The Passage (22 page)

I said goodbye to Sister Angela and headed for the gate.  I hadn’t brought anything with me, so there was nothing to take.  All I had were the clothes on my back.  The men were already up, dismantling their makeshift camp and getting ready to leave.  Archie was pissing against the tree and winked at me as I passed; Arnold and Peter were saddling the horses that were in no mood to be rushed and were enjoying a breakfast of fresh grass.  Hugo was sitting by the fire, staring into the flames.  I couldn’t take his silence anymore, so I sat down next to him.

“Good morning,” I said.  “Did you sleep?”  I knew the answer to that question before he even replied.  Dark shadows beneath his eyes looked like smudges of ash on his pale skin, and a day’s growth of beard coupled with the bruises and grubby clothes gave him a disreputable look. 

“I tried,” was the terse reply.  Clearly, he failed.

“Hugo, I know you’re angry with me, but I couldn’t have acted any differently than I had,” I began, needing to explain to him why I’d behaved the way I had.

“I’m not angry with you; I’m angry with myself,” Hugo said gruffly, finally turning to face me.

“Why?” I asked, surprised that he would be so hard on himself.  Things had certainly gone wrong, not that there was a graceful way of barging into someone’s bedroom, kicking the living daylights out of him, abducting his wife, and leaving him gasping for breath after nearly choking him to death, but at least everyone was alive and almost well.  I was about to point that out to Hugo when he finally spoke.

“Had I not returned in time, Finch would have hurt you very badly; partially because he would have enjoyed it, and partially to get back at me.  When I saw you cowering on the floor with him towering above you, ready to strike, and Jem just lying there, white and broken, possibly dead, I felt a rage I’d never known before.  Something snapped inside me, and I wanted to kill him,” Hugo said simply.  “You should have let me.”

“No, I shouldn’t have.  You don’t want a murder on your conscience, even if it’s of someone as contemptible as Lionel Finch,” I replied.  “Leave the judging and punishing to God.  You helped Frances, and that’s what counts.  Will she be safe here, do you think?”

“I’d like to believe she will.  There’s nothing more I can do for her; nowhere I can take her.  Finch will be searching for her, and he won’t give up.  I only hope he won’t come here.”

“Is this a Catholic convent?” I asked.  I didn’t know much about religious orders in seventeenth-century England.  Of course, I’d learned about Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries at school, but my education on the subject ended there.  I’d assumed that there were no Catholic convents or priories left, but this place was hidden in the woods, so perhaps they managed to keep its existence secret.  Or had they?  Hugo had known about it, so perhaps Lionel Finch would too.

“The order is Anglican.  I believe they call themselves the Convent of the Sacred Heart.  I don’t know if they are officially sanctioned by the church, but they must have someone they answer to, like a bishop.  These women joined together and decided to live in seclusion, devoting their lives to prayer and contemplation.  I don’t think they consider themselves married to Christ, and they don’t take the same vows as Catholic nuns, but they do promise chastity, poverty, and obedience.  They are more of a religious community than a convent.”

“How did you know about it?”  It seemed strange that a Catholic nobleman would know of a secret Anglican order of nuns living in the woods.

“I didn’t,” Hugo replied.  “It was Archie who suggested bringing Frances here.  Sister Julia is his sister,” he replied.  “A terrible tragedy befell her some years ago.  She found peace here, and I hope Frances will too.”

“It’s kind of them to take her in.”

“I made a sizeable donation to their coffers,” Hugo replied, smiling at my naiveté.  “They will take good care of her and keep a portion of what I’ve given for Frances, should she decide to leave in the future.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Generosity has nothing to do with it.  I took Frances from her home.  I know what you’re going to say,” Hugo interjected before I had a chance to interrupt, “but Frances is now adrift in the world.  She doesn’t have the protection of her father or her husband, ironic as that may sound.  She is penniless and powerless with no one to turn to.  My sister always knew that I would come to her defense, no matter what, but Frances can’t expect that from her kin.  Knowing that she has some funds should she choose to leave will give her some say in her future, which is something everyone should have, especially a girl of fourteen.”

“She was right about you,” I said with a smile.  “You are a good man.”

“Interesting that a fourteen-year-old girl had to point that out to you,” Hugo teased, suddenly more like his old self.  The cloud of despondency seemed to have lifted and I was glad to see him smiling at me.

“Hugo, what’s going to happen?” I asked, afraid of the answer.  We were going to be exposed and vulnerable as soon as we got back on the road.

Hugo shrugged, his eyes on the dying flames in front of him.  “Lionel Finch has the power to destroy me, and now I’ve given him a good reason to do just that.  He won’t rest until he sees me dead, of that I’m sure.  I just have to wait and see what form his vengeance will take.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, horrified.  I hadn’t really thought past getting away from the house and taking Frances to a place of safety.  I feared that Lionel Finch would gather his men and pursue us, forcing a confrontation in which we would be sadly outnumbered.

“He can publicly accuse me of treason and let others do his dirty work, or he can come after me himself and try to kill me for the insult I’ve given.  I’ve interfered in his marriage, taken his wife from him, and caused him bodily harm.  I’d say the man has reasons to want me dead, don’t you?”

“Perhaps we should return to Everly Manor,” I suggested. 

“Perhaps,” Hugo conceded.  “Although that’s the first place anyone would look for me.”

He got to his feet and tossed the remnants of his drink into the fire.  “Let’s get Jem and leave this place.  Our business here is done, and the longer we stay the more we endanger this community.”

April 2013

Max watched out the window as Detective Inspector Knowles skipped down the steps and walked to his car.  Detective Sergeant Johnson was waiting for him, the light of his cigarette glowing in the gathering darkness of the April evening.  Their questions had been perfunctory; their manner ingratiating.  Max offered them tea and they gratefully accepted, happy to turn the interview into a social occasion.  Max knew the inspector well.  D.I. Knowles was a drinking companion, captain of the rugby team, and a good man to go hunting with when the desire to shoot something arose, so Max had nothing to worry about; luck was on his side.

A stranger might have been more suspicious, might have even acquired a warrant to search the premises, but Knowles just wanted to get the interview over with, call it a day, and get back to his wife and baby girl, who’d just learned to say “Dada,” which Knowles couldn’t help boasting about.  Seeing the joy on the inspector’s face, Max wondered if he might ever have the opportunity to boast about the insignificant accomplishments of his own offspring, but he directed his mind back to the inane questions, eager to get the officers out as quickly as possible. 

It was all very routine, and all Max had to do was stick to his story.  No, he had no idea where Neve Ashley had gone.  No, she didn’t seem out of sorts, anxious, or depressed.  Yes, she’d said goodbye and promised to stay in touch.  That was all he could tell them.  The police seemed to be under the impression that Neve just went off somewhere without telling anyone.  Max couldn’t help wondering if they’d even checked her credit card or bank activity.  No one seemed particularly keen to find her, but clearly someone had reported her missing, most likely Lawrence Spellman, so it was good that he’d anticipated this and took it upon himself to perform some damage control.  Having access to Neve’s wallet and mobile phone made it ridiculously easy and diverted any suspicion from him, clearing the way for the scheduled film shoot.

The movie company trucks had begun arriving the day before.  Already the car park of the museum was full to the bursting, people darting to and fro and various pieces of sound and lighting equipment carried through the front door.  The actors would be arriving soon, taking over the village and bringing much-needed business and exposure to shops and pubs greatly in need of new custom. 

Max turned from the window and went to pour himself a drink.  Everything was going according to plan, and yet he couldn’t rest, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find peace of mind, even when walking with Tilly or having a drink at the pub.  Neve had vanished and Max’s secure world vanished with her.  At first, he’d been worried about Neve, wondering what had become of her, and if she were safe, wherever or whenever she happened to be, but the worry quickly turned into a quest for self-preservation.  Max couldn’t shake the idea that Neve could somehow, perhaps even without meaning to, upset the balance of his life and do irreparable damage to the timeline and the succession.  Max had absolutely no proof that Neve went back in time, or that she even went to a time period which might have a bearing on his own life, but there’s nothing worse for fanning your worst fears than uncertainty. 

Max took a seat on the sofa without bothering to turn on the lights.  He liked sitting in the dark; it helped him feel safer somehow and made his actions seem somewhat less deplorable without the merciless glare of the lights on his conscience.  He’d been over the argument a thousand times at least, but still he was at war with himself, torn between doing the right thing, and doing the thing that would benefit him the most.  If Neve had been a victim of a crime, surely she would have turned up somewhere by now, even if she were dead.  She’d been missing for over two weeks now, no trace of her either in Surrey or in London.  Had she turned up, she’d have come looking for her car and her handbag, would have called him or Spellman, or the police. 

She was somewhere in the past, possibly wreaking havoc or getting herself accused of witchcraft or theft, which she would have to resort to if she wanted to survive.  Since she hadn’t come back, she was either unable to do so or unwilling.  Was someone helping her?  Was someone preventing her from going back?  These and other questions burned in Max’s mind day and night, driving him insane with their lack of answers.  He had no way of knowing.  None.  He’d scoured the Internet, searching for any mention of a Neve Ashley in the last few centuries.  It stood to reason that if she’d been burned as a witch or married to a nobleman, there’d be some mention somewhere, but he found nothing. 

And now that the film production was about to begin he had a new dilemma.  Neve mentioned that a key scene would be filmed in the crypt.  What if someone discovered the passage by accident?  Max couldn’t begin to imagine the pandemonium that would cause.  He had to make sure that didn’t happen, and the only way to do that would be to seal the door.  But where was it?  He’d gone down to the crypt the week before, staring at every inch of the wall until his eyes hurt, but he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.  He ran his hands over the stone walls looking for some kind of mechanism, but didn’t find anything at all.  He even tried moving some of the lids of the tombs in the hope that a passageway was hidden inside one of the coffins, but the stone lids weighed a ton, too much for one man to budge.  There was no way Neve could have done that on her own, much less slid it back into place after she got in. 

Max had turned the manor library upside down, looking for any blueprints of the church building.  He found the documents from the reconstruction of the church after the fire, but there were no original plans for the building.  How was it even possible that a church built centuries before and rebuilt in the eighteenth century could share a passageway that led to the past?  It was absurd, ludicrous, and completely outside the realm of possibility.  And yet…

The only bright side to Max’s failure to find the passage was that if he couldn’t find it, chances were neither would the actors or crew.  But how had Neve found it?  Had she known something about it?  But from whom?  Henry’s story had been greeted with derision and ridicule.  No one outside the family knew of his supposed escapade, and the story was kept secret for fear of tainting the family name with the stain of insanity.  The fact that his notebook survived was a miracle in itself, since any reminder of that period would be expunged from family history. 

Max looked with dismay at his empty glass and got up for a refill.  He was drinking too much, but alcohol was the only thing that calmed his nerves and helped him think straight.  Max suddenly stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging over the drinks cart, an idea dawning.  There were people at the asylum who came into contact with Henry.  He’d been there for nearly three years.  Perhaps he told someone: a doctor, a nurse, an orderly.  Could any of those people have been related to Neve, and was there a way to find out?

Max sighed in exasperation.  An ancestor of Neve’s could have had a different surname.  A list of employees for the asylum would not be online, and the place had closed down at least one hundred years before.  No, it was a dead end just like every other idea he’d come up with. 

“Neve, where the hell are you?” Max hissed under his breath.  He slumped back on the sofa and stared at the dark rectangle of sky visible through the window, a new realization dawning on him.  At this point, if Neve returned, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.  He’d lied to the authorities and Neve’s boss, hidden her car, and accessed her bank account and mobile phone without her permission with the clear intent of subverting an investigation into her disappearance.  If Neve made any of this public, his political career would be dead in the water; his image tainted by dishonesty and sinister motives.  If Neve was truly in the past, the only way to avoid discovery was to keep her there and hope that she perished without a trace
—
a lost soul who belonged to no one and didn’t have a friend to turn to, and the only way of doing that was to seal up the passage.  Since Max couldn’t find the door, all four walls of the crypt needed to be walled up.  Perhaps he could tell the vicar that the foundation wasn’t sound and needed to be reinforced.  That was a thought.  Max finished his drink in one gulp and headed upstairs to research masonry workshops in the area.