“He’ll probably be interested to hear the story anyway,” Cleo said.

“I’ll tell him tomorrow,” Lucy said. She picked the book up again. “May I borrow this?” she asked Sam.

“Of course.” Sam started to stack the empty plates. “Were you thinking of trying to trace the origins of the story?”

“I might,” Lucy said cautiously, “but there’s something else that caught my eye as well. It may be a coincidence, but Persis and Gabriel’s surname is Redfern, just like the laborer who allegedly swore to keep searching for the treasure until it was found.”

Fourteen

Anne Catesby

Knightstone Manor
September, 1598

“I killed them,” Robert repeated. “It was my fault.”

A consignment of materials had arrived from London a week before, he told me. He had ordered the gift when he had last visited. There were fine silks and velvets for the dressmaker to make two new gowns for Catherine as well as toys for both the children. Catherine had unpacked the parcel herself, exclaiming over the richness and bright colors of the cloth whilst Will and Robbie had played with the wooden soldiers. But within only a couple of days, Will had a cough and a fever and then Catherine too swiftly succumbed and now both were dead.

“There was an evil that came in my gift to her,” Robert told me as he slumped in the nursery chair whilst Robbie, exhausted, slept burrowed in my lap. “I do not know how or why it came, but it stole them both from me. It was my fault.”

There was a fire in the grate and the house was once more candlelit for I had sent Byram to the village to call back the servants. Once they knew that I was there and in charge, they crept back, still fearful, still crossing themselves against evil, as the garden smoldered about us.

“Robert.” I was both exasperated and desperately sorry for him. “It was none of your doing. You know that sickness creeps in and strikes unseen. Blame the London tailor if you must blame someone, for he sent you tainted goods, but do not, I beg you, hold yourself to account.”

I could tell that he did not hear me. He was far away, dazed by grief, lost in the labyrinth of his mind. “Sir Thomas told me that I had turned away from the true path,” he muttered. “Perhaps God has taken my angel from me to turn me back to the right path, for now she is gone I have nothing of value left.”

I looked pointedly at his surviving son, asleep beside me. “That is nonsense,” I said. “You have another child and he is strong and well. Besides, Thomas should mind his own business.” The glimpse that Robert had given me of a rift between him and his godfather surprised me, but perhaps it was not too serious. Thomas was a man who enjoyed debate for its own sake and I could not imagine for a moment him condoning the idea that Catherine had been taken from Robert as some sort of punishment. It felt more to me that Robert was punishing himself.