Silent on the Moor (13 page)

“When have your kind ever wanted to share our ways?” she asked without rancour.

“I suppose you are correct. I should be quite hopeless at that sort of thing. What I know of Sir Redwall suggests a man who would like his comforts. But I wonder what caused him to leave Grimsgrave and venture abroad when no one else in his family had ever done so. Was it purely the love of Egyptology?”

“Who can say? It was a difficult time in the village, and the Allenbys were not very popular just then.”

“The village?” I prompted.

“Those who do not farm here used to work the mines. Lead mostly, a little silver. The last mine on Allenby land played out shortly before Sir Redwall left. Folk did not take it well when he closed the mine and refused to survey for another vein. He ought to have paid for someone to look properly, but he would not. He claimed he had no money, then left for Egypt, sending back a stream of expensive artefacts. He was not received warmly when he returned.”

“What happened?”

“He were pelted with rotten eggs when he came, and folk chased him from the village clear out onto the moor, throwing stones and threatening him.”

I stared at her, aghast. “Their own benefactor?” I could scarcely fathom it. The relationship between the largest house in the area and the country folk was a throwback to the feudal age, with protection in difficult times and opportunities for work provided by the big house, and strong backs and willing workers provided by the villagers. It was astonishing to me that the relationship could have broken down so completely at Grimsgrave, but then northerners had a reputation for the sort of independence southerners would never countenance.

She shrugged again. “He denied them work, took food from their children’s mouths. He was no benefactor to them. When he closed the mine and refused to survey for another, it caused a great deal of suffering. The estate began to fail, and he sold off some of the farms. He turned out the farmhands, sending them back to their homes, and sent the maids home as well. Many of those young people had depended upon their wages at Grimsgrave Hall to sustain entire families with their fathers out of work and younger brothers and sisters to feed. But the Allenby fortunes were in decline. Sir Redwall had spent himself into oblivion, and when he realised what he had done, he turned his face to the wall and died.”

I thought of the handsome, charismatic face in the photograph and shook my head. “It seems impossible,” I murmured.

“Do not think a handsome face may not hide a weak will,” Rosalie advised me. I thought of my late husband and was forced to agree.

“What of his sister?” I asked suddenly. “The one who eloped with the portrait painter? Miss Ailith told me of her this afternoon. She made her escape from here.”

“Did she? No one knows what became of her. She simply disappeared one night. Yes, the painter left as well, but was he forced to leave? Did he abduct the girl? Or did either of them ever leave that house alive?”

I stared at her, not quite comprehending. “Are you suggesting there has been murder done at Grimsgrave Hall?”

She smiled her enigmatic smile. “I suggest nothing. But Grimsgrave Hall is a house of secrets, and there will be no peace there until every one of them is brought into the light of day.”

It was late when I left her, the shadows lengthening on the moor, the sun sinking below the horizon in a blaze of red and gold. I watched the sunset for just a moment, tearing myself away from the magnificent display when I remembered how long a walk still lay before me across the chilly moor. I set off toward Grimsgrave Hall, but I had not gone more than a dozen steps before I turned back. I stood very still, uncertain of what I had heard. And then, as the brisk moor wind rose, I heard the unmistakable sound of a bell, tolling low and mournful beneath the black waves of Grimswater.

I
was not surprised Brisbane made no appearance at supper, and I was just as glad he did not. I was still smarting over his silly attempt to push me further away, and deeply frustrated that I could not discuss the matter with Portia. I went to bed early with a headache, and woke feeling only marginally better.

The next morning I closeted myself in Redwall’s study directly breakfast was over. I took Grim in his cage to keep me company as usual, leaving Florence curled up in Minna’s apron. It was warm there, and Minna used her for a place to rest her mending, so they were both satisfied with the arrangement. I placed the cage in its accustomed spot on the
desk, but this time I opened the door to give him the run of the place. Grim bobbed his head excitedly.

“Mind you don’t upset anything. Some of these artefacts are terribly valuable,” I told him. He hopped out of the cage and began strutting round the room, pausing now and again to peer at something shiny. I slipped Redwall’s photograph from my pocket and propped it on the desk. I told myself it was for a bit of inspiration, for the work could be tedious and grimy, but the truth was there was something arresting about that face, and wherever I turned, his level gaze seemed to follow, the mouth turned up in amusement at something I had done. I put his Egypt notebooks into a drawer to peruse later, and set to work. I had finished the books and was thrilled to be cataloguing the last of a set of delicately-wrought
shawabtis.
They were tiny statues of servants, waiting to do their master’s bidding in the afterlife. It amused me to see them ranged there, each with slightly different features or a different drape to his linen kilt. The artist had been so skilled, I could almost sense the watchfulness of each, the willingness to anticipate the needs of the master and respond. They were remarkable, and oddly charming.

I had just finished describing the last when Grim put his glossy black head around the edge of the desk and quorked at me.

“Are you hungry?” I rummaged in my pocket for a tin of sweetmeats, tossing him a sugared plum. He tore into it greedily and I threw him another.

“Oooh, that’s for me,” he said in his odd little croaking
voice. The first time Grim had spoken to me it had been a revelation, but I was accustomed to him now, and more than once his little sayings had been frighteningly
apropos.

“Yes, that’s for you, dearest.” I rose and tidied up the box of
shawabtis,
then cast around for the next item to be catalogued. There was a couch I had been longing to put my hands on, but the
shawabtis
had been stacked atop it. Now, if I just shifted a set of ebony chairs, I could reach it properly. It was not an easy proposition. The chairs were precariously balanced and surprisingly heavy, their legs resting on the edge of the couch and braced by the brickwork of the fireplace. The fireplace backed the one in Brisbane’s bedchamber, the two flues sharing a single chimney. I put my back to the brickwork and pushed against the first chair to edge it up in order to get a proper grip on it.

Just then Grim quorked loudly, startling me. I dropped the chair and stepped back heavily, catching my elbow on the side of the brickwork of the chimney breast.

“Damnation,” I muttered, rubbing at my elbow and praying I had not damaged the chair.

Grim tilted his head up at me. “Damnation.”

“Do not repeat that,” I told him severely. “Or if you must, tell people Valerius taught it to you.”

I examined the chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Even after a few millennia in a desert tomb, my clumsiness had not harmed it. The chimney breast was not so lucky. My elbow had dislodged a bit of it, and I bent to retrieve the piece of brick, surprised to find it was a neat slice rather than a crumbled lump. I moved to fit it back into place, and as I did so, I saw a tiny ring-shaped handle sitting slightly proud
of the mortar beyond, just large enough to admit an index finger. I slid my finger inside and twisted.

To my astonishment, the mechanism worked perfectly. The side of the chimney breast swung open noiselessly, and I saw that the brick here was not solid at all. The entire panel was covered in thin slices of brick, a perfect
trompe-l’oeil
to trick the eye into believing it was as solid as the rest of the construction. It was beautifully done, each part of the mechanism fitting to within a hairsbreadth. A master had been at work here, I mused, but to what purpose?

“Of course,” I murmured to Grim. “The Allenbys are Catholics. It’s a priest’s hole!”

He ignored me and toddled off, quorking quietly to himself, but I was intrigued. I had read of them, these odd little spaces fitted perfectly into Roman households for the purpose of hiding recusant priests. They had been hunted after the Reformation, and for a few centuries after, I recalled. But Catholics had had a stronghold in the north, and many of the manor houses had sheltered the priests who clung to the old ways and refused to recognise the Anglican church.

The spaces were invariably tiny, so as not to attract the attention of the men who searched for the priests. Some barely accommodated a fully-grown man, and there was no question of comfort. Priest’s holes were for survival, and this one was no bigger than one might expect. Fitted directly against the fireplace, it must have been uncomfortably hot, stifling even, although a tiny speck of daylight high in the back wall showed where a supply of clean air might be had. There was even a silver tube still hanging next to the hole, a clever device to enable the priest to draw in the fresh air deeply.

But it was not the accommodations of the priest’s hole that had captured my attention. Wedged tightly into the hole was an anthropomorphic box, the wood gilded and painted, as bright and beautiful as the day an Egyptian artist had last put his brush to them.

I leaned closer in the dim light to look at it, and felt a rush of excitement. This was what I had been searching for, a treasure from a pharaoh’s tomb, the coffin of a king.

Or a queen, I decided, looking more closely at the painted face. The features were delicate and feminine. I touched a fingertip to the gilding, scarcely daring to breathe. It seemed impossible that Redwall Allenby could have spirited home the mortal remains of a pharaoh’s wife, but the more I thought on it, the less outlandish it became. He was a passionate student of Egyptology, and what part of that discipline commanded more devotion than the study of its mummies? I had already learned enough of his character to know he could be impulsive and opportunistic. If he had been forced from Egypt in disgrace, might he not have taken the chance to purloin a magnificent trophy as a reminder of his travels to a beloved land?

I put out a hand and tested the weight of the coffin. It was futile to think I could move it myself, but I realised that the lid rocked a little against my palm. Without pausing to consider the consequences, I went to the desk and retrieved the knife. The blade slid easily between the lid and the coffin, and I silently blessed the work of good Yorkshire craftsmen. A lesser blade would have snapped as I rocked the lid free, but this held true, and I stepped back sharply as the lid dropped free of the sarcophagus. I peered behind
it, prepared to look upon the linen-wrapped features of a long-dead queen.

Instead, there were two tiny bundles, each less than two feet long, positioned snugly in the sarcophagus, one where the lady’s torso ought to have been, one in place of her legs. For one gruesome moment, I thought the lady had been dismembered, her body laid to rest in separate wrappings, but as I looked more carefully, I realised the bundles were two separate persons. I could make out the contours of heads and shoulders and legs, and each had been wrapped with all the care one would expect in an ancient burial, presided over by embalmer-priests. And to my horror, I knew precisely what they were.

I stepped out of the priest’s hole and took several deep breaths, peeking once or twice to make certain the coffin was still there. Grim had found the tin of plums and pried it open, greedily helping himself to the contents. I no longer cared. My hands were still shaking as I closed the panel, careful to mark where the mechanism was as I slotted the brick into place. I was calmer by the time I put Grim back into his cage. He clucked irritably at me as I fastened the clasp.

“Damnation,” he said, fixing me with a beady eye.

“Oh, do shut up, Grim,” I returned.

I hurried to the hall and snatched up the first garment I found, a cloak of Hilda’s, rusty black and so heavy I could barely stagger with it on. I was halfway across the moor path before I finally managed to tie its strings, picking my way toward Thorn Crag. I did not know where Brisbane was to be found, but it made sense to try the highest point in hopes I would be able to spy him from there.

As I drew closer, I fancied I heard his voice, and just as I
rounded the top he came rushing from the other direction, nearly knocking me flat.

“Julia, what the devil are you doing up here? These rocks are dangerous,” he scolded, putting a firm hand under my elbow and guiding me to firmer footing.

“Is there someone here? You were talking to someone,” I prodded.

“Myself,” he said, setting me onto my feet. “Why have you come?”

I pulled my elbow away and rubbed at it. It was the one that had collided with the brickwork, and it was still tender.

“You have mummy babies,” I blurted without preamble.

He stared down at me, his dark brows furrowed. “I have what?”

“Mummy babies. In the house, in Redwall’s study. He kept them jammed into a priest’s hole behind the fireplace. I found it, entirely by accident,” I said quickly. “I was cataloguing the contents of his collection for Lady Allenby, and—” I broke off, realising with a rush of annoyance that I had just told Brisbane something I had not meant to reveal. I hurried on in the hopes he would not notice. “I found them, hidden away in a wooden sarcophagus. They are horrid.”

He continued to stare at me, his bright black gaze as inscrutable as Grim’s. “Coffin,” Brisbane corrected finally.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Coffin. You said it was wood. Sarcophagi are made of stone. They hold coffins, which are made of wood and gilded and painted.”

“Brisbane, this is no time to be pedantic. Come and
look at them.” I tugged at his sleeve, our earlier quarrel quite forgotten.

To my surprise, he did not demur. He simply glanced around casually, then gestured for me to descend the crag behind him. I scrambled over the rocks with a great deal less grace than I had ascended, but at length I reached the bottom, Hilda’s cloak only slightly the worse for wear. Brisbane touched it lightly.

“Taken to wearing Hilda’s things, have you?”

I pulled a face. “It is vile. I only wore it because it was the nearest thing at hand.”

“It does not suit you. You are too short by half to wear it,” he observed.

I snatched the trailing hem out of the mud and shot him an evil look as I stalked away. “Thank you for that. Hurry up, will you?”

He came along mildly, as unconcerned as if we were on a picnic. I think he may have even whistled a tune at one point. I ignored him until we reached the Hall, pausing only to slip Hilda’s cloak back onto the peg. I made a note to have Minna brush it for her, then hurried on to the study, Brisbane following.

I noticed he closed the door behind us.

“Hullo, Grim,” he said, catching sight of my pet.

“Good morning,” Grim returned cordially.

“Brisbane,” I said, tapping my foot. He joined me, watching as I slipped the slice of brick from its careful slot, then twisted the small iron ring and opened the panel.

“Very clever,” he murmured, studying the mechanism.

“Brisbane, you can admire the craftsmanship later. The mummies,” I pleaded.

He heaved a sigh, then stepped around me to study the coffin. After several minutes, he stripped off his coat and tossed it to me. In spite of a day spent upon the muddy moor, his waistcoat was smooth, his sleeves perfectly clean. He unpinned his cuffs and folded them back, baring strong brown forearms. He fitted the lid back into place, then tested it to make certain it would hold long enough to withstand a move. He positioned himself then and after a few aborted attempts managed to get a proper grip upon the coffin, removing it carefully to the storeroom floor.

“It is marvellous,” I breathed, watching the lamplight play over the gilded wood.

“Quite,” he murmured. He ran his hands over the coffin as carefully as a lover, testing the surfaces, for what I could not imagine. Only after he had gone over every inch of it did he straighten. He slid a hand into his boot and retrieved a knife. I blinked in surprise, but he carried on, sliding the sharp blade between the lid and the body of the coffin. As it had done against my blade, the lid eased open and Brisbane slid his fingers underneath. A few moments’ careful manoeuvring and it was open. We both peered into the shadows of the coffin.

“Mummy babies indeed,” he murmured, studying the little forms intently.

I shuddered. “But why babies? It’s so horrid.”

“Some collectors prefer to purchase the remains of children. They are usually less expensive, and the decorations on the coffins can be quite beautiful, although in this
case, that was clearly not the motivation. The coffin was designed for a grown woman,” he said reasonably.

I pulled back and gave him a reproving look. “Are you not outraged? Those are someone’s children! And he
bought them,
like they were trinkets in a bazaar!”

Brisbane shrugged. “Most likely they were. That is where most tourists in Egypt purchase their souvenirs, Julia. He was probably walking through the
souk
one day and thought they would be an interesting memento of his travels.”

“I do not care,” I said fiercely. “Dead people ought not to be souvenirs.”

“No, they would not be my first choice of keepsake,” he agreed mildly, “but I only know of one person who has returned from Egypt without some bit of mummy. Everyone wants a mummy, even if it’s only a cat.”