Suddenly, her eye alighted on something, an iron ring fixed to the wall. The iron plate behind it was wrought in the shape of a mask, like some gruesome relic of Carnevale. It looked like a throwback to pagan times, like some wicked creature out of myth, its hair wrought into the rays of a burning sun, the empty holes for its eyes staring in sightless menace.
“What is that?” she demanded, moving closer to it in the flickering shadows.
“A sanctuary ring. This was the Galilee when the Abbey was still a church, a sort of vestibule where the faithful would gather before the mass. We are just below the bell tower here. It was consecrated ground, and the ring was put there for the use of felons who might claim sanctuary from the law. The bell rang out whenever the right of sanctuary was invoked.”
She touched it lightly, then turned to me. “What became of them? They stayed here? Forever?”
I thrust the last sprig of heather into the bucket, snapping it in two as I did so. Lucy did not seem to notice. Hastily I shoved it behind the others.
“No. A felon being pursued by the law could, if he reached that ring, claim sanctuary for forty days. At the end of that time, he had to turn himself over to the authorities for trial or confess his guilt and be sent into exile.”
Lucy turned back to the ring. “Astonishing. And people actually did that here?”
“Naturally,” I said. “Murderers, thieves, heretics, they all came here and clung to that ring, invoking the right of sanctuary.” Lucy showed no inclination to leave, but from far away I heard the familiar chime of the dressing bell. I moved toward the great oaken doors leading to the nave. “If you are really interested, you must ask Father. There is a book somewhere in the library. It lists the criminals, with all the ghoulish details. You would enjoy it thoroughly,” I finished in a brisk, nursemaidy tone. “Now if you will excuse me, I must dress for dinner.”
“Oh, Lord! That was the dressing bell, was it not? I must fly!”
She gathered her skirts in her hands and dashed out, hurtling down the nave. I followed, feeling a hundred years old and wishing Sir Cedric the very best good luck. I had a suspicion he was going to need it.
* * *
Once in my room, I had very little time to dress, and everything seemed to conspire against me. Florence was sitting up on a hearth cushion, yapping at nothing in particular while Morag bustled about, dragging things from the wardrobe and shoving them back again.
“No, not the black. The décolletage is too severe without a sizeable necklace, and I’ve nothing that will do. Fetch the bottle-green velvet. That will serve.”
Morag heaved a sigh. “I have only just sponged it.”
I dared another look at the mantel clock, then began shoving pins into my hair myself. “The dark pink satin then.”
She folded her arms over her chest, puckering her lips. “I have not yet finished whipping the hem.”
“Whyever not, for heaven’s sake?” I jammed another pin into place.
“Perhaps because I spent the better part of the day playing dressmaker to that wee beastie,” she countered, pointing at Florence. The dog, sensing we were talking about her, fell silent and cocked her head. She put me greatly in mind of Charlotte King just then.
“Then the black will have to do.”
Morag shot me a darkly triumphant look and spread the heavy black satin onto the bed, smoothing it with a proprietary hand. When she was finished, she pointed to a box on the dressing table that, in my haste, I had not seen.
“Mind you don’t forget to open that. Mr. Aquinas was very specific. He brought it up after breakfast and said to be certain you opened it before you went down to dinner.”
I tucked the last pin into place and took up the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with a bit of ordinary tape such as solicitors use. There was a small piece of card tied to it, penned with two words in my Father’s hand:Wear me.
“What the devil is he up to now?” I muttered. Father adored little japes of any sort, but I was in no mood to play Alice. I wrenched the wrappings free and found a box—a familiar box of dove-grey velvet.
“It cannot be,” I said softly. I stared at it a long moment.
Morag came to peer over my shoulder. “Well, it is. When did you see them last?”
I did not open the box. “Before Edward’s death. They were still in the bank vault when he died, and I did not wear them during my period of mourning. I had half-forgot they were there.”
Still I made no move to open it. Morag finally gave me a little push, and I flicked open the clasp. Another moment’s hesitation, and I opened the lid.
There, nestled against a bed of black satin, was the most perfect collection of grey pearls in England. Even the queen had nothing to touch them. They had been assembled at great effort and expense, by Edward’s forebears. Known as the Grey Pearls, they were a sort of gemological pun. They had been given to each Grey bride on her wedding day. My own mother-in-law had bitterly resented giving them up, and it had taken every bit of Edward’s considerable powers of persuasion to convince her to part with them. I had worn them that day, but I had never liked them. I always associated them with Edward’s sour mother. Much later someone mentioned to me in passing that for every pearl a bride wears she shall shed one tear. They had been only too prophetic in my case.
But even I was forced to admit they were magnificent. I stared down into the box where they nestled like pale sleeping serpents. There was a great collar, earrings, and matching bracelets. The collar was fastened with a heavy silver filigree clasp, worked with an Imperial eagle, the red eyes of its double profiles a pair of winking rubies. The bracelets had been copied from the collar; the earrings were simpler. There was a final piece as well, an enormous rope of pearls that, when hung straight from the neck, reached to the knees. Every pearl in the set was enormous, and perfectly matched to its brothers.
I turned over Father’s note, but there was nothing else. He had gone to some trouble to remove these from the vault in London—not in accordance with proper bank policy, but then there were advantages to being an earl—and by the time I had puzzled out his motives, dinner would be a distant memory.