Mrs. Appledore stood and watched her guest out of sight, then turned and went back into the Stranger House, slipping the bolt into the door behind her. In her kitchen she lifted the telephone and dialed. After three rings, it was answered.
Thor, its Edie, she said. Something weird. Ive got a lass staying here, funny little thing, would pass for a squirrel if you glimpsed her in the wood, skin brown as a nut, hair red as rowan berries. Looks about twelve, but from her passport shes early twenties Dont interrupt, Im coming to the point. Her names Sam Flood Thats right. Sam for Samantha Flood, its in her passport. Shes from Australia, got an accent you could scratch glass with, and she thinks her grandmother might have come from these parts 1960, spring Yes, 60, so its got to be just coincidence, but I thought Id mention it. Shes off up to the church to see if theres any records Yes, Ill be there, but not till hes well screwed down. Ill take your word the little buggers dead!
2. A turbulent priest
Sam Flood and Miguel Madero saw each other for the first time in a motorway service café to the west of Manchester but neither would ever recall the encounter.
Sam was sitting at a table with a double espresso and a chocolate muffin which was far too sweet but she ate it anyway. She glanced up to see Madero passing with a cappuccino and a cream doughnut. Though he wore no clerical collar, there was something about him his black clothing, the ascetic thinness of his face which put her in mind of a Catholic priest, and she looked away. For his part all he registered was an unaccompanied child whose exuberance of red hair could have done with a visit to the barber, but most of his attention was focused on maintaining the delicate relationship between an unreliable left knee and an overfull cup of coffee.
She left five minutes before he did and they spent the next hour only a couple of miles apart in heavy traffic. Then a van blew a tire a hundred yards behind her and spun into a truck. Miraculously no one was seriously hurt, but as Sams Focus sped merrily north, Madero and his Mercedes SLK fumed gently in the accidents tailback.
She left five minutes before he did and they spent the next hour only a couple of miles apart in heavy traffic. Then a van blew a tire a hundred yards behind her and spun into a truck. Miraculously no one was seriously hurt, but as Sams Focus sped merrily north, Madero and his Mercedes SLK fumed gently in the accidents tailback.
From having time to spare for his two oclock appointment in Kendal, he was already half an hour late as he reached the towns southern approaches.
On the map Kendal looked to be a quiet little market town on the eastern edge of the English Lake District, but there seemed to be some local law requiring all traffic in Cumbria to pass along its main street, which meant it was after three when he drew up before the chambers of Messrs. Tenderley, Gray, Groyne, and Southwell, solicitors.
Knowing how highly lawyers price their time, he was full of apology as he was shown into the office of Andrew Southwell.
Not at all, not at all, think nothing of it, said Southwell, a small round man in his early thirties who pumped his hand with painful enthusiasm. Ive been looking forward to meeting you. Professor Coldstream speaks very warmly of you. Very warmly indeed.
And of you too, said Madero.
In fact what Max Coldstream had said when he mentioned Kendal was, Youre in luck there, Mig. Chap called Southwell, Kendal solicitor, and mad keen local historian. OK, so hes an amateur, but that can be an advantage. Professional historians on the whole are a deceitful, distrusting, conniving and secretive bunch of bastards who would direct a blind man up a blind alley rather than risk giving him an advantage. Enthusiastic amateurs on the other hand may lack scholarship but they often have bucketloads of information which they are eager to share. Painfully eager, if youre in a hurry!
It only took a couple of minutes for Madero to appreciate Coldstreams warning.
Thats fascinating, Mr. Southwell, he said, interrupting a potted history of the chambers building. Now, you will recall from my letter Im on my way to talk to the Woollass family of Illthwaite Hall in connection with my thesis on the personal experience of English Catholics during the Reformation. By chance I came across a reference to a Jesuit priest, Father Simeon Woollass, the son of a cadet branch of the family residing here in Kendal. I thought it might be worth diverting to see what I could find out about him. A priest in the family must have made the problems of recusancy even greater, as perhaps your researches have already discovered.
This was the right trigger to pull.
Southwell nodded vigorously and said, How very true, Mr. Madero. But I know you chaps, hands-on whenever possible, so lets take a walk and see what we can find.
Next moment Madero found himself being whizzed down the stairs, past the receptionist who desperately shouted something about not forgetting the partners meeting, and out into the damp afternoon air, where he was taken on a whirlwind tour.
Its curious, said Southwell as they raced from the library to the church. What really got me interested in Father Simeon wasnt you, but this other researcher who was asking questions, must be ten years ago now. Irish chap, name of Molloy. Poor fellow.
I dont recognize the name. Did he publish? And why do you say poor fellow?
He did a few things, pop articles mainly. Not a serious scholar like you, more of a journalist. But nothing on Father Simeon. Never had the chance really. He was something of a rock climber, took the chance to do a bit while he was up here, by himself, very silly, and he had this terrible accident are you all right, Mr. Madero?
Yes, fine, lied Mig. Twinges in his still unreliable left knee he was used to, but the other injuries hed suffered in his own fall rarely troubled him now. This lightning jag of pain across his head and down his spine had to be some kind of sympathetic echo. In fact during his own fall he couldnt even remember the pain of contact
You sure? said Southwell.
Yes, yes, said Mig impatiently as the pain faded. And he was killed, was he?
Died as the Mountain Rescue carried him back. He wasnt so much interested in the background as in what happened when Father Simeon got captured. The book he was writing was actually about Richard Topcliffe you know about him, of course?
Elizabeths chief priest-hunter, homo sordidissimus. Oh yes, I know about him.
Well, it was Topcliffes northern agent, Francis Tyrwhitt, who captured Simeon and took him off to Jolley Castle near Leeds to be interrogated. That was Molloys main interest, torture, that kind of stuff. Ah, heres the church. Note the Victorian porch.
It was clear that, despite his conviction that academics preferred to do their own research, Southwell had already dug up everything there was to dig up about Simeon and recorded it in the folder he carried. Madero was tempted but too polite to suggest that a lot of time could be saved if he simply handed it over. Happily after a couple of hours the mans mobile rang. He listened, then said, Good lord, is it that time already?
To Madero he said, Sorry. Meeting. Lot of nothing, but old Joe Tenderley, our senior partner, tends to get his knickers in a twist. Look, why dont we meet up later? Better still, have dinner, stay the night. Meanwhile you might care to browse through my notes, see if there are any gaps youd like me to fill.
Madero waited till hed got the folder firmly in his grip before thanking the man profusely but refusing his kind offer on the grounds that he was already engaged in Illthwaite, which if a bed-and-breakfast booking could be called an engagement was true.
Back in his car, he rejoined the tidal bore of traffic, intending to retrace his approach to the town and take the road which Sam Flood had followed some hours earlier around the southern edge of the county, but somehow he found himself swept away toward somewhere called Windermere. He stopped at a roadside inn, brought up a map of Cumbria on his laptop and saw he could get across to the west just as easily this way. Feeling hungry, he entered the pub and ordered a pint of shandy (Englands main contribution to alcoholic refinement, according to his father) and a jumbo haddock. As he waited for his food, he took a long draught of his drink and opened Southwells folder.
Out of reach of the solicitors voice and with the evidence of the mans hard work before him, he felt a pang of guilt at his sense of relief at parting company. For every sin there is a fitting penance, thats what hed learned at the seminary. It would serve him right if his haddock turned out stale and his chips soggy.
It had been a stroke of luck that the man he was interested in had been closely linked to one of Kendals foremost merchant families during the great period of the towns importance in the field of woolen manufacture which was Southwells special interest.
Simeon Woollass had been the son of Will Woollass, younger brother of Edwin Woollass of Illthwaite Hall. Wills early history (later a matter of public record in Kendal) showed him to be a wild and dissolute youth who narrowly escaped hanging in 1537 after the Catholic uprising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace. His age (fifteen) and the influence of his brother won his release with a heavy fine and a stern warning.
Undeterred, Will continued to earn his reputation as the Woollass wild man till 1552 when he surprised everyone by wooing Margaret, the only child of John Millgrove, wool merchant of Kendal, and settling down to the life of an honest hardworking burgher.
Undeterred, Will continued to earn his reputation as the Woollass wild man till 1552 when he surprised everyone by wooing Margaret, the only child of John Millgrove, wool merchant of Kendal, and settling down to the life of an honest hardworking burgher.
In 1556 Margaret gave birth to Simeon, and once the child had survived the perils of a Tudor infancy, all looked set fair for the Kendal Woollasses. John Millgroves commercial acumen meant that business both domestic and export was booming, and with wealth came status. Nor did he let a little thing like religion interfere with his commercial and civil ambitions, and when Catholic Mary was succeeded by Protestant Elizabeth, he readily bowed with the prevailing wind and, like many others, straightened up from his obeisance as a strong pillar of the English Church.