‘Haven’t they made any headway with that?’ asked India.
‘Nothing!’ said Brandon. ‘I checked in this morning. She seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth. We have the only lead it seems though how it links with the Palladium, I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps whoever has abducted her hopes to hold her to ransom, with the artefact as payment.’
‘Possible,’ he said ‘But unlikely. The best thing we can do is continue with our investigations. There are enough other people looking for the girl, anyway, here we are.’
They walked into the typical English country pub and approached the bar.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the landlord.
‘Good afternoon,’ answered Brandon. ‘Pint of smooth please and…’ He looked at India quizzically.
‘Oh, Coke,’ please,’ she said, before adding, ‘Are you still serving hot food?’
‘We are,’ said the landlord, ‘Sunday lunch, Beef, Pork or Chicken,?5.99’
‘I’ll have Beef, please,’ said India.
‘And you sir?’ asked the barman.
‘I’ll have the same, cheers.’
‘No problem,’ said the barman, ‘You sit yourselves down and I’ll bring them over as soon as their ready.’
They made their way over to a window seat, sipping their drinks while taking in the scene around them. The bar was a cliche of an English pub. Large fire place, leaded windows and low beams exuded character while polished brass platters and horseshoes covered most of the available dark oak panels.
‘Nice place,’ said Brandon, ‘Anyway, why don’t you remind me what makes you think the trail leads here.’
‘Like I said,’ said India, ‘One of my main sources when researching any historical story or artefact is local rumour. A while ago, I was dating a music student who was studying Ivor Novello, a famous Welsh composer who made his home in this village.’
‘What has Ivor Novello got to do with this?’
‘Nothing, but while I was with the musician, we came here for a weekend. We came to this pub one night and got talking to locals. After a few drinks the conversation turned to the village’s history and one of the strongest stories was the tale of the white lady.’
‘Explain?’
‘A ghost!’ said India, ‘Said to have walked the village for thousands of years.’
‘Bullshit!’ said Brandon.
‘That may be so,’ said India, ‘But the fact is, it is deeply embedded part of this village’s memories, and, in my experience, in these old parish villages where old wives tales and folklore comes into play, there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘And where’s the link?’ asked Brandon.
‘Well, though I didn’t take much notice at the time, the one thing I do recall is that they reckon she is the ghost of a Vestal Virgin. It seemed a bit strange at the time but I thought no more about it. It was only when that Italian guy mentioned the possibility of there being a Vestal Temple in England it came back to me.’
‘What came back to you?’
‘There is a round Temple on a hill a few miles from here and archaeologists believe it is a Vestal Temple from the first century AD.’
‘But what makes you think this is linked to the Palladium?’ he asked.
‘Think about it,’ she said, ‘We traced the palladium to Rome and the care of the Vestals in 64 AD. At about that time, it disappeared and was last seen in the care of Rubria, the Priestess who was raped by Nero. She had the wealth, the education and the reason to flee Rome, and if she was as dedicated as all the other Vestals, would have tried to save whatever artefacts she could from the fire.’
‘Coincidence!’ said Brandon, she could have gone anywhere.
‘She could have,’ agreed India, ‘But consider everything else we know. Fact one, scholars believe the palladium was never burnt and is not beneath the Constantine Tower. It is now thought it was spirited away during the fire and left the country.’
‘Okay,’ said Brandon.
‘Fact two,’ continued India, ‘At the same time a Vestal Virgin with a grudge against Nero, disappeared from history forever. Not long after, a Temple to Vesta was built in England. Don’t forget, transport between Rome and Britain was common at that time as it was just after the Boudican wars and Rome was busy trying to dominate the island.’
‘I still don’t buy it,’ said Brandon.
‘Well look at the other factors,’ said India, ‘The people in this village believe there is a ghost of a Vestal Virgin haunting these streets. Now this may be poppycock but the story is hundreds of years old, if not thousands. Don’t forget in the past, our ancestors believed absolutely in the presence of ghosts. To them it was a fact of life. For something like that to survive the dark ages, and throughout all the subsequent historical periods and various religious upheavals it must have been a very strong story, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps, but how do you know it is our Virgin?’
‘I don’t, but the timeline fits perfect and besides, our man from Samothrace seems to have come to the same conclusions and he is much more closely involved than you or I.’
‘Okay, so let’s assume you are right and this Rubria came here, why have you brought us to this village, shouldn’t we be going to this Temple?’
‘We can’t,’ said India, ‘It’s not there any more.’
‘What do you mean, not there?’
‘Well, it used to be on a place called Weycock hill a couple of miles away, but over the years the locals, like in many cultures, stripped it bare for building materials. Most was used in the construction of the local church a couple of hundred years ago.’
‘Perhaps the Palladium is buried on the Temple site,’ said Brandon,
‘I doubt it,’ said India, ‘It has been excavated twice that I know of. No, if there was anything there then it was long gone before the archaeologists even got their trowels out.’
‘And you think the villagers know where it is?’ asked Brandon.
‘Not consciously,’ said India, ‘But I am very interested in the stories and fables of the village. There are grains of truth to be had in most ghost stories. There may be a lead there.’
‘So where do we start?’ asked Brandon.
‘Churches are usually goldmines of information,’ said India, ‘I think we should start there.’
‘So why did you bring me in here,’ asked Brandon looking around the pub, ‘Where’s the link here?’
‘No link,’ said India, nodding towards the approaching barman, ‘But in the rush this morning, I didn’t have time for breakfast and I think better on a full stomach.’ She beamed a disarming smile at Brandon who stared back at her in amusement.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked, ‘Pay the man.’
Sister Bernice poured cold water from the chipped enamel jug into the bowl and washed her face in the candle light. Though she did not own a watch, she knew that it was approaching four am and the bell for morning prayers would sound soon enough. She sat back on her bunk, and waited patiently.
Half an hour passed and the bell did not come. Bernice approached the door and peered out through the opening into the passage. She hesitated, as though the doors were not locked, it was forbidden to leave their rooms except at the sound of the bells. Still, this was very strange. In twenty years of service she had never known any time where the first call to prayers had been missed.
Peering out into the corridor, Bernice could see that several other Sisters had also left their rooms and were gathered in the hallway.
‘Sister Bernice,’ said one, ‘Do you know what is happening?’
‘No I’m afraid not,’ she said, ‘But wait here, I will see if I can find out.’
‘But you will be punished if you leave the wing without a Senior,’ said her colleague.
‘And deservedly so,’ said Bernice, ‘But I have to find out in case there is any emergency. I fear for the Mother Superior’s health and I have some medical training. They may need me.’