TWENTY
‘Aunt Bill, did you know about this?’ I asked, pointing on the map to Yew Tree Cottage, St Nantes. I could tell from my aunt’s face that she had no idea about the tunnel leading to Trevarron House.
‘No, maid. ’Tis remarkable. I ’ad no clue.’ She shook her head in wonder.
‘That’s not all,’ William said. He opened the folio again and removed a narrow notebook from it. ‘This is a rather less salubrious piece of the Trevarron family history, and I am entrusting the knowledge to you both with great faith that you will keep its terrible secret, as I have,’ he continued, darkly.
‘What is it, William?’ I felt a sense of foreboding gather as we stood in the library, as if the unquiet ghosts of William’s ancestors thronged around us; a shadowy horde.
‘It seems that, according to this book, when the tunnels were made – or at some point afterwards – my ancestors spent time creating certain spaces, underground. Attached to the tunnels,’ he began, haltingly. ‘This is a journal belonging to Harold Trevarron, the brother of the lord at that time. Harold… rather enthusiastically… recounts the creation and, errr… use of these spaces.’
Was William actually blushing? I didn’t think I’d seen him do it before, but his cheeks were definitely moreruddy than usual.
‘William, what d’you mean? You can tell us,’ Aunt Bill said in her no-nonsense way. ‘I think I ’ave the gist, from what you’re sayin’ and the fact you don’t want to say it, but I’d appreciate it if you could clarify what might be a very… sensational piece of information.’
I had no idea what Aunt Bill was talking about.
‘My ancestors built rooms off the tunnels where they kept prisoners, but also often used those rooms for their own entertainment,’ William said, brusquely. ‘Harold boasts in this journal about the fact that he has kept young women – and young men – down there to use for his own vile purposes.’ William looked disgusted. ‘It shames me greatly that the Trevarron name was thus besmirched, but as I grow older, I realise that the Trevarrons have had their share of bad behaviour. Not just that. The Trevarrons… I believe there is a thread of darkness that runs in this family.’ His look was haunted.
‘William… no,’ I breathed. ‘That’s… that’s horrible.’
‘I know that. Don’t you think it taunts me, every day, knowing that my ancestors – and indeed my own brother and father – were such vile beasts?’ He ran a hand through his hair and handed me the journal. ‘See for yourself.’
I took the book and opened it, holding it to the light so that Aunt Bill could look, too. I turned to a random page and saw instantly what William had described: diagrams of a human-built warren leading from three tunnels that ran between Trevarron House, Yew Tree Cottage but also a building marked Magistrate and another, which Aunt Bill pointed to and looked up at me.
‘Cullen’s farm,’ she said in a low voice.
‘No way.’ I exhaled.
Cullen’s was a farm that still existed in St Nantes in the present day. When I was staying with Aunt Bill, she’d often send me down there for eggs from the honesty box at the farm entrance, and to see what else Mrs Cullen had put out for the villagers. In the summer there would be strawberries, courgettes and tomatoes.
‘Evelyn Willcock said in her book that she thought the ley linewent through Cullen’s farm, as well as other places that she didn’t name,’ I said. ‘Elowen, the pellar’s daughter in 1755 – she said that, in that time, the Cullens were a bad lot.’
‘They were renowned for carousing in the alehouses, certainly.’ William nodded. ‘There were rumours in the village that the two elder Cullen boys were rather free with their fists. Quite honestly, as I am a man who that could also be said of, I did not think much of it.’
‘The Cullens ’ave a dark past,’ Aunt Bill interjected. ‘I’ve ’eard some o’ it, livin’ in the village all my life. Our own Mrs Cullen’s a good woman, an’ the kids seem right enough. But, everyone knows the stories. I wouldn’t put it past the Cullens of old to be up to no good in those tunnels.’ She looked disapproving.
Something was bothering me. This new information about the tunnels was making me think about Aunt Bill’s cottage.
‘William, In 1755 there was a pellar named Annie Willcock living in Yew Tree Cottage,’ I said. ‘Did you know her?’
William paused for a moment and bit his lip.
‘Yes. I knew her.’ He nodded.
‘Did Annie Willcock know about the tunnel between her cottage and Trevarron House?’ I asked. William nodded again.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you use those tunnels, in 1755?’ I asked him.
‘Yes. They were still usable then.’ He sighed and rubbed the thick black stubble on his chin.
‘For smuggling?’ I prompted him.
‘Yes.’ He shot me a look that said he didn’t appreciate me cross-examining him, but I had to know.
‘Did Annie Willcock help you?’ I asked.
