Raynham was sunny and utterly oblivious to the horrors that sat just outside the village. Nancy drove slowly without direction, her heart lodged somewhere near her throat and threatening to lurch. The car came to a natural stop in the high street as a double-decker bus pulled away in front. Her chest was tight, restricted. She had to decide where to go. They couldn’t sit here all day.
Nancy glanced behind her to see the boys still eating. A pang of guilt stung her at the memory of Lizzie as she’d left. Lizzie knew what evil was there, knew the danger they were in. Bloody hell, Nancy, of course, she does. She’s one of them. Get yourself together. Her head fell into her hands, her elbows on the steering wheel. Tears were forming, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow them to fall. She’d be damned if she would let the Priory break her.
‘Look, there’s Josie.’ Oliver banged his hand on the car window. Josie beamed. ‘Let’s go say hello. Please, Mummy? I like Josie.’
‘Oli, sit still.’
Could she trust Gloria? She had morphed into a terrified mouse perched on the drawing-room settee and had disappeared into the night as if fleeing a crime scene.
Nancy leant over the seat to open the window, keeping her eyes on the twins, her lips a thin line in a look of do not say anything. Gloria and her equally rosy daughter stood by Nancy’s passenger window and waved.
‘Hello there, Nancy.’ Gloria leant in a little and rested her hand on the open window. Josie waved to the boys.
‘Hello…’ she replied, finding nothing else to add.
‘You off to see Mr Beamish? He said you might pop into the village today. I passed him a message to ask you, but, well… you are here now and so am I, so I shall ask you myself. Would you all like to come over for a while? After you’ve seen Mr Beamish, of course. For some tea, or coffee.’ She chuckled, blushing. ‘I thought the children could play for a while. Josie doesn’t get to see many friends outside of school. It’s a lovely day; they could play in the garden.’ Gloria turned to the twins. ‘What do you think?’
Nancy stared at her boys, defying them to speak. They didn’t. Instead, they nodded with equal enthusiasm. Josie jumped on the spot and tugged at her mother’s dress. To refuse now would have been a mistake. Whether Gloria was an ally or foe, what did Nancy have to lose? Apart from her sanity and her twins. Hell, she had forgotten about the solicitor. He was another oddity Nancy wasn’t sure she had the stomach or stamina to confront today.
‘Ah, yes, Mr Beamish.’ Nancy nodded, trying to buy herself some time. ‘I, um…’
‘He said he has something important for you.’ Gloria’s face fell from its joyful mount to Nancy’s level of torment. The memory of the last evening at the Priory had possibly returned.
Gloria’s face tensed as she scanned the small high street and let her eyes rest on the solicitors’ office. Nancy hadn’t realised how close she’d parked. Perhaps it had been subliminal. Beamish, Talbot & Fisk Solicitors was nestled into the row of ancient buildings, its metal sign lightly swinging on its bracket.
Nancy turned back to the boys. ‘As you see, I have the boys, so I’ll just call in quickly to arrange another time.’
There wouldn’t be another day. Nancy Hardacre was planning the moment she’d turn the key and start her Hillman.
‘Oh no, Nancy, you can’t do that. Mr Beamish is expecting you.’
Her eyes weren’t on Nancy but the window across the road. Nancy’s eyes followed, but the black glass only reflected the street. She turned back to Gloria, who nodded, a worried expression on her pale face.
‘Very well.’ Nancy had no choice but to concede. Something in Gloria’s expression made the guilt of running impossible to overcome. She’d make it quick. She could trust the boys to sit quietly for ten minutes, fifteen if they had to. Surely it wouldn’t take too long. Something regarding Andrew and the estate, she imagined.
Oh, the letter.
Nancy dug her hand into the depths of her handbag and pulled the crisp envelope out, its pure whiteness glaring.
‘I do have something for Mr Beamish.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s settled then. Why don’t I take the boys to my cottage to play? I can get the tea ready, and you can come over when you’ve finished. I don’t mind.’
The plea in Gloria’s eyes pulled on every string. This woman had a way of digging into her heart.
‘My cottage is over there.’ She pointed towards a turning just off the high street. ‘I live just there—Lavender End. It’s the thatched cottage with the lavender hedge.’ She smiled. ‘Obviously.’
‘I’m not sure. I can take them with me.’ Nancy regarded the twins, who looked pleadingly at her.
‘Please, Mummy.’ Oliver’s face was more earnest than his brother’s. ‘We’ll be good, we promise.’
‘Fine. Okay.’ You win, she wanted to say.
Nancy pulled the keys from the ignition and closed the door behind her once her boys safely stood on the footpath, holding hands.
‘Don’t worry, Nancy.’ Gloria nodded. ‘They’ll be okay. I’ll look after them.’
There was more to that line than there should have been, a declaration or oath rather than a quick I-will-watch-how-they-play remark. It struck Nancy’s heart with a swift blow and almost bowled her over.
She nodded to Gloria and her boys, who looked far too caught up in the ecstatic dance of seven-year-olds. As it should be, the thought stung. They were just children; they shouldn’t have been party to any of this death, this horror.
You won’t win this war, Hardacre Priory.
‘Are you quite sure of that, Nancy Hardacre?’
Nancy watched them go until they disappeared around the corner at the end of the high street. Her heart was empty, her chest hollow like someone were digging it out with a dull knife. She still stood in the road, her back to the car, and watched the solicitors’ sign sway. Life in this sleepy, rural Suffolk village looked so mundane.
‘You need to do this, Nance.’
‘Fuck off, Andrew.’
‘Why are you so hesitant? You know you have no choice.’
‘Get out of my head. You’re not real; you’re dead. You left me in this god-forsaken hell hole, so fuck the hell off.’
A man with hair the colour of coal and a moustache to match halted mid-step. ‘You all right there?’
Nancy nodded. She pulled her jacket close and swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Fine, thanks.’ She tried to smile—the muscles in her cheeks twitched; evidently, she’d forgotten how.
‘So long as you’re sure.’ He continued down the street but stopped when he got to the pub. He glanced back and went inside.
‘They’ll think you are some crazy woman speaking to yourself if you don’t just go inside. Nance, honestly, love, you have no choice. You must see this through. Haven’t you realised that you can’t run from this?’
She didn’t rise to the voice in her head.
The solicitor’s office was cooler inside and more oppressive than she’d hoped. Deep down, she’d known that it would be. Everything was connected.
‘Ah, Mrs Hardacre.’ Mr Beamish stood in the doorway leading to the back of the building. Light filtered around him. It looked a touch more inviting than the gloom of the front entrance. A young woman sat at a corner desk to the left. Nancy hadn’t noticed her until she moved, causing a little dust to scatter in the air. Nancy jumped.
‘Shall I arrange some refreshments?’ No older than her early twenties, the woman with a mass of peroxide curls and pink lip gloss stood up from a desk and headed towards a door next to Beamish.
‘Thank you, Suzette. That’ll be great. Please, Mrs Hardacre, do come through into my office.’ He stepped aside with a flourish of his arm, and Nancy followed. ‘I’m so pleased you came. There was a niggle of doubt that you might not, I must confess.’
Nancy said nothing until the door closed behind them. The room was welcomingly light.
She exhaled. ‘I almost didn’t.’
‘Well, you are here, and I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.’ He pointed at a leather chair, coaxing her to sit. Then sat in his chair opposite.
Nancy took a moment to gather her surroundings. The room wasn’t large by any means, but it had an air of peace about it. An odd observation, she thought, as it swamped over her like a soft cloud. It almost felt safe. Mr Beamish aired the same quality. It hadn’t seemed that way the evening before when they’d stood in the drawing-room. Perhaps the Priory swallowed such attributes at the door.
Suzette, in a swift blonde haze, arrived with a large tray of refreshments. ‘Will that be all?’ She didn’t wait for a reply and left.
‘Now, before we get down to business, Mrs Hardacre…’
‘Call me Nancy. Mrs Hardacre makes me sound—’ She didn’t finish. How could she say that she hated sharing the name of that damned place? ‘Nancy will be fine.’
‘Very well, Nancy it is.’ He smiled with a warmth that made her heart plunge heavy into her gut; she gulped, trying to hold the tears back. ‘I think you may have something for me, a document? And please, if it suits you, call me Peter.’
‘Yes, I do. Here.’ Nancy lifted the flap on her bag, reached in and placed the white envelope on the desk between them. ‘Estelle—’
The room filled with moths, grey, dusty, and erratic. Nancy covered her face, closed her eyes as her hands shooed them away from her ears. They flapped their filthy wings around her head and caught in her hair. They wanted in. They were trying to break into her head. She wouldn’t let them.
‘Are you quite well, Nancy? Whatever is it?’ Peter asked as he stood quickly.
How could she tell him? She had to contain herself. The moths were in her imagination, even if they felt real, even if she felt their wings on her skin. It was Estelle—Nancy knew what she’d seen. She understood the absurdity of it, how ridiculous it would sound if she explained it to the solicitor or anyone.
Slowly, Nancy lowered her hands and opened her eyes to find the room as it had been. The solicitor observed her, his hands clasped in front of him.
‘You poor, dear woman.’ He handed her a box of tissues. ‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’
‘No.’ Nancy took a tissue and pressed it to her eyes. There were tears. There was a pained sound, too, which came from her chest. ‘Oh, forgive me. I’m so sorry, Mr Beamish. I don’t know what’s come over me.’
He sat back down, his clutched hands on the desk.
‘I feel it’s I who should apologise,’ he began, then waited for her to settle herself. ‘I fully understand what you’ve been through of late, what the whole family has had to endure.’ He eased back in his chair a little to allow his arms to stretch, though his hands remained on the desk, his fingers pressed together. ‘They are just boys, after all. It’s a great travesty to lose a parent at such a young age.’
Nancy hated the scrutiny. He was watching her. A question on his face hovered between them.
‘Mr B— Peter. I wonder…’ She held her breath a moment until it stung. ‘Can I trust you?’
He looked admonished but smiled, nevertheless. ‘I fear there’s more to that question. Am I correct?’
Nancy nodded. Her hand went to her hair, her eyes scanning the room again.
‘You are safe here, Nancy.’ He leant forwards and poured them coffee from the pot. ‘Maybe this will help.’
The small office lay in silence except for the sound of cups and saucers and the gentle slosh of coffee against china. Nancy swept her hand around her head. Every so often, the sound of moth wings thrashed madly at her ear. Peter watched.
‘Can I be candid with you?’ he asked as he sipped his coffee. ‘I’m not one for riddles, tales that leave nothing but an enigma to solve. I’ve found that most situations call for frankness. Looking at you, I wonder if honesty would serve us both today.’
His words broke the theatre of moths and snapped her out of their spell.
‘I would appreciate that,’ she breathed, trying to steady her voice. ‘I’ve found nothing but the contrary since I arrived in the village.’
‘I imagined it was so.’ Peter lay his cup and saucer back down and steepled his fingers at his mouth. ‘There are some who would respond with disbelief at what we both know to be the truth of Hardacre Priory.’ He blinked slowly. His face mellowed even more, taking on an expression of such calmness it slowed Nancy’s erratic heart. ‘I think we both understand the matter, don’t we?’
‘The truth? What I’ve seen and felt doesn’t fit the word truth. To be honest, Peter, that’s a word that sits at odds with what I’ve seen today alone.’ Nancy shuddered.
‘These things you’ve seen—have they seemed real to you?’
Nancy bobbed her head. ‘They have.’ Her hand shook as she struggled to grip her cup.
‘And if I asked you to tell me of these things, would you tell me the truth?’
It felt a little too cryptic, everything they’d agreed they didn’t want.
‘Peter…’
‘Forgive me. What I’m trying to gauge is… No, let me try to rephrase it. What I need to know is this: are you fully open to speaking the truth? Can we agree that only truth will be spoken here?’ He spread his hands around the room. ‘This office is a safe place, a sacred place, certainly to me. The truth can be spoken without the fear of mockery or…’
‘I understand, and I’m grateful. It’s not that I’m afraid to speak the truth or that you might not believe me—to be honest after today, thought crazy is the least of my worries.’ Her jaw ached, but she couldn’t shift the tension that made her teeth grind, and her hands shake.
‘Then what is it that concerns you? I want to help.’
Nancy laughed. The thought that this man in his navy pinstriped suit and matching floral tie could help was farcical.
‘I worry that it would be time pointlessly spent.’ Nancy shook her head. ‘You can’t help me.’
‘I see,’ he replied slowly, all the while looking directly at her.
Mr Beamish poured more coffee into his cup. He offered sugar and milk while Nancy watched the vein in his temple pulse. She was wasting time. The morning was ticking by, but she had no idea what time it was; she’d forgotten her wristwatch, it still lay on the table in her bedroom. Nancy shivered, scanning the room for a clock, but there was little besides a desk, a wall of cupboards—nothing else.
Apart from one thing.
On the far wall behind Mr Beamish, where the wall was painted white, hung a small picture. No, not a picture—a carving. It looked familiar. She began to drift back to the Priory.
‘Nancy?’
She jumped at her name. ‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering if I could give you a little history, take you back to the beginning as much as we know it.’
‘Family history?’
‘In a way, yes, and again no. More the history of the Priory before the family. Before the Hardacres set foot through its doors.’
‘When it was just a Priory?’ Nancy sat forwards, trying to retake her cup, it clunked on its sauce, and she gave up. ‘Do you mind?’ She stood and walked around the desk to the other end of the room. ‘I’ve seen this before.’
‘I believe you may have. It has a twin,’ Peter replied.
‘A carving much the same hangs in the drawing-room, doesn’t it?’ Nancy’s voice was low, her words slow as she studied it. ‘So, you know what this is?’
‘Of course. It’s a carving of the seal matrix.’
‘Like a crest or coat of arms?’
‘In essence, my dear.’ Peter stood beside her. He traced the carved image of a seated Mary, her son Jesus Christ in her arms. ‘In a way, the story starts here. This is the seal—the crest of St Augustine—for the Priory as it once was.’
‘Before the dissolution of the monasteries,’ Nancy added.
‘Quite so, my dear, quite so. It was once a place of faith where only goodness lived.’
‘No bloody goodness there now…’ Nancy nodded more to herself than to her companion. ‘What happened there?’ she asked as she turned to face him. ‘Monasteries, abbeys, priories all over the country suffered the same fate. I know the history, Peter. So why is that place any different from others?’
‘Some evil spans beyond time or reason. What lies beneath the earth of those grounds is evil at its purest.’
‘The devil himself…’ Nancy laughed and felt the shadowy limbs around her shoulders as they had been that morning. She closed her eyes, willing the sensation to vanish, but Andrew lingered.
‘It may feel that God has forsaken Hardacre Priory,’ Peter said softly.
‘Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand. To be honest, I don’t go in for all that stuff. God and the Devil, heaven and hell.’
‘Ah, no, my dear. We’re not talking about the devil. He himself was once an angel— fallen, yes, but of heaven. This is nothing of heaven and hell.’
‘I’m not religious, Peter.’ Nancy crossed her arms. ‘If you are about to tell me how that hell has risen, or quote verses from the bible… Well, as I say, I’m not religious. I don’t believe in any of it. Forgive me, but I find it all nonsense.’ Nancy gulped down a choking lump. No, she wasn’t religious. So why was the darkness of hell in the pit of her stomach, whispering inside her head, touching her skin, plaguing her thoughts. She shuddered.
‘As I said…’ Peter paused. ‘This doesn’t have its origins within the pages of the bible. It’s something ancient that walks those halls.’
Nancy concentrated on the carving. ‘Do you mind?’ She raised her hand, the tip of her forefinger inches away.
Peter nodded and gave a satisfied sigh. ‘If the need is there, then you must.’
Nancy took a tiny step closer. A bright sunbeam struck her cheek as she did. Bringing her nose in touching distance to Mary, she closed her eyes and pressed her hand to the wood. It warmed beneath her palm as a wave of something potent, something tangible, washed over her. Nancy pulled her hand away and stepped back from the carving.
‘I’ve never been to church. Would you believe that?’ She laughed. ‘What I mean is, I’ve only been to weddings and funerals…’ Andrew was there again. ‘My Sundays are for ironing, not praying.’ Her laugh turned to tears. She didn’t know why she was crying; she didn’t have faith. She certainly didn’t have faith in anything good at the Priory. She blinked away her tears and took a deep breath. ‘My only relationship with God is in my vocabulary—for God’s sake…’ she laughed again.
Peter nodded, smiled, and took her elbow. He guided Nancy back to her chair. ‘I have always seen the matter of faith in another way. I feel it as a matter between the individual and God.’ He sat, his hands laid out between them and his palms open. ‘Do you believe?’
Nancy stared at Peter’s hands. He really was an odd man, but not in the way she had imagined. He possessed a quality that demanded attention though she didn’t understand why.
‘Do I believe in God? I have already said I don’t.’
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Then, let me rephrase it. Do you have faith?’ He lifted his palms a little higher, so the light touched his fingertips. ‘Look at my hands. They are open, but what do you see?’
Nancy shuffled in her seat. She carefully eyed the solicitor, then looked at his palms. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say. They are empty.’
‘Physically, yes. I hold nothing solid in my palms, but are my hands empty?’
She shook her head, her eyes narrowed.
‘They hold faith, Nancy. I hold it in my hands and my heart. You felt it.’
‘Did I?’ She felt a stab of annoyance.
‘I think so. You may not think it is faith in God,’ he added.
Nancy smoothed her hands over her legs, noting mud smears on her thighs, and was flooded by a thought that her time was swiftly running out. ‘Then what is faith if not in God,’ she stated, crossing her arms.
‘In something other than evil. Faith that something bad can be defeated by goodness.’ Peter looked around the room. ‘I feel it here even though we’re not in a church, just in my office that has nothing sacred about it. There is no altar, stained glass or steeple.’ His eyes fixed on hers. ‘Now, do you understand?’
She nodded, thinking, then she unfolded her arms and stared down at her hands. ‘I’m not sure if God believes in me.’ It was a strange thing to say; she had no idea why she had. Had she been thinking it?
‘I believe that answers your question.’ Peter threw his arm towards the carving of Mary. ‘A mother will do all she can to protect her son… or sons. I feel that God sits by your side, Nancy. But…’
‘…evil stands on the other?’ she said sarcastically.
‘I know the truth, as do you. There’s no doubt that evil resides at Hardacre Priory. One that sits at its foundations that runs through every acre of land. This is why I asked you here today.’ Peter eased forward toward her, marking every line of scepticism on her face. ‘It must end. It has lain there unchallenged for far too long…’ he hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t gone unchallenged. We’ve never found the one who can face it head-on.’
‘Me?’ she snapped incredulously.
‘You are special, Nancy. It’s time. It has challenged you, hasn’t it? You have seen what it can do. I know you have.’
She laughed. It had done more than challenge her. She bit back the tears and balled her fists in her lap.
Peter stood and gave her a quick nod. ‘I have something for you.’
He headed to one of the cupboards along the wall. He reached inside, almost lost from view, and reappeared holding a black bag. He placed it on the desk and pulled out a small leather object.
Nancy frowned at it, then back up to the carving.
‘I’m not sure how much time we have.’ He held the object in both hands, following her eyes to the carving. ‘This once belonged to the Priory. It’s an item of the greatest importance—I must stress that.’
‘Then why give it to me? Why doesn’t Estelle have it?’
‘It’s too late for Lady Hardacre.’ His face was matter-of-fact. ‘I shall not mince my words: Lady Hardacre has been dead many, many years.’
Deep down in the pit of her stomach, Nancy knew it was true. She’d seen it. But to hear it spoken by someone who had been in their company the evening before, how could she respond? Her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to swallow nausea, but it sat a choking lump in her throat.
‘I saw her. I mean, I have seen her like… that. Today.’ She buried her face in her palms. ‘We’ve never been friends, I’m sure she would agree, but…’
‘It has begun.’ Peter closed his fingers. Tight fists rested on the desk. ‘All who reside in Hardacre Priory are long gone, my dear, long gone, some much longer than others.’
‘My boys?’ Nancy whispered, her hand on her chest. ‘I need to get my boys.’
‘They are safe; none there will hurt them. Estelle loves them dearly.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. They’re not there. They are with Gloria.’ Panic skittered down her arms. The sensation of those terrible moth wings played again on her skin.
‘I must go. We must leave.’ Nancy went to stand.
Peter reached his hand out to her, resting it on the desk between them. ‘You must get your boys and return to the Priory. They need to be there with you.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. It wants my boys, whatever it is.’
‘Only you can defeat this, Nancy, but you must stand together.’
‘What the hell can I do? It wants me dead.’
‘That’s precisely why you are the one, don’t you see?’
‘I never wanted any of it. I don’t want any of it now. I just want to take my boys and leave this bloody village behind.’
Nancy stood and gathered her bag.
‘Please, Nancy. It has to be you.’
‘I’m not even a damned Hardacre. Not really.’
‘That’s why you might just succeed.’ Peter held out the leather object, eager for her to take it. ‘Please?’
‘No, I won’t.’ She had her hand on the door handle.
‘Please, for the sake of your boys?’
Against all instincts, she took the object. It lay in her hands—a small thing, really—wrapped and bound in an ancient piece of leather with a wax seal like the carving. ‘No,’ Nancy declared and shoved it back into Peter’s hand, though her eyes were on Mary and her tiny son. Nancy felt all that love—a mother’s love for her children.
She would die for her boys.