Lifting his jacket away from her, Laurence pulled Amy’s torn petticoat down to cover her thighs and legs. Her bodice was ripped beyond repair and her small breasts were exposed. Laurence looked at them for a moment, unable to avert his eyes. He replaced his jacket over her chest and tucked in the sides to help keep her warm.
Bending over Amy, trying to make her as comfortable as he could, Laurence was unaware of Ellen Farrell lying a few yards away.
Chapter 7
David Lanceley kept his promise and telephoned Amelia a few days later. ‘I haven’t had much luck,’ he told her apologetically.
‘It was good of you to offer to help,’ Amelia said, flustered, but the vicar continued as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘I checked the register for births and deaths in this parish for 1912 and looked for the name Farrell, but nothing showed up.’
‘Oh well, thank you for trying.’ Amelia was disappointed. She knew Grace wasn’t going to let it rest and hoped she’d have something to placate her with. Amelia tried not to sound too let down and on impulse decided to invite the vicar over for lunch. Before she could ask him, Amelia heard a curt goodbye on the other end of the line and the replacing of the receiver.
David Lanceley relaxed back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together. Staring out of the window he swept his eyes across a view that resembled a watercolour painting. Yellow buttercups dotted the green meadows, and in the foreground a carpet of bluebells gave Oakham Wood a hazy blue lustre. Beyond the wood he had a magnificent view of Hemsworth Hill and further into the distance, although he couldn’t see it, he knew Lower Shelton nestled on the other side. Lanceley took a deep breath, as always calmed by the beauty of the scenery. Amid otherwise flat moorland, St Martin’s Church and vicarage sat on a low sandstone mound situated east of Woodbury village. The low land on the other side of the river was liable to flood, but Woodbury remained safe and dry. The original part of the church dated back to Saxon times, and like a beacon of hope its spire could be seen for miles. In contrast to the elaborate stone-built church, the red-brick vicarage stood square and squat. Renovated and added to during the 1980s, it boasted all modern conveniences and, although characterless, it was roomy enough for a large thriving family. The walls, papered in woodchip and covered in many layers of emulsion, mainly terracotta and olive, succeeded in muting any possible feeling of light and space. Lanceley considered adding his own layer, magnolia maybe, but due to his busy schedule he never had the time, nor, if honest, the inclination. The large echoing house emphasised Lanceley’s solitude. Occasionally he invited his sister, Leonie, over for dinner, but she never stayed longer than a couple of hours. Her hectic social life left her little time for her brother. On spur of the moment occasions he invited a few parishioners to tea, pensioners who’d lived in Woodbury most of their lives. Many remembered him as a small boy. Some still treated him as such, which after a while he found trying. But although their level of conversation was far from stimulating, it was a respite from his loneliness. The nagging notion that he wasn’t cut out to be a vicar disturbed him, and his gaze wandered back into the room. His father had been happy in the same vocation, as was his grandfather, Simon Lanceley. Maybe all he needed was a wife and a family to make his existence more tolerable. Amelia would make a good wife he thought, wondering if there was a special man in her life. It amazed him that after spending only a few moments with her, she should fill his mind. So much so, he had toyed with the idea of inviting her over for dinner, but dismissed the notion as quickly as it had arisen. Did he really want to get involved with a Farrell? Hadn’t they done enough damage to his family already? Anyway, after the way he’d behaved, rudely ending their visit like that, she’d probably never want to see him again.
For the third time that morning Lanceley read again the information contained in the file lying on his desk. He brooded over the contents, his head low over the pages, as though myopic. His first instinct was to come clean and tell Amelia and Grace what he knew. Indecision stopped him. Lanceley took a small piece of paper from the file and, slamming the rest of the file shut, shoved it into the bottom drawer of his desk. After locking his desk he popped the key and the piece of paper into his pocket.
Lanceley stepped into midday sun and shielding his eyes against the glare, took the path through the graveyard. He’d only gone a few steps when he found himself looking over his shoulder, with the feeling that someone was watching him. He glanced swiftly from side to side. He peered around a Celtic cross, but saw no one. Sightless eyes of stone angels watched as he passed and followed him along the path. Feeling compelled he stopped and turned quickly, convinced someone was following him. The path was empty.
After reading the information safely locked away in his desk drawer, Lanceley understood why he’d felt unsettled. He headed towards the far side of the graveyard until he reached a sandstone wall and continued along the perimeter path encircling the cemetery. The wall had crumbled away in places and blackberry bushes filled the empty spaces. He reached a low wooden gate and went through it. An area outside the churchyard’s boundary, on unholy ground, held four graves. The small section of ground, tucked away and forgotten, was sheltered by branches of wild hawthorns. Sunken oblongs covered in moss and weeds marked each grave; their only adornment were daisies and clover bent under the weight of pollen-seeking insects. Lanceley took out the piece of paper from his pocket and studied it, aligning four oblongs drawn on it with those on the ground.
Half hidden beside a hawthorn tree the young girl cuddled her baby and watched the man with red hair. He reminded her of someone from long ago. She shook her head in an effort to erase his memory. Leaning forward she looked down at the patch of sunken earth the man stood beside, and desolately she pulled the rough woollen shawl around her, knowing its warmth wouldn’t penetrate.
Lanceley stood beside John Farrell’s grave, in a trance. For a moment he forgot why he had come. He clasped and unclasped his fist and the piece of paper fell to the ground. His eyes followed its journey to where it settled. It was then he noticed a jam jar half buried in the soil, full of fresh water and holding freshly picked buttercups.
Chapter 8
The sandstone walls and towers surrounding Chester’s inner city gave Grace the impression she was being transported back in time, albeit by bus. Black and white Jacobean houses once belonging to merchants and noble men all retained their original façades, and each age had left proof of its existence by its own particular design and architecture. Roman and Gothic arches appeared in the most unlikely places, and had sheltered legionnaires, cavaliers, roundheads, royalty and peasants alike. Whether by accident or design the buildings sustained the quirkiness of the city and added to its appeal. Grace had heard of Chester’s Roman amphitheatre plus the preserved ruins of a Roman bathhouse, and she promised herself a visit.
Grace spent her first hour wandering the main pedestrianized streets ending her tour at the library. Her initial enquiry regarding the history of Woodbury and in particular Marsh Lane was met with a blank. A library assistant suggested Grace try the
Centurion
newspaper office, and unenthusiastically Grace made a note of the directions. She wasn’t in the mood now, so decided to go the following day.
As soon as she was home, Grace telephoned the
Centurion
office and made an appointment for the following day. She decided not to mention the intended visit to Amelia, thus delaying her sister’s look of disapproval.
***
Grace arrived at the office early. The street-level door opened to the sound of a loud buzzer which continued to make a racket until she shut the door. Inside the long narrow room was a high counter and at the far end, three metal chairs stood in a row, one piled high with old magazines. Old newspaper cuttings and sepia photographs in dull black plastic frames lined the walls and were in need of dusting. Grey vertical blinds angled for privacy blocked any natural daylight, adding to the dinginess. With no one on hand to register Grace’s arrival she drummed a short tattoo on the counter. After a few minutes she began to lose patience and tried a tentative ‘Hello’ in the direction of the inner door and considered whether or not to give the outer door’s buzzer another go.
‘Hello, anyone there?’ Grace called, louder this time. Almost immediately the door on the opposite side of the counter opened and a girl aged about twenty stepped through. The girl had the darkest brown eyes Grace had ever seen, and the black surprised eyebrows perched above them were at odds with the girl’s blonde Afro styled hair that hovered like a halo around her pretty face.
The girl apologised and introduced herself. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Pamela. I’m on my own here most of the time and I just had to have a comfort break, if you know what I mean.’ Pamela’s smile was open and friendly. She went onto explain that the classified sections were dealt with there, Bridge Street being so convenient for people to drop in and advertise their items. The main offices and printing rooms had relocated to bigger and better facilities, but they had left the old archive files down in the cellar.
Grace told Pamela what she wanted and without further delay Pamela escorted her through the inner door and down a long passage. Pamela rattled keys like a gaoler, and at the end of the passage unlocked another door and descended a narrow wooden staircase. Grace followed. Below were two more doors. Pamela arrived at the bottom of the stairs and turned, just in time to see Grace shiver.
‘Did someone just walk over a grave?’ Pamela asked jokingly. Grace smiled weakly and followed Pamela through the door on the right. They stood in a long, narrow room, the brick walls and ceiling forming a low arch. On each side, running halfway up the walls, shelves supported stacks of boxes that were labelled and colour coded. At the far end, a row of four-drawer filing cabinets stood like soldiers against the wall. Behind her, beside the doorway, was a bookcase full of thick tomes. Grace looked around the room and noticed computers and microfilm readers stationed on desks down the centre. This was going to be easier than she’d thought.
‘What date did you say you’re interested in?’ Pamela walked to a nearby table and indicated a chair for Grace to sit on.
‘1912, but I’d like to see earlier issues too, if that’s possible?’ Grace told Pamela.
Pamela went over to an archive box and brought out a small packet holding microfilm. ‘You’re lucky. Everything after 1900 is either on microfilm or on discs.’ Pamela waved a hand at the tomes. ‘The newspaper was established in 1805 and the archives have newspaper issues dated back to then.’ Grace watched Pamela position the microfilm ready for viewing, sliding the viewer down and across, stopping on the list of dates from 1910 to 1919. ‘There you are. They’re stored in ten-year batches so this film covers the time span you want.’
Grace leaned forward to look at the screen. ‘Thanks for your help, I’ll be fine now.’ She smiled appreciatively.
‘I’ll leave you to it if you don’t mind. It gives me the creeps down here. The toilets are next door.’ Pamela turned at the door and added, ‘We close at five thirty so you have a couple of hours.’
Alone in the underground tomb, Grace was grateful to notice Pamela had left the door to the stairs slightly ajar. Starting at 1st January 1910 she began to read. A fluorescent light running parallel with the desks flickered off and then on again, and the buzzing from the faulty element droned continuously. Grace shielded her eyes from the on–off dazzle and scanned the headlines. Eventually she reached the year 1911. Concentrating even more she scrutinised every page. The name Deverell appeared regularly. By all accounts they were a prosperous farming family owning most of the land on the east side of Chester. This confirmed what Reverend Lanceley had told them. A front-page article in June reported that Sir Edmund Deverell’s son Laurence had failed to return home and had been missing for two days. Sir Edmund was asking for volunteers to help police with another search of Oakham Wood.
Pamela’s voice called from above the stairs. ‘Are you okay down there?’
‘Yes thanks,’ Grace shouted. She looked at her watch and couldn’t believe how quickly the time had flown.
‘I’ll be closing in about fifteen minutes, okay’
‘No problem.’ Grace began skipping through the pages more quickly now, eager to find out more about the missing son. Absorbed in the Laurence Deverell case Grace forgot the true purpose of her search. Then suddenly the name Farrell stood out in thick black letters, a headline on the front page. Grace sucked in her breath and biting her bottom lip read the following article word for word. On the edge of her chair she read it again and then turned back to the preceding pages with a feeling she had missed something. Grace scanned each article frantically, aware that any minute Pamela would come down to turn off the lights and lock up.
As if summoned, Pamela’s high heels could be heard tapping along the corridor and down the stairs. ‘I’ve got to lock up now,’ she said, inserting a key into the lock.
‘Is it okay if I come back tomorrow morning?’ Grace made a quick note of the date and film number before Pamela leaned over her to switch the machine off.
‘Yes, of course. We open at nine o’clock.’
Grace said goodbye and left, her mind in turmoil.
Pamela watched Grace walk away then picked up the telephone receiver and tapped in a number. ‘Hi, it’s Pamela.’ She checked her image in the mirror behind the desk. ‘You may be interested to know someone’s been looking into the Deverells’ family history.
‘She doesn’t look like a journalist,’ Pamela replied to a question and then sighed audibly. ‘Her name is Grace Farrell. She’s coming back tomorrow to do more research. She didn’t say what time, but I will ring you when she arrives if you like. See you tomorrow then. Bye.’ Pamela ended the call and replaced the receiver.