“What’ll it be, luv?” asked a bored-looking bartender. The middle-of-the-day crowd included a couple in the corner and two men sitting at the bar.
“Club soda with lime.”
He brought my drink and parked himself on the other side of the bar. “What brings you to The Green Maiden?”
“The legend.”
“Oh.” He nodded his head, the glazed look returning. “Gift shop’s over there. I can open up if you like.”
“I’m not interested in souvenirs. The lithographs are interesting.”
“Pub owner had them framed sometime in the seventies.”
“What do the words on the beams say?”
“You’re asking me, luv?” He hooted. “I can barely read modern English. Local chap painted them around the same time. Needs a touch-up.”
“Do you know anyone in the area named Grenfel?”
He shook his head. “Might check the churchyard.”
I took my drink to a table and peered up at the words painted on the beams. I’d taken a course in the Anglo-Saxon language once. A few of the words rang a bell. Wræcca—wanderer? foreigner? Godes þancus—that one I knew; it meant “God be thanked.” Eallgrêne—could that mean green? I stared at the ceiling, my eyes squinting as I tried to make out the lettering. My neck was getting sore.
I was about to give up, when two words leapt out at me.
Wægn belæwung.
Wagon bell? I did remember the æ sound, called the ash, was pronounced like the a in apple. Unfortunately, I had no idea what the words meant in modern English.
“Is there anyone around here who can translate?” I asked the bartender.
“Not any more, luv. Sorry.”
Standing, I pulled out my mini Maglite and focused on the beam. A sentence took shape:
Wægn bel-æwung cópenere brand-hǽrm min sefa.
I copied the words in my notebook. The only word I recognized was min. That meant my—something, something my something. Crap—I should have paid more attention.
Maybe Ivor could translate Old English. Why not? He could read Mandarin Chinese and Egyptian hieroglyphs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew how to communicate with whales and turn straw into gold.
Things were looking up. A pattern was emerging, and it was all about the green maiden: One, the Myths & Legends book in Evelyn Villiers’s bedside table, with the underlining and marginal comments suggesting the green maiden was murdered.
Two, her comment to Mrs. Wright, the housekeeper—“One day they’ll get it right.”
Now three, the words she’d spoken (and denied)—wagon bell—actually stenciled on a beam in The Green Maiden pub in Dunmow Parva.
Three legs of a stool. My mother always said that about research—two is a coincidence; three is a pattern. But how did this last bit of information fit with the other evidence?
I couldn’t wait to talk to Ivor.
First, though, I had dinner with Liz Mallory to deal with, and if the past was any indication, that would take all the patience and courage I could muster.
I downed my club soda, thanked the bartender, and dashed out to the car. No time now to check the churchyard for dead Grenfels. I had to get home and change clothes. I felt like wearing black.
Could I put the past aside for Tom’s sake?
I heard my mother’s voice: “Of course you can, Kate.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Mallorys’ house stood on the edge of Saxby St. Clare, set back from the road about a hundred yards. The wooden gate was latched. Reluctant to go further without Tom, I parked my car on the street and checked my phone for a message. There wasn’t one. He was probably driving.
Lowering the car window, I leaned back against the head rest and breathed in the mild evening air. Liz Mallory was not going to push my buttons again. She had no power over me that I didn’t give her, and I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. I’d keep my cool no matter what she said or did. What was the term? Noncomplementary behavior. I’d break the cycle by not reacting as she expected.
Five minutes later Tom pulled his silver Volvo into the drive. Stopping the car, he got out to open the wooden gate. I hurried to meet him.
“Kate,” he said, gathering me in his arms. He took a deep breath, and I felt him relax against me. “What did you get up to today?”
“I may have cracked the mystery of wagon bell—or at least made a start.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain everything later. Let’s get inside before your mother wonders what we’re doing out here.”
“You ready?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” I tried to sound brave and cheerful.
He bent down to look me in the face. “Remember, whatever happens, I love you and I’m on your side.”
“I know. Shall I follow you in?”
“No—leave your car where it is.”
He pulled back the gate, and we drove in his car toward the entrance to the Grade Three–listed flint-and-chalk farmhouse that Tom and his wife, Sarah, had renovated.
“Does your house have a name?” I asked. Just about every house in England had a name, it seemed to me—from stately homes like Finchley Hall to the humble River’s Edge Cottage in Dunmow Parva.
“Some people still refer to it as Scoggins’ Farm after the family that lived here before the Second World War. The land was sold off long before we bought the house.”
I smiled at him. “You were happy here, weren’t you—you and Sarah?”
“We were.” He pulled into a parking area near the side of the house. A blue BMW was parked near the walk. “Looks like we have company.”
Liz Mallory opened the door. “Tom. Kate, darling. Welcome.” She was wearing slim white jeans with a chic black leather jacket—flattering with her trim frame and thick silver hair.
I was feeling less than chic in a plain beige sleeveless dress I’d worn in an attempt to convince myself I wasn’t trying to impress her. I know,
