Temptation and Surrender (29 page)

I
t’s been an abiding mystery—one I’ve yet to solve.” Filing shook his head. “Once I heard there’d been a family of that name, and they were indeed the founders of the village, I couldn’t understand why there are no Colyton tombs in the crypt.”

Em sank onto the sofa, disappointment writ large in her face, but then her chin firmed. “They have to be somewhere.”

Henry had been studying at the table when they’d come in, but once Em and Jonas had related Miss Hellebore’s deductions and described their subsequent search of the crypt, he’d deserted his books and perched on the end of the sofa beside Em. He looked down at her. “There were Colytons living here for centuries, weren’t there?”

She nodded. “Generations and generations of them.”

Standing beside Filing, Jonas said, “To restate the obvious, the Colyton remains must be
somewhere
. Somewhere in the village, which means somewhere in the church. And the fact we’ve found
no
Colytons of any age or gender suggests that, wherever they are, they’re all together.”

Filing nodded. “Indeed. Unfortunately I came to this parish after the death of the previous incumbent, so I had no chance to ask questions—or learn any secrets.” He turned to the alcove he used as a study. “I’ll show you what I’ve found. Let’s see if you can make anything more of it.”

Going to a bookcase, he scanned the volumes, then drew out a very old, leather-bound tome. Pushing Henry’s notes aside, Filing laid the book carefully on the table; Em, Jonas, and Henry gathered around as he opened it, revealing thick pages yellowed with age.

“This is the burial record for the church. The first burial recorded is in 1453, and as far as I can tell, the record has been diligently kept through the years—as it’s supposed to be.” He turned back from the pages written in his own neat hand, to ones with more spidery writing. “When you look back through the centuries…” He stopped flipping pages and pointed to one entry.

The others crowded around.

‘ “Colyton, James,’” Em read. ‘ “1724. Dead of consumption. Age fifty-four. Buried in the Colyton crypt.’”

“As you would expect, there’s more, many more, Colytons listed.” Filing gently riffled the pages’ edges. “And that’s what all the entries say. ‘Buried in the Colyton crypt.’ But they’re not there.”

Em looked at Jonas. He shook his head and traded a glance with Filing. None of them could think of an explanation.

Henry slid back onto his chair at the table, sliding the old book around so it sat before him. Em watched as he carefully turned the pages back so he was reading the very first page. He turned over the next. Paused.

“This entry,” he said, frowning, “says the Colyton
vault
.”

“Crypts were often referred to as vaults.” Filing shrugged. “The words were interchangeable.”

Henry looked up at him, then at Em. “But what if they weren’t?”

When she frowned, Henry hurried on, eagerness growing in his voice. “What if we’re getting confused because the family name is the same as the village name. What if ‘Colyton crypt,’ or in this case ‘Colyton vault,’ doesn’t mean the crypt of Colyton church, but—”

“A different place.” Jonas nodded, his dark eyes shining. “You’re right—you must be. We’ve too many tombs to account for—they have to be somewhere, ergo they’re in some
other
crypt.”

“Let me see that.” Filing took the book from Henry, quickly turned more pages. “Here’s another—Colyton vault. And another.” He kept flicking pages. “Here’s the point where the first incumbent gave way to the second—see the different writing?” He continued flicking through entries in several different hands, then stopped. “Yes, this is where a new incumbent stopped calling it the Colyton vault, and instead wrote ‘Colyton crypt.’” Filing straightened. “That both entries occur in this book suggests they’re one and the same place, and wherever it is, it’s part of the church.”

“Either vault or crypt, it has to be underground.” Jonas looked at Filing and pulled a face. “The access could be off the church crypt—with a door that’s now hidden—or via a door somewhere else in the church—”

“And that could be just about anywhere.” Filing grimaced back. “It might be off the vestry, or even the tower.”

“A door could be concealed in a wall or the floor. Behind paneling or in stone.” Jonas looked at Em. “We can search for the door—it has to be there somewhere—but it would be easier if we could find some way to narrow the search.”

She stared at him for a moment, her mind scurrying to take in all they’d learned…she looked at the burial record, still open before Filing. “My great-grandfather was the last Colyton to live here—I’m sure he was buried here.”

Filing nodded. “I’ve checked. His entry says ‘Colyton crypt.’”

“But what was the date?”

Filing met her gaze, then looked down and quickly hunted through the pages. “Here it is.”

Henry peered around Filing’s shoulder. “1759.”

Em looked from Filing to Jonas. “His funeral—the last Colyton of Colyton—would have been a village event. Are any of the women in the village old enough to remember it?”

Jonas exchanged a glance with Filing. “Mrs. Smollet is old enough, but whether she’d remember…”

Filing nodded. “The other who might know is Mrs. Thompson. But there’s only those two—they’re the oldest in the village by far. There’s no one even in the surrounding area who’s as old as they.”

“And, I suspect,” Jonas said, “that they’re only just old enough for our purposes.”

Em nodded decisively and turned to the door. “We’ll try Mrs. Thompson first.”

Jonas set off after her.

Filing and Henry exchanged glances, clearly not relishing being left behind. It was Filing who called after them, “Come back and tell us what you learn.”

Em looked back from the doorway. “Of course. But it might take a little while.”

S
he was praying that it wouldn’t, that old Mrs. Thompson, spry and bright, would recall her great-grandfather’s funeral perfectly and be able to say where the burial had been,
but
…

As she’d expected, it didn’t prove to be that easy.

They found Mrs. Thompson in the cottage behind the forge, waiting for Oscar to bring her back one of Hilda’s pasties for lunch. She was only too happy to sit around her table and chat.

“Oh, I remember the funeral—big to-do it was.” Her bright gaze distant, staring into the past, Mrs. Thompson nodded her gray head. “Everyone put on their best black and went—the whole village, of course, but there were lots of nobs and others from all about. I was only seven or so, mind, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Em leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “Can you remember where they took the coffin for burial?”

Mrs. Thompson glanced at her, then shook her head. “No, dearie. I was too young to go to the funeral—there was no room, anyways. But…” She frowned, gaze distant again as she looked back over the years. “I was outside, playing in the graveyard, so I know they never brought the coffin outside.” She refocused on Em. “I thought he was buried in the crypt. Isn’t he?”

Em smiled weakly. “He might be, but we’re trying to find exactly where. It might be in a different part of the crypt than the part used these days.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Thompson nodded her head sagely. “That was a long time ago.”

Jonas rose. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“And your memories.” Em stood, too.

Mrs. Thompson got to her feet to see them out. “Well, I don’t see as I’ve helped you much, but if you want to find out where your great-granddad is buried, I’d try asking old Mrs. Smollet. She would have been ten years old or more then. Precocious child she was, Eloisa Smollet. Always had to know everything about everything going on.”

Pausing at the door, Mrs. Thompson met Em’s eyes and nodded. “You go and ask her. She wouldn’t have been at the burial itself, no more than I was, but her older brothers would have been—they’d have been among those from the village who would have witnessed it. And I’ll eat my Sunday bonnet if later Eloisa didn’t demand and insist on being told every detail.”

Mrs. Thompson shifted her bright gaze to Jonas. “Mark my words, if anyone still living knows where the last Colyton of Colyton is buried, it’ll be Eloisa Smollet.”

T
hey stopped for a quick bite at the inn, by mutual agreement avoiding giving any hint of the latest developments to anyone, especially the twins. That necessitated keeping Issy in the dark, too, but Em whispered to Jonas that it was better that way. “Issy’s useless at dissembling, and the twins are simply too sharp—once they sense she knows something, they’ll wheedle it out of her, and then we’ll have them under our feet.”

Protectiveness still lurking beneath his calm—he was confident he could keep Em safe during their search as he planned to stick by her side, but add the twins to the mix and he’d be trying to look in three directions at once—Jonas was perfectly willing to keep their current interest secret.

As soon as they could slip away without evoking undue curiosity, they walked through the wood to the Grange for his curricle and chestnuts, and he drove them out to Highgate.

Basil was out, but old Mrs. Smollet agreed to see them. They found her in her parlor, a piece of embroidery lying half-forgotten in her lap.

She was pleased to see Em. “I’ve been a mite poorly for the last few days, so I haven’t been able to get down to the village. So!” She fixed Em with an expectant look. “You can tell me what’s been happening.”

Em smiled and obliged; Jonas learned that one of Hilda’s nieces was walking out with Thompson’s son, and that one of the farmer’s wives at Dottswood was expecting another child.

Not the sort of things he needed to know, but from her pleased nods, such tidbits were exactly what Mrs. Smollet had wanted.

Eventually Em steered the conversation to their quest. “We’ve been trying to locate my great-grandfather’s grave. You would have been just a girl at the time of his funeral, but we thought you might remember…?”

That was precisely the right way to word their request. Old Mrs. Smollet beamed. “Oh, yes—I remember that well. One of the biggest funerals I’ve ever seen. I even remember him—he was a very distinguished old gentleman, your great-grandfather. Everyone round about knew him—and he knew them. The whole county came to pay their respects.”

Em sat forward. “Do you know anything about the burial? I realize you wouldn’t have witnessed it, but…?”

Mrs. Smollet all but preened. “I was at the service, but in those days females weren’t allowed to witness interments.” She sniffed disparagingly. “My brothers—I had two much older—were among the pallbearers. They had to have more than the usual number because of all the steps.”

“The steps down to the crypt?” Jonas asked.

Mrs. Smollet nodded. “Quite an effort it was to get such a large and heavy coffin down such steep and narrow steps. Everyone waited in the church while it was taken down—my brothers said the hardest bit was remembering not to swear. He—old Mr. Colyton—was buried in the family mausoleum, or so my brothers said.” She frowned.

So did Em, but before she could interrupt, Mrs. Smollet continued, “I always wondered about that. I meant to get them to show me where it—the mausoleum—was, because when Mitzy Walls and I slipped down to take a look the following week, we couldn’t find it.” She glanced at Jonas. “And I could never understand what my brothers meant about it being so hard to get the coffin down
both
flights of steps.”

Jonas felt his pulse leap. From Em’s puzzled expression as she looked at him, she didn’t understand the significance. He caught her gaze, reminded her, “There’s only one flight of steps down to the crypt.”

T
hey left Mrs. Smollet with effusive thanks, which she assured them quite made her day, and raced back to the rectory.

Filing and Henry leapt at the chance to leave their respective books. Together with Em and Jonas, they hurried along the path and into the church. Filing grabbed the key to the crypt and led the way down, Henry at his heels. Jonas stood back and let Em precede him; he glanced around the church, peering into the shadows, then followed her down.

Hadley must have gone back to the inn for lunch. His easel was stacked in the corner; it didn’t look like he planned to hurry back. To Jonas’s mind that was just as well. The fewer who knew there was any treasure involved—even knew of their search for the Colyton tombs—the better.

Filing lit the lantern, set it on its hook. “A mausoleum, vault or crypt, opening from this one, with another flight of steps leading down.”

“The church stands on top of a limestone ridge,” Jonas pointed out. “Another room could lie in any direction.”

Scanning the walls, they gathered in the center of the room. The crypt was carved out of the ridge; the ceiling was still rough-hewn, bearing the marks of picks and adzes, but the walls had largely been hollowed out, then bricked in to form niches, alcoves, or frames for tombs. Most of the original rock had disappeared behind the more decorative stone and brick work, much of which was ornate.

Locating a door concealed within the myriad structures wasn’t going to be a simple, let alone quick, task.

Jonas doubted any of them felt daunted; on the contrary, this latest hurdle only added to the challenge. The crypt was roughly rectangular. “Let’s each take a wall.”

The others nodded. Em walked forward to the north wall. Jonas turned and claimed the south. Filing went east, Henry west.

Silence descended as they searched.

Initially Em tapped the wall, hoping to hear some difference in tone, but she soon found that different types of stone gave different sounds when tapped, regardless of whether they had a secret passage behind them. Thereafter she resorted to pulling and pushing every brick, every rosette, every ornate corbel, and poking at every line of mortar with a shard she’d found on the floor.

She’d started in the northwest corner. After what seemed an age during which she’d advanced barely ten feet, she glanced around and was relieved to see the others were no faster, no further forward than she.

Returning her attention to the next niche to be investigated, she continued her careful examination. Somewhat to her surprise, she didn’t find it hard to concentrate, to suspend her impatience; hand in hand with adventurousness, her Colyton self possessed a certain doggedness, a determination never to be beaten and defeated by mere circumstance.

Straightening and stretching to ease her back, she glanced at the others. She wasn’t surprised to see Henry as focused as she, but Jonas and Filing were equally intent, equally blind and deaf to all else as they steadily worked through their sections.

Then again, Jonas wanted to marry her, and had devoted himself to her problems, taking them on as his own. His devotion shouldn’t surprise her—and by the same token, she supposed she understood Filing’s motivation; once the treasure was found, Issy would feel free to marry him.

Turning back to the north wall, she stepped to the right, to the next section of stonework to be examined—an arched alcove framing a statue of an angel atop a small tomb. She considered it, then stepped back—as far as she could go—and, head tilted, studied alcove and angel some more.

She frowned.

The alcove was larger than any of the other alcoves or niches; she looked around the crypt, confirming that was true. Its top—the zenith of a perfect arch—was over six feet clear of the floor. The highest part of the angel—the tops of its wings—was significantly shorter, not even five feet. The alcove was also deeper than any of the others, nearly three feet deep, enough so shadows screened the rear wall behind the angel. The composition—angel in alcove—looked wrong, as if the alcove was too big for the angel…

She looked at the angel, bent to read the inscription on the tomb—a child’s tomb from its size—that formed the statue’s base. “Fortemain.”

Turning, she looked across the narrow aisle at the large and imposing tomb she’d backed into, the one opposite the alcove. The inscription was still sharp-edged and clear: Sir Cedric Fortemain.

She checked the dates, confirming it was most likely the current Sir Cedric’s grandfather. She looked at the surrounding tombs spread over the crypt floor. They were all Fortemains. In contrast, those along the wall to either side of the alcove were Binghams to one side, Elgars to the other. Looking again at the angel, she murmured, “What are you doing over there?”

On impulse, she turned, and standing before the angel, surveyed the Fortemain tombs. And saw the place the angel should have been—a neat space between the foot of Sir Cedric’s tomb and the next. A quick check of the inscription on the latter tomb suggested it was Sir Cedric the elder’s mother, and from the dates, the child beneath the angel was one of her offspring.

Em looked at the angel. “You should be over there.”

Filing heard. From the corner of her eye, Em saw him lift his head, but when she said nothing more, he went back to his search.

She frowned at the angel. She needed to check the alcove behind it, but although not that tall, getting around the wings would be a tight squeeze.

She wasn’t a Colyton for nothing. She drew in a breath, then, shard gripped tightly in one hand, she breathed out, ducked under one wing, wriggled and squeezed—and eventually popped through to the other side. Breathing again, not wanting to know if there’d been any cobwebs on the angel’s lower wings that might now be decorating her hair, she eased her way upright behind the angel.

Facing the back of the alcove.

And the dusty stone plaque at eye level, directly before her face.