Whether there was any truth to the story, I did not know. But if the Nun we searched for was, in fact, a living, breathing woman whose lover had died in ’45, then she must be ancient, certainly the oldest person I had ever met.
Rationally, I doubted the macabre tale. If my uncle had spoken with the Nun, and she lived in a wooden hut next to the abbey ruins, not inside one of the vaults, then the rest of the story was likely either fabricated or embellished, perhaps to keep people away from the unstable ruins after sunset. Or maybe to prevent scavengers from stealing any more of the abbey’s stones for their own building projects.
But standing here in the dark and cold of a winter night, with the howl of the wind and the shifting shadows playing tricks on my eyes and ears, it was far easier to believe the ghoulish tale.
“I think I see something,” Gage said.
I gripped his arm tighter, my fingers pressing deeper into the woolen fabric of his coat. My heart leapt in my chest, pounding against my rib cage, as I tried to locate what he was seeing. When I realized he was only talking about the hut, which I could now glimpse the outline of as he lifted the lantern higher, I exhaled in relief, loosening my grasp on Gage’s arm. I breathed deep the scent of yew and the sharpness of the wind, which burned my lungs, as he pulled me closer.
The hut was built of rough-hewn wood with no windows, and looked to be barely lashed together against the weather. It couldn’t be a comfortable place to live, even sheltered among the trees. Especially if the Nun was as old as she was rumored to be. I frowned. Why wasn’t she better cared for? Where was her family?
Or did she not have need of one? After all, if she were a spirit, I doubt she felt the cold.
I swallowed and glanced over my shoulder as Gage reached up to rap gently on the door.
The pale light of a fire spilled out from beneath it, letting us know someone inhabited the abode. Someone who felt the bite of cold and needed the light by which to see. When there was no answer, he knocked again, but no one came to the door.
“Madam,” he called out hesitantly. “We’re sorry to disturb you. We’re friends of Lord Rutherford.” He paused, but there were no sounds of movement from within. “If we could just have a word with you, we’ll be on our way.” Gage’s plea was greeted with more silence. “Madam?”
“Maybe she’s not here,” I whispered.
He frowned and nodded.
If she only emerged at night, then surely she must run her errands under the cover of darkness as well. But where had she gone? To the village? Or was she much closer?
Gage pivoted us so that we could see the craggy outline of the abbey in the pale moonlight penetrating through a break in the clouds.
My heart began to beat faster again at the thought of entering the ruins, but I knew there was no help for it. They would have to be searched. Given the Nun’s propensities, it was the likeliest place to find her. And, in fact, the place we hoped she’d been three nights past when the grave robbers were at work.
Gage and I did not speak, both knowing what must happen, and that I would insist on joining him, no matter his protestations to the contrary. He merely nodded in resignation, and we set off down a path through the trees.
This time we approached the abbey from the southeast. Gage hesitated at the entrance to the covered stone passageway that led through the eastern wall. It was thick with darkness, and though we could see some moonlight at the other end, there was still a good fifty feet of blackness before us. We turned toward the south, but the ditch that ran southeast to northwest along the southern edge of the abbey blocked us from reaching the other side of the ruins. There was no choice but to pass through the slype or retrace our steps to our carriage and find our way around to the West Door.
“Follow me,” Gage ordered, nudging me behind him. His hand reached inside the pocket of his greatcoat and extracted the pistol I’d grown accustomed to seeing in the back waistband of his trousers.
I followed suit, edging my hand into my reticule to wrap my fingers around the Hewson percussion pistol my brother-in-law, Philip, had purchased for me before I left Edinburgh. After the two spots of danger I’d found myself in during the last two investigations I’d assisted with, I’d vowed never to go anywhere unarmed again. Trevor had not been happy when I asked him to teach me how to use it, but he’d complied, knowing I would have stubbornly tried to teach myself, risking injury in the process.