‘Nothing, yet,’ she replied.
‘Why don’t I grab him and drag him inside?’ said Seb.
‘No,’ she hissed, ‘but be ready to spring up if we think he’s going to hurt himself. I think he’ll step back himself. He might be angry we watched him while he was at his most vulnerable.’
‘It’s because we care,’ muttered Seb.
Thunder crashed again, but it was distant, the storm was passing, and as though this was a cue from nature, Gulliver dropped his arms, hugging them tightly around his body as he stared out over the horizon. ‘ENOUGH!’ he shouted to the heavens. ‘Enough.’
He curled in on himself, sinking to the floor, as though the pain he carried was too great to bear, and sat in the puddles, his legs bent, his arms around his knees, his head curled forward, rocking like a small child. His shoulders shook and Tabitha knew he was crying.
A scurry of footsteps announced Molly and Edith’s arrival, both carrying blankets.
‘I’ll take it from here,’ said Molly and Tabitha watched in admiration as Molly squared her shoulders and walked across the roof to her son.
Molly was a slender woman of medium height with highlighted hair that she wore in a long choppy bob. Elegant to her fingertips, she ignored the water streaming across the roof, the still teeming rain, and sat beside Gulliver. He started insurprise, then realising who had joined him, he leaned towards her, burying himself in her embrace as she threw a blanket around his shoulders.
In the distance, sirens filled the air.
‘I think the ambulance remains necessary,’ said Edith. ‘I shall go down to meet them.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Seb and took Edith’s arm.
The older woman looked pale and Tabitha felt a pang of sadness at the sudden wash of frailty that had overcome Edith. It was a stark reminder of her great age.
There was movement behind her and Tabitha hovered, unsure whether to follow Edith and Seb or remain on the roof in case Molly needed help. Gulliver was standing, reaching down to ease his mother to her feet.
‘We called an ambulance,’ Tabitha heard Molly say as she led Gulliver towards the door. ‘You should let them see your foot, it’s a nasty cut.’
Gulliver did not reply, his eyes appeared unfocused.
‘Let me help,’ said Tabitha, hurrying forward to take Gulliver’s other arm, but as she spoke, it was as though the spell of inertia around him had broken and Gulliver wrenched himself away from Molly’s grip, hurtling towards Tabitha.
‘You,’ he hissed, stopping a few centimetres from her, ‘you and her. You’re in it together, aren’t you?’
‘What?’ gasped Tabitha.
Gulliver’s eyes were livid with fury. ‘I can’t prove it yet,’ he said, ‘but when I do, you’ll both pay for what you’ve done.’
With a howl of rage, he ran inside, leaving Molly and Tabitha staring at each other in bewildered horror.
12
THE JOURNAL OF WILBUR SWANNE – OCTOBER 1904
The weather has been inclement for several days, but the distractions of London have given me solace. There is nothing so good for the soul as meeting with old chums whom one has known for decades and who understand one without explanation. Charlie, Jocelyn and I are holed up together in our club, as we do every year to celebrate Jocelyn’s birthday and catch up on each other’s news.
They have been understanding as I discussed my problems with my wife, Veronica. Although, I believe they were more interested in my discovery of a curious manuscript in a secret space, behind the library, when we were doing some repairs.
I searched the archives for old plans of the building and discovered this area was once known as the scriptorium. One of the histories written about Cerensthorpe, also in our archive, said this room was supposed to date back to 1230 when the abbey was founded by Norman heiress, Lady Aveline de Cerensthorpe. It was created as a house of Benedictine canonesses dedicated to St Scholastica, the twin sister of St Benedict, who was associated with learning and prayer. I believe she is the woman known as the Black Lady, whose image graces our oriel window with a companion of a white falcon.
Family legend claims, during the Civil War in the 1640s, Anne Gregory Raven, wife of Robert Raven, hid a wounded cavalier in the priest hole below the scriptorium. The man vanished without trace and even today villagers, and sillier family members, suggest he walks the ruins at dusk, wearing a cloak, trailing blood over the cobblestones. The scriptorium has been altered a great deal over the years, which is why the priest hole, with this book inside, were forgotten.
This ancient tome is truly extraordinary, with its illuminations and handwritten comments around the edges – Jocelyn told me I was a heathen and this is known as ‘marginalia’ – but I believe this could be the legendary ‘missing masterpiece’ that was left by the nuns and about which my forebears have oft written.
Charlie arranged a meeting with his cousin, Selwyn, who works at the British Museum. He’s the expert and he was rendered speechless when he saw the book. With my permission, he has taken it to serious men to check its validity.
On Sunday afternoon, to amuse ourselves, after a hearty lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings and a bottle of exceptional claret, we avoided the dreary October rain by indulging in a few games of billiards. As we played, we discussed the curious manuscript. However, until such time as we have a response from Selwyn, there is nothing to be done. We reverted to our usual topic of finding entertainments for Jocelyn’s birthday.
