‘I’m a historian; it fills me with morbid delight.’ David chuckled contentedly. ‘History is a moving staircase. Characters step onto the bottom, rise slowly. They get to the top, they descend. Occasionally something goes wrong and they fall off or get a foot trapped. They face forwards, looking up at the heights or they face backwards, looking down.’ He smiled, pleased with his metaphor. ‘In the end it makes no difference. One disappears, one leaves no trace and already another queue of figures crowds behind one all rising and falling in just the same way.’
‘Chateau-bottled philosophy.’ Luke topped up Joss’s glass as she reappeared. She had combed her hair and removed from her cheek the imprint of Tom’s gravy-covered fingers. ‘This has been a house of substance for hundreds of years, my love. You should be very proud to be its chatelaine.’
‘I am.’ Switching on the baby alarm which stood on the dresser, Joss sat down contentedly. ‘I’ll take you over to the church later, David. It’s very beautiful. They were doing the Christmas decorations and flowers earlier.’ She smiled. ‘Janet said I would be let off helping this year, as we’ve only just arrived.’
‘Imagine!’ Luke shook his head in wonder. ‘Joss, do you remember the old joke about the flower ladies hanging in the porch? Another few weeks and you’ll be a pillar of the church.’
David was scrutinising Joss’s face. She had lost a lot of weight since he had seen her last; there were dark rings under her eyes and in spite of the laughter he sensed a tenseness about her which worried him. It was two hours before he had the chance to talk to her alone, when she put Tom in his buggy and they pushed him across the drive and down the narrow overgrown path towards the churchyard gate.
‘That’s my father’s grave.’ She pointed down at the headstone.
‘Poor Joss.’ David pushed his hands deep into his pockets against the cold. ‘It must have been disappointing to find neither he nor your mother were still alive.’
‘To put it mildly.’ She pushed Tom on a few feet and stopped as the little boy pointed at a robin which had alighted on a headstone only a few feet from them. ‘Did you find out anything else about the name?’
‘Belheddon.’ He chewed his lip. ‘The name goes back a very long way. Multitudes of spellings, of course, like most old English place names, but basically the same in the Domesday Book. That takes you back to about 1087. How far did you want me to go?’ He grinned at her, blowing out a cloud of condensed air to make Tom laugh.
‘You mentioned Celtic. Iron Age? Bronze Age?’
‘That was guesswork, Joss, and I’m afraid I haven’t made any more progress on the definitions. There was a possibility of it coming from belwe which means bellow in middle English. Heddon does seem most likely to mean heather hill. Perhaps they grazed noisy cattle up here once! But we’re really talking archaeology here. There are recognised sites around here – I noticed in one of the county histories that there are several very close to the house – but who knows when it comes to names? I don’t know yet if there is anything Roman.’
‘Why would the devil live here, David?’
She had her back to him, watching the robin. He frowned. There was a strange tone to her voice – a forced jocularity.
‘I very much doubt if he does.’ She turned and he met her eye. ‘What is frightening you, Joss?’
She shrugged, fussing with Tom’s harness. The little boy had started to whine. ‘I don’t know. I’m usually quite sane. And I adore the house. It’s just that somehow, something is not right here.’
‘But not the devil.’ It was his most schoolmasterly tone, stern with just a hint of mocking reproach.
‘No. No, of course not.’ Comforting the child, she sounded far from sure.
‘Joss. If the devil chose anywhere to live on Earth, I doubt that, even as his country residence, he would choose Belheddon.’ He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing deeply. ‘For one thing it’s far too cold.’
She laughed. ‘And I’m keeping you hanging around. Let’s go into the church.’
The iron latch was icy, even through her gloves. Turning the ring handle with an effort she humped the buggy through the doors and down into the shadowy aisle.
‘It’s a lovely old church.’ David stared round him.
She nodded. ‘I’ve even been to one or two services. I’ve always loved evensong.’ She led the way towards the far wall. ‘Look, there are several memorials and brass plaques to people from the Hall. None with the same names, though. It’s as if a dozen families have lived here. It’s so frustrating. I don’t know who, if any, are my relations.’ She stood staring up at a worn stone memorial by the pulpit. ‘Look. Sarah, beloved wife of William Percival, late of Belheddon Hall, died the 4th day of December, 1884. Then, much later, there was Lydia Manners, my grandmother, then my parents’ name was Duncan. All different families.’
‘Have you found the family Bible?’ He had wandered up into the chancel. ‘Ah, here are some De Veres. 1456 and 1453, both of Belheddon Hall. Perhaps they were your ancestors too.’
Joss pushed the buggy after him. ‘I hadn’t thought to look for a Bible. What a good idea!’
‘Well if there is one and it is sufficiently huge you ought to be able to find it quite easily. I’ll help you look when we get back to the house. But Joss –’ he put his arm round her gravely, ‘I very much doubt if you are descended from the devil!’
‘It would be an interesting thought, wouldn’t it.’ She stood in front of the altar rail and stared up at the stained-glass window. ‘I suspect if I was there would have been a smell of scorching by now, if not whirling winds and screaming demons flocking round my head.’
Katherine