“You are upsetting the lady,” he said. “This is a private engagement. You should leave.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh man, you look amazing.” She shoved her camera in her companion’s hands and jumped up beside Mr. Mallery, posing with jazz hands spread out razzle-dazzle. The man hadn’t yet gotten the camera to his eye when Mr. Mallery hopped off the stone and took it from his hands. He held it awkwardly, as if he hated the feel of the modern thing, but found the power switch and turned it off.
“It would be best if you left,” he said again, only lower now, slower, and leaning in a little, his gaze locked on the man’s eyes. The backpacker leaned back but seemed unable to look away.
His companion jumped down beside him.
“Hey—” she started.
Mr. Mallery looked her over, and the woman’s confidence seemed to plummet. He took one of her hands and placed the camera in it, then put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from the abbey.
“Now would be a good time for the aforementioned leave-taking.”
Charlotte wasn’t surprised when the backpackers started off, with nervous backward glances.
Mr. Mallery held out his arm to Charlotte. She took it.
“You scared them,” she said.
“They were bothering you,” he said simply.
He walked her back toward the others. Charlotte subtly moved her hand up from his elbow to his biceps, curious how strong he was. He glanced down at her hand, as if he guessed what she was about, and she felt herself flush but didn’t move her hand. He did have mighty fine biceps.
“There you are!” said Colonel Andrews. “I was just about to regale our young ladies with the dark and sordid history of Grey Cloaks Abbey.”
Miss Charming was sitting on the edge of a stone, her hands dangling between her knees, her mouth open.
“It sounds sooo spooky,” she said. Then, as if realizing she’d forgotten to apply her British accent, she added, “What-what.”
The colonel’s voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Exactly three hundred years ago, this abbey was home to twenty-one nuns, the abbess, and one novice. Over here”—he walked to the edge of the ruins—“they worked a kitchen garden, with herbs of healing to administer to the town’s needs. They kept goats and chickens on the other side of a yew hedge. The walk from the garden to the abbey was lined with fruit trees and pines, under which shade they contemplated the marvels of the world. It was a peaceful existence, quiet and without incident … until one evening in January.
“The sisters made their dinner as usual and sat down to eat. The abbess was getting older and not feeling well of late, so this night, after she prepared the tea and blessed the meal, she went to her chamber to lie down. She rose again an hour later to join the sisters in compline prayers, but when she entered the chapel, to her horror, she discovered all the nuns were dead.”
“Ooh,” Miss Charming said, nose wrinkled.
Miss Gardenside’s face was shiny with perspiration. She shut her eyes against the colonel’s story, or perhaps the pain of her illness. Charlotte sat beside her and put a hand on her arm.
“The good abbess went through the chapel, examining each body,” the colonel continued, “praying to find someone alive. No wounds were upon their bodies, but their pulses had stopped, their breaths stilled. When hope was near extinguished, the abbess found Mary Francis, the young novice, trembling under a bench, quite alive. The abbess fainted from grief and fright.
“In the morning, the abbess woke to find that Mary Francis had laid out all the nuns’ bodies side by side in the chapel and covered them with their blankets. She had cleaned up the dinner from the night before as well, washing each dish and tidying the kitchen. She had been up all night at this task.
“ ‘What happened, Mary?’ the abbess asked. ‘How did the sisters die?’ Mary Francis shook her head and would not speak.”
“Sounds suspicious, rawther,” said Miss Charming, her chin resting on her hands.
“Exactly so,” said Colonel Andrews. “If the novice did not know, she might have said so. But why refuse to answer?”
He left the question hanging in the air. In the distance, a crow screeched. Charlotte shivered.
“Don’t you just love a good horror story?” Miss Gardenside whispered.
“As long as it’s light out,” said Charlotte.
Miss Gardenside laughed as if it was a joke. Charlotte didn’t correct her. A woman in her thirties should not be afraid of the dark. She also shouldn’t be playing dress-up.
“No one ever hanged for the deaths in Grey Cloak Abbey,” said Colonel Andrews. “The bodies were buried in the churchyard, and the abbey was abandoned. The poor abbess moved in with a niece and rapidly succumbed to dementia. She would sit in the garden and sing hymns, sometimes suddenly shouting, ‘Either she saw who did it or she did it herself!’ ”
“Meaning, Mary Francis,” said Charlotte.