Senior Sisters were for the higher order only, and the rest of the Nuns were totally unaware of what went on behind the giant oaken doors.
Within hours, only the sound of scrabbling mice could be heard in the corridors of the ancient convent as the occupants rested during the meagre six hours before first bell would ring again. Outside the fruit bushes in the walled vegetable gardens, so carefully tendered by Maximillian the gardener, swayed in unison with the mulberry trees of the Sister’s private cemetery. Bats flitted between the belfry and the crags of a nearby cliff face, chasing the myriads of insects rising from the surrounding woodlands. Like most nights, the nearby crags protected the ancient convent from the worst of the weather and apart from the usual sounds of the local wildlife, the night was very quiet, as could be expected in the isolated outpost of solitude.
But tonight was different. Tonight there was a different sound disturbing the darkness. Regular intakes of breath from an animal bigger than the usual deer or badger that roamed the surrounding woodland were interrupted by the occasional snap of dried twigs, both betraying the alien sound of carefully placed human footsteps drawing closer to the walls of the convent of the blessed virgin.
Mother Superior Theresa made her way slowly through the passages, her ageing bones aching in the damp and cold passages. As usual she had managed a few hours sleep but it was all she needed these days. She knew that her allotted span on this earth was coming to an end, and truth be told, when the time came she would welcome it with open arms. Every cell of her being was tired and she longed for the eternal sleep that beckoned enticingly in the not too distant future. But first she had to ensure the secrets of the convent were in safe hands. The appointment of her successor would be straightforward enough as any of the six Senior Sisters could step up to the role. The problem was, whoever was given the ultimate post would leave a vacancy in the ranks of the Senior Sisters and she wasn’t sure who, if any of the normal Sisters were ready to take the huge step up that the role of Senior Sister demanded. Every candidate had been discussed in depth on many occasions and the time was approaching when the final vote would be made and it was at that time that the order was in the most danger, for if the nominated candidate shied away from her responsibilities, the very order itself would be at risk of collapsing. Mother Superior Theresa had overseen the appointment of all six Senior Sisters in her time as head of the order, and all had gone without a hitch. In fact there had been no refusal recorded for over three hundred years. However the senior order were all growing old and it was possible that there would need to be several more elections in the very near future.
Suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks, sure she had heard something in the darkness. This normally would not be unusual in this old creaking place, but this was different. It sounded like a cough, a man’s cough!
‘Maximillian,’ she called, ‘Is that you?’ She knew the gardener should be in his cottage in the grounds at this time of the morning, but who else could it be?
‘Maximillian?’ she said again, ‘It’s awful late. Is there a problem?’
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
‘No problem, Sister,’ said an unfamiliar voice, and before she could react the figure lashed out and knocked the old lady to the floor, sending her into a world of darkness.
India and Brandon walked down a small street running through the village India had mentioned in Rome. They had arrived back a day earlier on a flight from Italy and Brandon had allowed them a few hours rest in a motel to catch up on the lost sleep. It seemed to India that she had slept only a few minutes before he was knocking on her door. After a quick shower they had driven from London towards Maidenhead, finally parking their hire car in a lay-by before walking into the village of Littlewick Green. The shops were closed as it was a Sunday so they made their way to the village pub.
‘When we get there say nothing about the missing girl,’ said Brandon.
‘Why not?’ asked India, ‘These people probably know nothing anyway. All we want is some guidance.’
‘It’s still classified, and besides, don’t forget the dead Greek’s brother is still at large and if he is on the same trail as us, he probably came this way. The last thing we want to do is raise the interest of any newspapers. Don’t forget there is still a child’s life at risk here.’
‘Haven’t they made any headway with that?’ asked India.
‘Nothing!’ said Brandon. ‘I checked in this morning. She seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth. We have the only lead it seems though how it links with the Palladium, I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps whoever has abducted her hopes to hold her to ransom, with the artefact as payment.’
‘Possible,’ he said ‘But unlikely. The best thing we can do is continue with our investigations. There are enough other people looking for the girl, anyway, here we are.’
They walked into the typical English country pub and approached the bar.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the landlord.
‘Good afternoon,’ answered Brandon. ‘Pint of smooth please and…’ He looked at India quizzically.
‘Oh, Coke,’ please,’ she said, before adding, ‘Are you still serving hot food?’
‘We are,’ said the landlord, ‘Sunday lunch, Beef, Pork or Chicken,?5.99’
‘I’ll have Beef, please,’ said India.
‘And you sir?’ asked the barman.
‘I’ll have the same, cheers.’
‘No problem,’ said the barman, ‘You sit yourselves down and I’ll bring them over as soon as their ready.’
They made their way over to a window seat, sipping their drinks while taking in the scene around them. The bar was a cliche of an English pub. Large fire place, leaded windows and low beams exuded character while polished brass platters and horseshoes covered most of the available dark oak panels.
‘Nice place,’ said Brandon, ‘Anyway, why don’t you remind me what makes you think the trail leads here.’
‘Like I said,’ said India, ‘One of my main sources when researching any historical story or artefact is local rumour. A while ago, I was dating a music student who was studying Ivor Novello, a famous Welsh composer who made his home in this village.’
‘What has Ivor Novello got to do with this?’
‘Nothing, but while I was with the musician, we came here for a weekend. We came to this pub one night and got talking to locals. After a few drinks the conversation turned to the village’s history and one of the strongest stories was the tale of the white lady.’
‘Explain?’
‘A ghost!’ said India, ‘Said to have walked the village for thousands of years.’
‘Bullshit!’ said Brandon.
‘That may be so,’ said India, ‘But the fact is, it is deeply embedded part of this village’s memories, and, in my experience, in these old parish villages where old wives tales and folklore comes into play, there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘And where’s the link?’ asked Brandon.
‘Well, though I didn’t take much notice at the time, the one thing I do recall is that they reckon she is the ghost of a Vestal Virgin. It seemed a bit strange at the time but I thought no more about it. It was only when that Italian guy mentioned the possibility of there being a Vestal Temple in England it came back to me.’
‘What came back to you?’
‘There is a round Temple on a hill a few miles from here and archaeologists believe it is a Vestal Temple from the first century AD.’
‘But what makes you think this is linked to the Palladium?’ he asked.
‘Think about it,’ she said, ‘We traced the palladium to Rome and the care of the Vestals in 64 AD. At about that time, it disappeared and was last seen in the care of Rubria, the Priestess who was raped by Nero. She had the wealth, the education and the reason to flee Rome, and if she was as dedicated as all the other Vestals, would have tried to save whatever artefacts she could from the fire.’
‘Coincidence!’ said Brandon, she could have gone anywhere.
‘She could have,’ agreed India, ‘But consider everything else we know. Fact one, scholars believe the
