“You say it was amongst the books in the library?” he asked, poring over the manuscript without the least physical reaction to it. “Fascinating.”
“Can you read it?” asked Barnaby, more as a test than a question.
“Sadly, no. I have a good grasp of Latin, of course, and Greek and Hebrew. But this looks to be a very old form of some Germanic language, possibly even English. It’s hard to say. The illustrations are incredible, though. Some kind of Norse saga, do you think? Although I didn’t think the Vikings were very much into fairies. Their gods were rather more sinister, I seem to recall from the little I have read about them. The ancient gods are not really my field of expertise, as you can imagine.” He grinned, an action which caught Barnaby off-guard. He had not met a vicar with a sense of humor before.
“Um. No. I suppose not.” Barnaby replied. “As it so happens, I am able to read the text.”
“Really?” Rev. Taylor replied. “Oh, good show! That must be very useful in your line of work.”
“I can’t say that I’ve had the privilege to read a book like this before,” said Barnaby honestly. “Unfortunately, as you see here…” He carefully turned to the last page. “The ending is missing. Torn out, by the looks of things.”
“Oh, that is a shame.”
“I thought perhaps you might know the ending,” said Barnaby, not very hopefully.
“Me? Why would I know that?”
“Well, this speaks of a legend that originated in Fenwick…”
“You don’t say!”
“Er… yes, I do. And I thought you might be familiar with it—since you are likely the most learned man in the village and may have come across something that references such a tale.”
“Of fairies? No, sir. But I appreciate your faith in me.”
Barnaby’s shoulders drooped. His search for answers was proving less than fruitful. He would have to cast his net wider. “Perhaps, you know someone else in the village who might carry knowledge of the old stories of Fenwick?”
Rev. Taylor blushed. “I find myself of no use to you at all, Mr. Ash. My apologies. You see, I have barely been in Fenwick a week. The previous vicar was removed rather suddenly. A family disagreement, I understand. I am but newly arrived. In fact, I gave my very first sermon here this past Sunday. As such, I do not know my new flock well enough to advise you. Although I hope to remedy that soon.”
“I’m sure you will.” Barnaby began to seal up the manuscript once more. He could barely hide his disappointment. To reach a dead end so soon…
Rev. Taylor must have wished to console him because his own features lit up with a broad smile and he raised a finger as if to halt Barnaby in his departure. “I’ve had a thought,” the young vicar said proudly. “Mr. Tully. Our church warden. He will know everyone. Why don’t you ask him? And, of course, there is Mr. Brewster, the innkeeper. He knows an even broader range of folk. Between them, they might have heard of this legend or, failing that, point you in the direction of someone else who does.”
Barnaby recalled the hearty hand of Mr. Brewster upon his back, the noise of the inn pressing upon his senses.
“I shall ask Mr. Tully first,” he replied firmly. “Thank you. If you could tell me where he lives?”
“Oh dear.” Rev. Taylor shook his head. “I have no idea.” He paused, then delivered his dazzling smile once more. “But if you don’t mind a bit of company, we could find out together. It’s time I got to know Fenwick and its people better.” He rose as if the answer was decided.
Barnaby placed the oilskin parcel under his arm once more, trailing after the brisk-paced vicar who only slowed once he reached a parishioner on the wayside. What followed immediately was a greeting, an inquiry after the health of that person and their family, an introduction to Barnaby, and a conversation that began along the lines of “…do you know, he has found this most remarkable book…” and ended with a mention of their quest to find the church warden’s house.
With each inquiry, they gained a new companion, willing to show them the way to Mr. Tully themselves, only to cross paths with another villager and repeat the entire process. By the time they reached Tully’s cottage which—to Barnaby’s immense frustration—happened to be on the very opposite end of Fenwick, near the Ipswich turnoff, half the village was tagging along with their vicar-cum-pied-piper. Barnaby profoundly regretted not having headed to Mr. Brewster instead. A short volley of conversation, and he would have been free to proceed on his own. Mr. Brewster would not have abandoned his inn to show Barnaby the way.
Instead, a small crowd now gathered at the door of the Tullys. Barnaby assumed the man was married because this abode, unlike Hill House, was clearly under a woman’s care. Honeysuckle trailed along the fence, hanging down like a floral drapery. A small, neat garden proudly displayed roses, cowslips, and some kind of iris which Barnaby could not distinguish from any other, botany not being a subject with which he was au fait.
A young—though not very young—woman opened the door, wiping her hands on an apron.
“Is your master home,” asked Rev. Taylor, only to be met by a ripple of laughter that ran through the gathering and was echoed by the woman at the door.
“He’s looking for your father, lass,” said a voice. “Is Jeremiah home?”
“Who is it, Joy?” called a gruff voice behind the aproned woman.
“Why, it’s all of Fenwick, Father,” answered Miss Tully, stepping aside to let him through.
A lean—almost lanky—man with grizzled hair appeared, his sleeves rolled up, his scowl an indication that he was not best pleased with his peace being disturbed.
“What d’ye all want? Summit wrong at the church?”
