Sir John Grenfel, by declaration, bearing date 12 February 1671, in gratitude to God for restoring his son, Henry, gives to the church the sum of £420, for the maintenance of four poor people of the parish, to be nominated by the mayor, aldermen, and common council of Dunmow Parva, or the major part of them. And he directs that said £420 should be put forth at interest at six per cent, the profits thereof to be bestowed upon the said four worthy people annually in perpetuum.
Grenfel? I sat back, stunned. The locket Evelyn Villiers was wearing the night she died had a curl of black hair and the inscription: M. Grenfel, born Mar 5, 1805, died Feb 4, 1853.
Finally I was getting somewhere. I read on.
Sir John, wool merchant of the parish, dwells with his good wife and three daughters in a manor house along the River Stour. Their fourth child, Henry, was born with the affliction common amongst his forbears. The child was restored to health by the grace of God and the prayers of his pious parents. Sir John claims to be a descendant of the green maiden of Suffolk. The truth of this cannot be proved, but the family’s strange physical affliction is well known in the parish.
Strange, indeed! You may wonder as I did, dear reader, if descendants of the family reside today in Dunmow Parva. When the author enquired, he was assured that although the surname Grenfel dropped out of usage in the late nineteenth century, the family has survived and, like their ancestors, still dwell along the River Stour. No one in the village was willing to disclose the names. A future researcher may have more success.
Bells were going off like mad in my head. This was it—the first actual evidence I’d found of the connection between Evelyn Villiers and the green maiden legend. Was she related to the descendants mentioned by Cockrill—or did she believe she was? Was this the significance of the cottage by the river?
I needed to examine that photograph.
The first thing I did was call Lucy Villiers and ask her permission to borrow it.
“Of course,” she said. “I honestly have never heard of anyone named Grenfel. It’s strange mother never mentioned anything about the legend. If you learn something, please let me know.”
Then I dialed Tom.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“DI Mallory.” He sounded tense.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Kate.” I pictured him running his hand through his hair. “I was afraid it was Cliffe with bad news. One of our detective constables was pretty badly injured tonight. He’s in hospital. Cliffe’s with him.”
“Injured on duty?”
“Yes. He may have broken a leg.”
“I hope he’s okay. I’ve called about information I found linking Evelyn Villiers with the Grenfel family.”
I thought I heard a groan. “Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Tom, are you sure there were no Grenfels from Dunmow Parva in Evelyn Villiers’s family line?”
“Not a one. Her family came from Sussex.”
“Okay, but there’s something I need to check out right away—tonight, actually—at Hapthorn Lodge.”
“Tonight? That’s impossible. No one’s available.”
“I can go alone—it will only take a few minutes. In and out.”
“No, Kate. Not at night.”
“What if I get Vivian to go with me? I swear the whole thing won’t take more than five minutes.”
“You won’t be able to get in.”
“Yes, I will. I’ve watched PC Weldon punch in the key code often enough.”
“What’s so important it can’t wait until morning?” As if to underscore his point, a rumble of thunder was followed by a flash and the crack of lightning.
“I may have a clue to Evelyn Villiers’s murder.”
“What clue?”
“Her possible connection with the green maiden.” I scrunched up my face, knowing how that must have sounded.
“Kate.” There was a warning in his voice. “I’m struggling here.”
“Hapthorn Lodge isn’t a crime scene anymore, right?”
“No, but—”
“And I got Lucy’s permission, so I wouldn’t be breaking in.”
Silence.
“Trust me on this, Tom—please. It’s that photograph. All I need to do is get into the house, dash upstairs, and grab it. I’ll call you when I’m back in the car and explain the whole thing.”
Silence.
“Tom?”
“Call me when you arrive. And leave the line open.” This time the groan was unmistakable. “I hope I don’t regret this.”
Thirty minutes later, I was beginning to regret my decision.
Navigating the back roads of Suffolk in the middle of the night isn’t easy. Believe me—there’s nowhere darker at night than the English countryside. On top of that, rain made the roads slick.
Vivian and Fergus were crammed into the passenger’s seat of my Mini Cooper. She’d insisted on bringing the dog along. “Protection,” she said. “Fergus has the heart of a pit bull.”
And the body of a slug.
Vivian was keeping up a steady stream of advice—“Not so close on the left, dear … watch that puddle … a little slower around the corner.” Fergus was panting, steaming up the passenger-side window.
Actually, the whole car was fogging up. I flipped on the defrost and cracked my window, feeling spits of rain on my right cheek.
“We’re having an adventure,” Vivian told Fergus in the voice of a parent calming a child during a tornado watch. I think he believed her. He stopped panting but kept up a low rumble in the back of his throat, half growl, half whimper.
My own sentiments exactly.
At the junction of the unpaved single-track road, the surface—awash with runoff —seemed to disappear.
I was seriously considering turning around, when Vivian said cheerfully. “I believe we’ve arrived. Sure you don’t want us to go in with you?”
“Absolutely not. Stay in the car. I’m going to leave it running.”
We followed the ruined stone wall for about a half mile. As I pulled the car through the open gate, Hapthorn Lodge rose up, shrouded in darkness.
“Looks like Dracula’s castle,” Vivian said, probably intending to sound witty. “No wonder Lucy wants to sell the place.”
The car bumped into a pothole, sending up a spray of muddy water.
Whatever made me think this was a good idea?
I parked at
