In the days before the old religion fell prey to the depredations of our eighth Henry, the ground where the Grange now stood had been within the abbey confines. It was with this ancient institution that the story of Black Annie was associated. It was hardly an original tale. I don’t think there is a ruin such as this in all of England that does not have some deceased monk or other gallivanting about it of a midnight. In this case, so the legend ran, the cowled spectre of a nun—Black Annie—had taken up residence among the decrepit stones. In life, she had been seduced by a canon of the Augustinians—one of the black canons, so called for the colour of their robes. There followed the necessary sequel: the poor woman was soon with child. But before her sin could become evident, she mysteriously vanished. In fact, with the conspiratorial aid of her sister nuns, she had contrived to hide herself within a secret chamber in the nunnery’s dorter. There, the sisters brought her food and drink—and kept watch during the frequent visits of her paramour. As her time approached, however, it became clear that the deception could not be continued indefinitely. What was more, the abbey was now under heavy pressure from the minions of the vicar-general, who were then touring the countryside on the king’s behalf in search of useful evidence of corruption among the clergy. Terrified of discovery, the canon persuaded his lover to give their child into his charge. He promised her he would remove the infant to some safe and secret place, where it would be well cared for by a local nurse of his acquaintance. But, having taken the babe away, the perfidious canon, hoping to set his crime permanently beyond the investigators’ ken, slit the helpless creature’s throat and hid its little body somewhere on the abbey grounds. Inevitably, word of this horrible deed found its way to the distracted mother in her hiding hole. When the royal ministers arrived to make their inspection, they were led at once to the secret chamber where—no doubt to their considerable satisfaction—they found the unfortunate woman hanging dead at the end of a stout rope she had secured to the rafters.

This was the gruesome story Quentin had whispered to me one night in our boyhood dormitory. And he added, with appropriately spooky inflections, that the black-cowled spectre of that much-injured sister was said to walk the ruins of the abbey to this very day.

I’m afraid I must have made a soft noise of derision at the recollection of this melodramatic yarn, for Quentin, as if reading my thoughts, said from behind me, “You remember, don’t you?”

I gestured from the window. “I remember some nonsense you told me back in school, but …”