‘“The seven birds cry for your soul,
Their painted skin a call of death.
Framed in gold, a hollow crown,
Leaves time to hide inside.”’
Edith finished her scone, wiping her mouth on the linen napkin.
‘It must refer to the curlew painting in the chapel corridor,’ said Edith. ‘There are seven birds wading across an eerie, foggy landscape. It’s a huge piece. It was placed there because it’s supposed to be valuable and there’s no direct sunlight to cause it to fade.’
‘Gulliver suggested the same, but he was unsure what the line about the “hollow crown” meant,’ she said.
‘There is a folk tale about curlews,’ said Edith. ‘It was one Father told me and Phyllis when we were young. He said it had been passed down the generations. Mother was furious because the story gave Phyllis nightmares.’
‘Why?’ said Tabitha in surprise.
‘It was about a blood curse coming down through the centuries from our link to the Boleyns,’ said Edith.
‘Where do the curlews come in?’ asked Tabitha.
‘There was a poem written in the one of the account books we have from the period when Maud was in residence, about the Boleyn curse.’
A shiver ran down Tabitha’s spine.
‘I’ve never heard of the Boleyn curse,’ she said.
‘Few people have,’ said Edith. ‘I have the poem here.’
To Tabitha’s astonishment, Edith leaned over and took a battered leather journal from the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. She flipped through a few pages, then pushed it towards her.
‘This is from the account book. I copied it out when I was a young woman and we were advised to place the more valuable records in a proper storage facility. You read it,’ she said. ‘There are similarities to the clue you read to me earlier and I suspect this is why Grandpapa used certain words. The final clue must either be in the painting or attached to the frame.’
Tabitha stared down at the page of neat handwriting and clearing her throat, she did as Edith requested, reading the poem entitledThe Boleyn Cursealoud.
‘“Whoso beareth the blood, beware…
When seven wailers cross the sky,
And curlew’s scream dost bid thee cry,
Then know, thy fate is seal’d by breath –
For blood calls blood, and death calls death.
In fen and fog the drowned do tread,
The weepers of the witless dead.
Their eyes are black, their song is flame,
They whisper low the traitor’s name.
And should the pee-wit call at eve,
When light and shadow interweave,
The gallows rise, the blade is bared –
