Dorothy Elbury - The Major and the Country Miss

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Half an hour later, however, he realised that his doubts were unfounded for Barkworth proved to be, as Catford had informed him, an inexhaustible fount of local history and folklore. However, since the elderly curate was only too eager to impart to his listeners far more on the subject than they might have wished to learn and was, clearly, not to be hurried, Maitland resigned himself to listening patiently to his host’s apparently inexhaustible supply of local anecdotes.

The Honourable Jeremy, however, was in no mood to prolong what seemed to him to be an extremely dull and tedious waste of time. ‘Yes, yes, most interesting,’ he muttered, fastidiously brushing away the particles of dust that settled upon his new yellow pantaloons every time Barkworth moved a book or lifted a map to point out yet another fascinating detail in relation to one of his stories. ‘But it’s churchyards we came to see you about—gravestones and suchlike—it’s nuns we’re looking for, ain’t it, Maitland?’

As Maitland shot his cousin a disapproving glance, the old curate pursed his lips and regarded Fenton with a frown.

‘If it’s nuns you’re after, my boy,’ he said scathingly, ‘I doubt that you’ll find any hereabouts. All the local priories and convents were disbanded a good many years ago, even though several of the villages, such as Priors Kirkby and Monkswell, still carry their original names. Even the old Mercy Houses, which the Poor Clares ran, gradually fell out of use well before the turn of this century.’

‘Poor Clares?’ Maitland asked with interest, while Fenton heaved another sigh and gazed dispiritedly out of the begrimed window beside which he was seated.

The cleric nodded and a wide smile lit up his cragged face.

‘Aye, that’s what they called them,’ he said reminiscently. ‘The Ladies of St Clare, to give them their proper title—part of what was left of the Franciscan order, I understand. Lived in small groups, helping the needy and tending the sick—usual kind of thing, but they wouldn’t accept payment, hence the name.’

‘And were there any such Mercy Houses in the vicinity of Dunchurch?’ asked Maitland eagerly, convinced that he had, at last, hit upon something that might prove useful.

‘More than likely,’ nodded Barkworth. ‘Couldn’t advertise themselves, of course, being of the Roman faith—which, in those days, was like waving a red rag to a bull in certain sections of the community.’

After studying his visitors thoughtfully for some minutes, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to scratch out some names on a piece of paper.

‘Try these, he said. ‘Most of these village churches do have their own curates but, as to whether they will be able to lay their hands on such records, is hard to say. Nice little churchyards some of them have, too— worth a look, at any event.’

Having succeeded in scattering sand over paper, desk and floor before eventually passing the list to Maitland, he then rose stiffly to escort the two men to the street door, dismissing Maitland’s grateful thanks with a careless wave of his hand.

‘Happy to be of service, my dear boy,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t hesitate to come and see me again if there is anything further you require.’

‘Doubt if the old fool has had such a captive audience for years,’ muttered Fenton, as the cousins made their way back cross the street to their hostelry. ‘Shouldn’t think that room’s seen so much as a duster since the blessed Gunpowder Plot itself!’

Maitland laughed. ‘You could be right there,’ he nodded, in cheerful acquiescence. ‘Nevertheless, it is just faintly possible that our loquacious friend might well have provided us with some rather useful information.’ And, indicating the list in his hand, he then enthused, ‘These villages, for instance—I see that Willowby is amongst them—an ex-military friend of mine lives in that vicinity—promised I’d look him up, if I got the chance. Fancy a trip over there tomorrow morning, Jerry?’

‘Consider me at your service, dear boy,’ returned his cousin, carefully picking his way across the straw- strewn forecourt of the Dun Cow. ‘Only too happy to let you organise this campaign in whatever way you see fit—wouldn’t have the vaguest idea where to start, meself!’

And so it was that, shortly after eleven o’clock the following morning, the Honourable Jeremy’s well- sprung chaise, along with both of the cousins, found its way to Gresham Hall, which turned out to be an imposing early Georgian residence situated on a small rise on the far side of Greenborough village.

‘Fancy-looking pile,’ remarked Fenton enviously, as he brought the carriage to a halt at the foot of the Hall’s front steps. ‘Worth a pretty penny, I’ll be bound.’

Having been alerted by the sounds of their approaching vehicle, a stable lad appeared from the rear of the property to take hold of the horses’ heads, while the two men jumped to the ground and ascended the steps up to the wide front door, which was quickly opened by a tall, stately-looking individual, dressed in plum-coloured livery.

Upon learning the identity of the visitors, the manservant’s haughty demeanour vanished immediately, to be replaced by an expression of deep respect.

‘Mr William Maitland!’ he exclaimed, in an almost reverent tone of voice, as he ushered the pair into the large black-and-white tiled hallway. ‘May I say what a great privilege it is to come face to face with you at last, sir!’

‘Good of you to say so,’ murmured Maitland, not a little embarrassed at the serving man’s effusive attitude, which must stem, as he now realised, from his having learnt about the part he himself had played in his young master’s rescue and recovery.

To his further consternation, the elderly butler then thrust out his hand, saying, ‘Allow me to shake you by the hand, sir! Oswald Moffat, at your service, sir!’

Reaching out to take hold of the other man’s hand in a firm and friendly grip, Maitland could only pray that he was not about to be subjected to this sort of unwanted adulation from very many more of Earl Gresham’s staff.

Inclining his head, he said graciously, ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Moffat. Perhaps you would see if her ladyship is receiving visitors this morning?’

Hurriedly remembering his place, the manservant gave a courteous bow and, after showing the two men into an anteroom, bade them to take a seat. Then, after bowing to Maitland once again, he exited, his eyes alight with pleasure, as he hurried to impart the good news of the hero’s arrival, not only to his mistress, but also to his colleagues below stairs.

‘What the devil was that all about?’ demanded Fenton, in astonishment, as soon as the door had closed behind the departing butler. ‘Damned funny way for a servant to go on, if you ask me!’

‘’Fraid it looks as though we might have to put up with quite a bit of that sort of thing,’ said Maitland, with a rueful grin. ‘Cat seems to have put it about that I had a hand in saving his life.’

‘Seems there’s no end to your blessed talents, Will!’ exclaimed Fenton, eyeing his cousin sourly.

‘Stow that, Jerry!’ returned Maitland, reddening slightly. ‘I only did what any fellow would have done in the circumstances, which hardly warrants remarks of that sort, surely?’

Fenton gave a careless shrug. ‘If that butler chap’s performance is anything to go by,’ he observed, ‘it strikes me that the odd sarcastic remark from yours truly might well serve to help keep your feet on the ground!’

Before Maitland could reply, a soft tap on the door heralded Moffat’s return and the two men were escorted up the stairs to the morning room, where a smiling Countess Gresham, her son at her side, was eagerly awaiting their arrival.