Cicely and I, who were both still feeling the effect of our long, hot walk, reluctantly followed him out of doors and sat beside him on the top of the knoll. Daisies and buttercups starred the grass, and here and there I could see the bright sapphire-blue of a speedwell. Beyond the inner fence hens pecked in the dust for grit and the scattered remains of their morning’s feed, while a fat black cat lay curled contentedly in the doorway of the house, sleepily oblivious to the pilgrims forced to step over it as they left or re-entered the building. A cow lowed plaintively from a neighbouring field.
After a long-drawn silence I prompted, ‘Why then, Father, were you unable to explain this paper?’
The priest turned his mild blue eyes upon me with a look of vague astonishment, as though he had, for a moment, forgotten my presence. ‘Ah, yes. The paper. I couldn’t explain its contents, my son, for the simple reason that I couldn’t understand them.’
‘They were written in a foreign language?’
‘You might say that. The message, if it was one, consisted of a number of horizontal and vertical lines. The latter, some upright, some sloping, were arranged in groups, varying in number between one and five, either above, below or aslant the former. And that, as I also told Master Gildersleeve this morning, is the reason I gave it to his brother. I hoped Master Peter might discover how to decipher it.’
‘How did you come by this paper, Father?’
‘It was given into my hands for safekeeping over a year ago by an Irishman, who had travelled to Beckery in the steps of Saint Bridget. From Glastonbury he was going to the shrine of Saint Thomas at Canterbury, and he asked me to look after it until his return, in case it was either lost or stolen from him on the journey.’
Cicely shifted restlessly beside me. All she wanted now was to go home to discover if Mark had reached there before us. Her arms were clasped about her raised knees, her hair, unconfined by net or ribbon, tumbling about her shoulders in an untidy profusion of pale golden-brown curls. Those huge violet eyes were veiled by blue-veined lids, and her sullen expression only served to emphasize the thin lips and heavy lower jaw, making her look almost plain. A ladybird was crawling slowly down her arm, like a drop of blood oozing from a wound.
I ignored her obvious impatience and turned once more to the priest. ‘But did this Irishman tell you nothing about the paper? Didn’t he explain the meaning of these symbols you describe?’
‘The paper was folded and sealed with wax. Naturally, at that time, I did not suggest opening it.’ Father Boniface sounded offended. ‘What it contained was not then my business. I merely put it away to give him again when he came back.’
‘But he has not come back?’
‘No.’ The priest removed his apron as he began at last to feel the heat. He raised the skirts of his habit above his ankles, stretching out his scrawny white shins and sandalled feet to the caressing rays of the sun. ‘He did however tell me his name, Gerald Clonmel, and that he came from the parts about Waterford which, he said, is in the very south of Ireland. But I have no means of knowing whether this is true or not, having no knowledge of the world beyond this island.’
I nodded. ‘Indeed it is. The people of that region have long trafficked with the merchants of southern Wales and with Bristol.’
‘Ah!’ The priest smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then that would add weight to his story. It is the tradition in his family, he told me, that this paper was taken to Ireland by one of his remote forebears who came from hereabouts.’
‘And did he understand its message?’
Father Boniface spoke slowly, as one dealing with a simpleton or a child. ‘I have already explained that when it was given into my keeping I had no notion what the paper contained. When Gerald returned from Canterbury he could share the secret of its contents with me or not, just as he pleased. But as you have surmised he did not return, and a little over three months ago I learned that he had died shortly after he had fulfilled his lifelong vow to worship at the Holy Martyr’s tomb. A fellow pilgrim who had been with him at the end, and who was on his way home to Wales, told me that Gerald had been buried in Canterbury.’
‘So you opened the paper?’ I was not condemning Father Boniface, which he seemed to understand; I should have done the same in his place, as, I think, would anyone.
‘I did, and have told you what I found. Of course I could make no sense of its message, and so, a little while afterwards, when Peter Gildersleeve brought me a fresh supply of parchments, I gave it to him to see if he could puzzle out its meaning.’
‘And you have no idea whether he did so or not?’
‘When I last saw him, four or five weeks since, he said he thought he might have some news for me very soon.’ The priest’s face grew deeply troubled. ‘And now I understand that the poor young man has disappeared in mysterious circumstances.’ He shivered again, more violently than before, and his hand, when he laid it on mine, was icy cold in spite of the heat. ‘I fear I might unwittingly have enmeshed him in some terrible evil. I did not know until this morning, when Mark Gildersleeve came to visit me, what had happened. We are isolated here. News takes a day or two to reach us.’
I scratched my chin, where tomorrow’s growth of beard was already making its presence felt. When, I wondered, had Mark discovered this paper? He had not known of it last night, or he would not have asked me to carry out my search this morning. So, sometime between then and now he must have chanced upon it.
‘Do you suppose,’ I enquired of Father Boniface, ‘that Mark also associated this strange message, whatever it may be, with his brother’s disappearance?’
‘It is possible, my son.’
‘Did he have the paper with him?’
‘I asked him that. I thought that perhaps we might have studied it together in the vain hope of finding some clue to its meaning, but Mark said no, he had left it at home.’
‘Did he know its history?’
‘No, for his brother had never spoken to him about it. I gathered from his discourse that he does not share Master Peter’s interest in antiquities.’
‘That’s true enough.’ I frowned as a thought occurred to me. ‘But if, as you say, his brother neither showed him this paper nor discussed it with him, how did Mark know that it had been given to Peter by you?’
The priest nodded sagely. ‘That question also occurred to me. It would seem that my name had been written on the reverse side of the parchment by his brother.’
Of course! I had seen similar annotations on the books and folios I had looked at that morning; names written either at the beginning or at the end of the script which, then, had had no meaning for me. Now I understood. They were the names of the people from whom Peter had acquired them.
I turned to Cicely, only to find that she was not attending to the conversation. She had been busy picking the daisies which surrounded her and fashioning them into garlands. She had a chain about each wrist and a third, longer one, perched on her curls like a flowery coronet, but slipping towards her left ear, which gave her a slightly rakish appearance. I realized that, in spite of her airs and graces, she had not really grown up yet, which gave her the childlike ability to detach herself from time to time from the worries and concerns of everyday life and enter, however briefly, a secret world of her own.
Suddenly conscious of my eyes upon her, she returned my look defiantly. ‘We should be getting home,’ she said, scrambling to her feet. ‘It will soon be suppertime. Mark and Aunt Joan will be waiting for us.’
The thrust of her chin dared me to contradict this statement. It had been proved that, after all, her cousin had indeed visited Beckery Island as he had said he was going to do, and she was now ashamed of her former state of panic. She obviously felt that she had been foolish, and tried to make up for this by descending the knoll with her most queenly gait. Unfortunately she had forgotten the daisy chains, until the one on her head slipped forward over her eyes and she snatched it off and stamped on it with a most unladylike display of rage. I only made matters worse by being unable to control my laughter, and she swung round, pummelling me hard on the chest.