Days Without Number (3 page)

'Ancient precautions against the Devil,' said Elspeth Hartley, noticing him glance at them. 'A good deal older than

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this church, which replaced a pre-Norman structure in the fifteenth century. Come on.'

She stepped into the porch, raised the latch on the door, pushed it open and led Nick into the body of the church.

He stopped and looked around. The nave and aisles were well enough proportioned, but what immediately took his eye were the stained-glass windows, glowing vibrantly yet delicately, somehow seeming to magnify the thin grey light he had left behind in the churchyard.

'I see you've noticed,' said Elspeth.

'Nice windows.'

'More than nice, I think. Magnificent. And historically precious. Pre-Reformation parish church glazing schemes are extremely rare. This is second only to Fairford in Gloucestershire for quality and completeness.'

'Why so rare?'

'Civil War iconoclasm's mostly to blame. Cromwellian troops were accompanied by the sound of smashing glass wherever they went.'

'Why did this survive? Too far off the beaten track?'

'Hardly. There was as much destruction of church windows and statuary in Cornwall as anywhere else. The Puritans were nothing if not thorough. No, no, St Neot's survived thanks to special pleading and elaborate planning. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. First of all, I want you to look at the glass, I mean, really look.'

She led Nick along the south aisle and through the gated rood-screen into a lady chapel filled with blue, red and gold light from the two corner windows on the southern and eastern sides.

The Creation and Noah windows, substantially unrestored and dating from the fourteen nineties. Exquisite, I think you'll agree.'

'I do.' Nick was no expert, but he could recognize fine craftsmanship when he saw it. And he could also recognize the Creation story, set out in the brightly tinted panes, from God with his compasses planning the world to the treacherous

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green serpent coiled around the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The last pane, clearly designed to lead on to the next window, showed God commanding Noah to build the Ark. And there, as he turned to look, was the Ark, golden bowed and floating on a sea of light.

'It looks as if the original plan was to tell the whole Old Testament story window by window. But we can assume money ran short, because as we move back along the aisle what do we find but local dignitaries and their pet saints. Sponsorship, by any other name. But sponsorship of artistic excellence.'

The five windows between Noah and the south door were indeed a sequence of haloed saints and pious family groups, kneeling in prayer. Nick walked slowly along the row, Elspeth keeping pace beside him.

'And after the local dignitaries came the common parishioners. The windows in the north aisle were funded by subscriptions from particular groups: wives, young women, young men. The young men's window, depicting the life of St Neot, is particularly fine.'

Nick turned to admire these humbler but no less beautiful compositions, walking slowly back along the nave to the rood-screen, where he stopped and gazed up at the east window. 'The Last Supper?' he mumured, deciphering the scene.

That's right.'

'But. . . different somehow from the others.'

'You're getting good at this. That's an eighteen-twenties window. There was a lot of cleaning and restoration done then, with quite a few tracery lights moved or replaced and several whole new windows installed. It takes some sorting out.'

T'm sure it does.'

'But, however you look at it, there's one rather odd omission.'

There is?'

This is a church. These windows are not just objets d'art.

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They're lessons in glass. The Creation. The Fall. The Flood. In the ordinary way of things, you'd expect at least some reference to the Day of Judgement.'

'Isn't there any?'

'Not as it stands. And there should be. Take it from me, a Doom Window was de rigueur.'

'So, why isn't there one?'

'Oh, there was. We have that from a churchwarden of the period. And talking of churchwardens, one of the present incumbents has lent me the key to the tower. This way.'

She walked back down the nave and unlocked the door leading to the ground floor of the tower. Nick followed her into the bellringing chamber. The ropes were tied back against the walls to either side, allowing a clear view of the west window, hidden from the rest of the church. But all Nick could see were illuminated saints. The Day of Judgement did not seem to have dawned in the glass.

'We think this is where the Doom Window was. Well, / think so. There were two major periods of iconoclasm: one in the mid sixteen forties, another in the early sixteen fifties. St Neot came under most serious threat during the second period, specifically in the spring of sixteen fifty-one. There were lots of raids on neighbouring churches around then. But not here.'

'Why was St Neot spared?'

'It was down to the churchwardens. The vicar had been expelled from his living by then. They enlisted the help of the Rous family, who lived at Halton Barton, beside the Tamar, just a few miles north of Landulph. A member of the family, Anthony Rous, was a Parliamentary colonel and county commissioner. But other members seem to have had High Church sympathies. And some cousins of theirs, the Nicholls, sponsored one of the windows here. So, strings were pulled. The windows were whitewashed, to avoid causing offence, but preserved for posterity.'

'Where's all this leading, Ms Hartley? You just mentioned Landulph.'

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'So I did. What is it from here? Twenty miles? A long but feasible day's return ride in sixteen forty-six.'

'Sixteen forty-six? I thought you--'

'A letter from one of the churchwardens at the time, Richard Bawden, has recently come to light. He refers to precautions taken prior to the 'fifty-one crisis. "Our finest window", he writes, "was removed six years prior thereto. We could not suffer it to stand at risk with Cornwall in the Parliament's hands. It was immured safe in the keeping of our staunch friend, Mr Mandrell, and is safe there still, I warrant." The letter dates from sixteen sixty-two, two years after the Restoration. "Safe there still". Interesting, wouldn't you say?'

'Why wasn't it brought back and reinstalled?'

'Good question. To which I think I have the answer. The Rous connection led me to look for Mandrell in the Halton Barton area. The Lowers of nearby Clifton were Royalist sympathizers and definitely High Church. Their friendship with your own forebear suggests deep antipathy to Puritanism. A son of Theodore Paleologus died fighting for the King at Naseby, as you probably know. Well, a parochial neighbour of the Lowers turns out to be one Thomas Mandrell, who was married to a Rous. I think the window was hidden with him. But he died in sixteen fifty-seven and his property was made over to the Parliamentarian holder of the manor of Landulph, Sir Gregory Norton. A member of the Norton family continued to live in Mandrell's house after the Restoration. And Bawden says the window was "immured there", by which I think he means walled up in some way. If the new occupant remained at heart a Parliamentarian, then it was probably best not to draw his attention to the Royalist treasure lying unsuspected . . . within his walls.'

'And where were these walls?'

'Can't you guess?'

Nick smiled in grudging recognition of the obvious. 'Trennor?'

She nodded. Tn one.'

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They left the church and went into the pub, where Elspeth surprised Nick by ordering a pint of beer and a round of sandwiches. Irene's fry-up had left him in little need of lunch, so he contented himself with mineral water. With those preliminaries out of the way and a fireside table commandeered, they returned to the subject of the long-lost and perhaps soon to be found Doom Window of St Neot.

'You're seriously telling me this is all about antique stained glass?'

'Yes, Nick, I am.' (First-name terms had been adopted somewhere between church and pub.) 'It's Mr Tantris's consuming passion, so I'm told.'

'Has he been down here?'

'Apparently. But he's something of a recluse. It'll have been a discreet visit - not to mention a flying one.'

'And he wants to buy Trennor on the off-chance of finding the missing window there - in a wall, under a floor?'

'It's a rather good chance, actually. The Bawden letter doesn't leave much room for doubt.'

'Except that Trennor's a fair-sized house. And the people who know where the window was concealed have been dead for more than three hundred years.'

'Exactly. Which is why vacant possession is essential. We might have to pull several walls apart to find what we're looking for. Remember, the window will have been dismantled before it was transported to Landulph. That means thirty or more separate panes of glass, wrapped and stored in a large wooden trunk for the journey, then . . . immured. I understand your grandfather extended the original dwelling, so we're probably talking about walls that are now internal. They all looked plenty thick enough for the job to me. As far as I could judge, anyway. I wasn't exactly given the run of the place.'

'Dad a bit curt, was he?'

'No more than he had a right to be, I suppose, given what I'm proposing to do to his home.'

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'Glad you appreciate that.'

'It's why Mr Tantris is prepared to be so generous.'

'But he can afford to be.'

'Yes. A rich man indulging his whims. You can resent him if you like. But remember Bawden said it was their finest window. Finer, then, than the Creation or the Noah. And I think you'll agree they're fine enough. Quite possibly the oldest window as well, since the tower is older than the rest of the church. It could predate the others by up to a hundred years. Maybe more, if it was part of the earlier structure. It would be an extraordinary find - both historically and artistically.'

'Quite a career boost for you, I imagine.'

'Absolutely. I don't deny it. It's a wonderful opportunity for me. And not such a bad one for you and your family.'

'Because of the money?'

'Well, yes.' She grinned. 'We all need it, don't we? To lesser or greater degrees. And from what your sister told me, it doesn't seem likely that any of you would want to hold on to Trennor after your father's death.'

'Probably not, no.'

'So, it makes sense to accept Mr Tantris's offer.'

'Maybe it does. But my father doesn't seem to agree. And he's the one who counts.'

'Please do your best to change his mind, Nick.' Her expression somehow implied that he would be doing her an enormous favour - as well as himself. 'That is, assuming you think he should change his mind. Do you?'

'Yes.' He nodded slowly in final acceptance of her argument, swayed in the end as much as anything by her sheer enthusiasm for the Doom Window project. As she had put it, there really seemed no sane alternative to going ahead. 'I rather think I do.'

Elspeth would be in Cornwall for another week, she told Nick, fine-tuning her researches. Irene had her mobile number and Elspeth was hoping to hear good news before she

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went back to Bristol. By good news she meant his father's conversion by force of filial argument to the line of least resistance.

To someone unfamiliar with the character of Michael Paleologus, this no doubt seemed a probable outcome. Nick took a less optimistic view. His father was a stubborn man and susceptibility to reason had never been his strong suit, especially when one of his children was presenting the reason. In this case, of course, they would also be presenting a united front, which was unusual, if not unprecedented. And even the old man could not deny that he was old. And alone. And short of money. And frail, according to Irene.

But the last he could be relied upon to deny. He would say they only thought him in need of residential care because it was suddenly worth their while. Cooped up at Gorton Lodge, he would cost them nothing, while Tantris's money sat in the bank, earning interest until the day they inherited it. Yes, Nick could well imagine that was exactly what he would say.

From St Neot Nick drove up onto the Moor. He parked near the dam at the southern end of Colliford Reservoir and walked out along the shore, turning the situation over in his mind. The silence was almost audible.

The oddest feature of his father's response to Tantris's offer, Nick reflected, was that in normal circumstances he would urge on the search for the window. He was an archaeologist. He believed in excavating the past. As Elspeth had said, this was exciting stuff. And it was the stuff of Michael Paleologus's professional life. If he co-operated, he could probably find himself taken on as some kind of adviser. There could be a book in it. A documentary film. Did he not see that? Did he not appreciate the potential?

Of course he did. Frail or not, he was no fool. If he had come up with the idea, there would have been no holding him. His intransigence was founded on resentment. He needed to have his ego massaged as well as his bank balance boosted.

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Irene was trying to push him. And he did not like to be pushed.

Nor did Nick, come to that. Irene had called him down to dance to her tune and that was precisely what he was doing. He would feel better about all of it if he could rewrite at least part of that tune.

As he gazed out across the reservoir, a way of doing so came suddenly to his mind. He smiled and started back towards the car.

It was only a couple of miles across the Moor to Carwether Farm, a huddle of grey, slate-roofed, granite-walled buildings in a curl of the Bedalder Valley south of the village of Temple. Nick would have hesitated about driving there, though, even if Irene had not wanted to spring his presence on their brother as a birthday surprise. Nick's relationship with Andrew had always been an edgy one. Their personalities were more similar than either would have been prepared to admit, though they had found very different expression. Andrew had an affinity with land and stone and dumb animals, while for Nick a problem was something you thought, not laboured, your way out of. In common they had a certain social maladroitness, but as bonds went it was hardly a strong one.