnal colouring was all that you could have hoped for from Lely but worn with an unusual modesty, her only jewellery a simple pearl necklace. In her lap rested a basket overflowing with autumn fruits and flowers—a cornucopia. In the background leaves drifted down from stately parkland trees.

‘Mary, Countess of Somersham, as she became on her husband's accession to the title. We assume this was a wedding portrait—it was certainly done in the year of their marriage when Robert was the younger brother-in-waiting. Not much of a catch for a girl, you might think, but he was—for her. She was no aristocrat. Mary was the daughter of a Quaker shipbuilder but very rich so they both got what they wanted from the marriage. An unusual match but it turned out well.'

‘And the cornucopia is a pointed reference to the wealth she was bringing to the Easton family?'

‘That's right. After the lean years of the Commonwealth it was a miracle they had
survived
as a family at all and they were certainly pleased to have her injection of cash. Bet if the truth were known she even paid for the staircase! She saved the whole dynasty. She was fruitful in other ways too,' he added, showing me a further picture.

A charming portrait showed seven children gambolling in a landscape which was clearly Felthorpe Hall. Formally dressed miniatures of adults, they played with toys and small spaniels or clustered at the feet of their mother, an older and now matronly Mary. All here was sunshine striking satin, rounded pink cheeks and laughing eyes. An idyllic scene. A perfect family. I said as much to Nicholas.

He grunted. ‘Unfortunately, not perfect. There was a fly in the ointment . . . a serpent in paradise. These little poppets had the most appalling uncle. The man destined to inherit the title: William, Robert's older brother. Fortunately for the poppets, the rogue died an early death. A lethal combination of drink and the pox, it's said. He died abroad and spent very little time here at Felthorpe which was held together by the efforts of Robert and his trusty steward.'

The light changed direction again and illuminated a third portrait.

A harsh white face in a black periwig. A diamond ring on a thin white hand lightly holding a small purple flower, a bunch of lace, lidded eyes. A clever face. A voluptuous face. I
shivered.

‘Wicked William Easton,' said Nicholas.

‘Not by Lely, this one,' I said, peering more closely at the portrait. ‘But a similar style, surely?'

‘It's unsigned and we have no record of the painter. A pupil of Lely? Could be. Skilfully done though. Taken during William's youth, obviously, before he became dissolute.'

I shuddered. ‘That man was born dissolute!'

I looked again at the hooded eyes and tried to read their expression. Dark and scornful but there was more—they gleamed with unconcealed invitation. The full lips twisted with a humourless certitude. This man knew he could have anyone he wanted. After more than three centuries he still had the power to make me look away, blushing, repelled and overwhelmed by the force of his flaunting sexuality.

Locking more doors, having first checked that all the rooms were empty, and turning off the last remaining lights, we returned to the landing.

‘Hang on! Wait a minute!' I said. ‘There's someone downstairs.'

‘Can't be,' said Nicholas comfortably. ‘There's no one in the house but ourselves.'

‘Sorry. For a moment I thought I saw someone under the stairs. Where does that door lead to?'

‘Doesn't lead anywhere. It's been blocked
for
over a hundred years.'

‘Perhaps it was the moon?'

‘That would be a miracle! No moon through all this cloud.'

We returned quickly to the cheerful, candlelit dining room under the roof.

* * *

It was midnight before, equipped with a spare toothbrush and an old pair of Diana's pyjamas, I was shown to a small spare room on the floor below.

‘Hope you'll be all right in here? We'd better aim for eight o'clock breakfast. Suit you? Right then, sleep well!'

It had been a long day and I had hardly been able to keep my eyes open for the last hour but as soon as I reached this little room I knew I was in for a sleepless night. My mind went into unwelcome overdrive. Schemes for the repair of the stairs were uppermost but speculation as to the possible history of the little box and its pathetic contents followed close behind. I got out of bed, drew the curtains and looked out across the park. The moon appeared briefly through a rent in the cloud and a flight of mallard whipped swiftly across this luminous patch.

‘And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.'

I wasn't so sure about that!

I
climbed back into bed and the unwelcome thought came to me that I needed to make a last dash to the bathroom. I made my reluctant way onto the landing trying to remember where on earth the bathroom was and thankful for the torch that Nicholas had handed me. On my return I was, still more reluctantly, drawn to peer down into the darkness below, prodded by a childish element of self-challenging bravado.

A door opened and shut and a dim figure on the floor below slipped under the stairs and out of sight.

‘There is somebody down there! Somebody has got locked in. A cleaner perhaps? But surely the whole place is covered with movement detectors? Who the hell's that?'

My question was answered by a sigh from below and an indistinguishable gabble of words in a female voice. The words ended in a rack of sobbing and I was much afraid.

A shaft of light broke from a suddenly opened door on the floor above and the Wemyss peered down over the balustrade.

‘Ellie?'

‘Yes?'

‘Did you hear that?'

‘Yes. There's somebody down there. I thought there was.'

‘Can't be,' said Nicholas. ‘Can't be.'

They hurried down and joined me. I was very glad of their nearness. The house was
desperately
cold.

‘We heard someone on the stairs,' said Diana.

‘That was me going to the loo.'

‘No, before that. Did it wake you up?'

‘No, I wasn't asleep. But I saw someone just now. And there—look there!'

The tail of a shaft of passing moonlight seemed again to illuminate a dim figure and once again we heard that mutter of pathetic sobbing.

‘Come on, Ellie,' said Nicholas. ‘Let's go and look at this.'

‘You're not leaving me up here by myself,' said Diana.

There was a hiss, a whirr and a metallic click and, after a moment of aged hesitation, an ancient clock struck one.

‘If I might make rather a folksy suggestion,' I said, ‘would we all like a cup of tea?'

‘Now that's what I really appreciate,' said Nicholas. ‘The sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets, and the architect calls for a cup of tea!'

* * *

‘What did Johnny Bell say?' asked Diana when we sat down in the kitchen, fragrant mugs of Earl Grey clutched in shaking hands. ‘That the coffin must have been put in when the staircase was constructed? 1660. Then perhaps
Mr.
Stillingfleet can help us.'