think he’d know by now not to sit there, wouldn’t you?” Dimanche said, glad of a chance to change the subject. “Shall I fetch the post?”
“Do, Dimanche.”
Verity Victorine was a nun. She belonged to the Order of Sainte Gracieuse in Normandy, and had lived peacefully in a small French convent until the day she discovered that Dimanche needed her help. At once she left the convent and hurried back to Hilton Hall, but she still exchanged letters and small gifts with the sisters almost daily.
Verity Victorine loved getting letters. Who does not? But this particular post brought her no pleasure. Her forehead, usually calm and smooth beneath her clean white coif, criss-crossed itself with worry lines and her hands shook as she read her letter for the third time. She stirred marmalade into her hot chocolate, and dropped her letter in a pool of melted butter.
“Is something wrong, Aunt Verity?”
“Read this, Dimanche.”
The letter Verity handed to Dimanche was handwritten on expensive paper. This is what it said: Dimanche tossed the letter down. “Don’t worry, Aunt Verity,” she said. “I know all about the Deed and Title.”
Bludgeon, Bludgeon & Co., SolicitorsCanal Walk ChambersRockford Market
Friday, 22nd June.
Dear Madam,Every one hundred years, on Midsummer Midnight, the Reigning Sovereign calls upon a Lawyer of this county to inspect and ratify the Diller Deed and Title.
This century it’s us – Bludgeon & Bludgeon.
We therefore plan to call upon you to inspect the said Deed and Title, with customary hospitality of a Hogshead of Brandy, on Midsummer Midnight. We beg to remind you that the Ancient Proclamation was laid down by King William the First in the Royal Domesday Book of 1086 and that no Diller has ever failed to obey it.
Your Obedient Servants,Baldwin and Bartholomew Bludgeon.
PS Should Miss Diller fail to present the Deed and Title, then everything – House, Hall, Woods, Goods, Serfs, Chattels, and Appurtenances – including children – must pass into the hand of whomever else may do so.
“Do you, Dimanche? I had quite forgotten it. I don’t even know where it is. I suppose I shall have to tidy my desk.” Verity Victorine sighed. Sometimes she longed for the quiet of the convent.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Verity, it isn’t in your desk. It’s in a strongbox in the bank at Rockford Market.”
The little furrows beneath Verity’s white coif vanished, and she poured herself a second cup of chocolate, this time without marmalade.
“Dimanche, you’re a marvel! How do you know?”
“There’s a chest in the attic, Aunt Verity, it’s full of family papers. I opened it once, when I was looking for a penknife, and read some of them. One was from Great-grandfather Darius, the last Diller to present the Deed and Tide for inspection. He wrote down where it’s kept, and what it looks like, and what you have to do with it, so that the next Diller to do it – me – would know.”
“That’s that, then, Dimanche,” said Verity, happily.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
Beyond the summer meadow, Polly Cockle’s kitchen window caught the morning sun, and winked. Dimanche smiled as Polly left her cottage and crossed the meadow, stopping now and then to enjoy the flowers that grew beside the path.
Polly had come to Hilton Hall during the dark days of Valburga Vilemile’s rule, to be Dimanche’s nanny. She had arrived on Dimanche’s third birthday, and until the day that Verity Victorine arrived, and Valburga Vilemile departed, she never left Dimanche’s side. They even took their holidays together, pony trekking in the New Forest, and rock climbing on the beautiful island of Skye. They had been through victory and defeat together, and they were more than ordinary friends.
Polly’s husband, Cosmo Cockle, was the gardener at Hilton Hall. He, too, was a true friend to Dimanche, and often brought her little presents – a bunch of earthy carrots, a yellow pear, and once, a mysterious pupa that Dimanche kept in a jar until the creature within was ready to emerge and fly free. When Polly and Cosmo were married in the church at Hilton in the Hollow, Dimanche was their bridesmaid.
Polly smiled hello to Verity and Dimanche as she came into the kitchen. Dimanche poured her a cup of hot chocolate and passed her the Rockford Record.
“Will you listen to this!” Polly exclaimed, after a moment’s reading.
RAIDERS ROB ROCKFORD
WHILE CITIZENS SLUMBER!
“IT’S CRIMINAL!” SAYS
CHAUNCEY COIN.
Thieves broke in last night and robbed the bank in Rockford Market Square. Valuable old documents have gone astray.
Dimanche and Verity turned suddenly pale.
… “This is the first time in the history of our little bank that we have sustained a loss due to criminal activity,” said distressed Manager Chauncey Coin, fifty-year-old grandfather of seven. “Fire we’ve suffered. Flood too, when the Fenny burst its banks in 1855. But crime? Never!”
“Dimanche! Verity!” Polly cried. “Whatever is the matter?”
Verity phoned the bank at once, and Chauncey Coin confirmed her worst fears.
The Diller Deed was gone.
Barely ten minutes later, Verity, Polly and Dimanche were bumping anxiously along between dusty summer hedges on the Rockford Market bus.
Brother Betony stood on the bridge in Monks Wood and stared down into the peat brown swirls and dimples of the Fenny.
His black robe seemed to drift around him in the early evening air. He leaned his elbows on the wooden railing and rested his pale face on his pale hands.
Upstream he could see the grey stones of the ruined Abbey, half-hidden by green bracken. Downstream, trees and more trees wove a leafy border to the sky. In one of them – it was an ancient yew – someone had carved a heart into the bark around the letters B and B.
A
