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In the springtime, the work of restoration and purification began at Northanger, and it was a happier time than Catherine had expected. Henry was occupied all day long, with builders and farms, tenants and cottagers. Visiting churchmen came to confer about the re-sanctification of the church, and the county people paid visits of inspection, or at least, curiosity.
Henry would not neglect Catherine for business, however, and leaving the baby with Sarah and the servants, they would walk together every fine morning, enjoying the snowdrops and the bluebell woods, and spying the first crocuses, while they exchanged news and discussed the work that was going on and was of such vital importance to their lives.
This peaceful time was interrupted, however, by a jolting discovery that amounted to a recurrence of the disturbing and dark times now considered to have been consigned to the past history of Northanger Abbey. Workmen clearing out the labyrinth of underground and cellar passages in the oldest part of the building, came across two skeletons, of a man and a woman, neither of them very long deceased. In the ensuing hubbub, Dr. Lyford and Mr. Carter were summoned, as they were growing to expect to be at all tragic events at Northanger; and the local magistrate and his subordinates were hard on their heels.
Catherine was not left long in suspense about these discoveries. After Henry was closeted with the workmen and visitors for an afternoon, he went to find his wife, who had considerately gone to her chamber with the baby, so as to be well out of the way of whatever was befalling Northanger now.
“Catherine, you have seen all the comings and goings today, and I must tell you what it is about. They have found the body of that Frenchman.”
She looked up, startled. “No! But how can that be, Henry? We thought he was long gone, away from here.”
“That is what Frederick thought, I know, but it was not so. Evidently he doubled back in some way and returned to Northanger in stealth. Then he met with some accident in the cellars – no one is sure yet what happened exactly.”
“How horrible!” She thought a moment. “There is no information, I suppose, no evidence, that he really did murder your – General Tilney?”
“No, and I don’t know if such proof will ever be found. All that is certain is that the man did return, and somehow died in the underground passage.”
“I never knew about that passage. Was it made by the monks?”
“Yes, it is very ancient, and is walled up, so there is no easy access. We have no way of knowing, and probably never will have, whether M. Blaine came back in search of Harriette, as she thought, or for some French spy secrets, as I suspect. Whatever the case, he must have blundered into the underground entrance, and fallen into it only to his own peril and ruin.”
Catherine shuddered. “To think he was here, after the General died, and when Frederick was master of the house. Do you think Frederick knew?”
Henry shrugged. “Who can tell? My brother kept his own counsel. You never knew what his motives were.” He stopped. “Not to speak ill, but think how oddly he behaved after my father’s death, how he tore all over the countryside hunting for this man, when there was no reason to think he could ever be found. But I now perceive that Frederick seemed halfway demented in those days, and did all manner of odd things. I remember in those few days he was at home in between his two hunting excursions for the Frenchman, he gave some very strange orders.”
“Did he? Of what sort?”
“Oh, he railed against my father’s extravagance, and sacked a good many people – the head gardener and some of his men, several coachmen, and a host of what he called supernumerary kitchen servants, mostly women. It was a shame, but there was no arguing with him, and I still don’t know what has become of all those people. I should have made inquiries long before this; it was very remiss of me. Some of the servants may have been in distress, and in need of help. And they are our own village people, from time out of mind.”
“Do not fault yourself, Henry, you had so much to think of during those terrible months.”
“That is no excuse. I should have given proper thought. But, Catherine,” he hesitated. “There is more than that.”
“More than finding the French visitor who may have been responsible for your father’s death? What on earth can you mean, Henry? Really you make me think of my first visit to Northanger, when you regaled me about the housekeeper Dorothy, and all that would menace me, and I believed every word!”
“It is no joke now, dear Catherine, I am afraid. I must tell you that they have found a second body.”
“Not really!” Catherine sank back in her seat, her hand at her heart. “But who – what can it be?”
“That question cannot yet be answered, but we do know that the body is that of a woman.”
Their eyes met, and Catherine’s were dilated in horror. “A woman! The Frenchman had an accomplice, then? A partner perhaps? Another girl like Harriette?”
“No, I gather not. The workmen reported that she was an old woman, very pale as if she had not seen sunlight in many years, and she was all dressed in grey. She must have been your Grey Lady.”
“She was killed in the accident?”
“I do not believe so. She was in another part of the corridor, a chamber where apparently she lived; and horrifyingly enough, it seems as if she must have perished for want of, of food, or water.”
His voice sank, and he buried his head in his hands.
“My Grey Lady,” said Catherine wonderingly. “Do you mean to say that she was – walled up in that place?”
“I fear so. Oh, Catherine, I thought we could purify this house, start again, begin a happier story here; but there seems no end to the true horrors of Northanger, does there? It seems an hopeless task.”
“You, a clergyman, a Man of God, of all people, must never give up making the world better, and I will help,” she reminded him, with spirit.
He took her hand and smiled at her. “My Catherine, how good you are, how always right. I used to think myself so clever, but I do perceive that you are the one of us with the very best sort of sense, and that is wisdom.”
“I am not wise enough,” she said humbly, “and you have been affected far more than I have by the tragedies here, as Northanger was your home. What we must do, I think, is to face things squarely, and together.”
“That is right. Come, Catherine, I will keep nothing hidden. We will go together to see what more may have been discovered, or conjectured, if any thing.”
The young Tilneys were calm as they entered the drawing-room together, where those in authority were finishing their discussion with the workmen.
“Ah, here you are, Tilney,” said the agent, Claiborne, whose usually genial expression was more sober than Henry had ever yet seen. “I am afraid you must be informed about a fresh revelation, and very sad it is. Who can best tell him?” He looked around the room, but all were silent.
“Tell me what?” asked Henry. “Do not wait, Claiborne, out with it. What have you found now?”
The agent looked at the doctor. “You have known the family longest, Lyford,” was all he said.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr. Tilney, it grieves me to tell you this. But one of the workmen – an older man, who has worked on the estate for many years – has said that he believes he knows who was the woman found in the tunnels.”
“Well? And who was she?”
“We very much fear, Mr. Tilney, that she was your mother.”