Chapter 7

7

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

E llen Bowe had spent the evening reading over the some of the papers Wormsley had given her, but for all the legalese and wherewithals and heretofores she was no more enlightened than she was when she left his office.

Bottom line: it would appear she was an heiress. It would also appear that she was in line to inherit two hundred and seventy-four million pounds which converted to roughly three hundred and fifty million dollars, and yes, she was ashamed to admit the conversion was the first thing she had done in the car back to the hotel. She had taken out her phone, checked the exchange rate, and tapped it into the calculator. Then she had let her head slump back on the seat and had stared up at the roof of the town car all the way to the Savoy.

She had never had more than a few hundred spare dollars in her bank account and more often than not, was a few hundred overdrawn.

Three hundred and fifty million was…

Well, it was just not a sum her mind could grasp .

There had to be a catch, a bigger one than simply living in a castle for a year and a day.

Her suite at the Savoy was tastefully decorated in the Edwardian style, so said the information booklet. There was a large sitting room and an even larger bedroom with two tall windows in each room overlooking the Thames. The bathroom was out of a high-end magazine, with a snowy white Italian marble soaking tub and a glass shower stall large enough for a dozen people.

Standing under a hot shower hadn't helped her absorb the reality of her situation. It wasn't just the money or the castle or the funny little man with his red suspenders and bottle-bottom spectacles. She found it almost impossible to believe her father could have kept secret, for all those years, the fact that he'd had a twin brother. Or that she'd had relatives in England. Nothing in the files gave any hint as to why he had left England or what had caused such a terrible rift in the family.

At Wormsley's request the hotel had provided a basket full of cheeses and biscuits, with a fine bottle of red wine with the very French name of Croix de Beaucaillou . She emerged all hot and steamy from the shower, bundled herself in the plush hotel bathrobe and uncorked the wine, taking the first three mouthfuls straight out of the bottle.

Remembering where she was, she used the provided crystal wine glass for the rest.

Wormsley had said to charge whatever she wanted to the room and she wondered, briefly, if that included purchases from the fabulous shops located on the concierge level of the hotel. As nice as her suit was, it would not go very far and she doubted, having walked through the lobby and seen some of the other guests, that faded jeans and a T-shirt would get her through too many doors. Visions of a certain hooker shopping on Rodeo Drive bounced into her head, but she was no Julia Roberts and Wormsley definitely was no Richard Gere.

That meant the shops and, by extension, the dining room were out, but at her stomach's urging, she found the room service menu and flipped through it.

In-Room Dining at the Savoy provides the hotel's fine and famous dining within the comfort and convenience of your room. The extensive menu is available day or night suiting guests on the move, impromptu meetings, or quiet, private dining. We endeavour to meet any special requests and dietary requirements that you may have.

She required a burger. A big fat greasy sloppy burger, which she found on page twenty-five.

She took out her phone again and shook her head. Thirty-five dollars for a burger! But it did come with fries.

For shits and giggles, she also scanned the wine list and found Croix de Beaucaillou … and was glad she was already sitting down.

Did people really live this way? Would she be considered one of ‘these people' in a year and a day? Would she still feel her heart palpitate at a thirty-five-dollar burger or a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of wine?

Ellen ordered the burger, and curled up in the immense bed to read more of the file. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the box containing the leather-bound pages that Wormsley had also given into her care.

Setting the file aside, she retrieved the box and opened it, carefully peeling back the folds of velvet with as much reverence as Wormsley had shown. The leather was old and stained from the many hands that had undoubtedly possessed it down through the generations. The corners were worn and cracked and when she opened the cover, she noted that most of the vellum pages were badly aged, the ink faded. As far as being legible, the words were hand-written by someone whose skill with a feather quill was not as meticulous as one might hope. There were blots of ink and entire lines scratched out. On some pages the script was so smudged it was impossible to read more than a line or two.

She took an appreciative sip of two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar wine and stared at the squiggles so long it took a moment before she realized they had taken on a shape that she could read.

We buried a very great lady today. As her end drew near she encouraged me to write of my journey and give proof to things others wish to keep hidden in the shadows of time.

To those who would read this, my name is Enndolynn Ware. I am accused of being a witch, though the truth is that I merely possess a gift. This gift is both a blessing and a curse and if discovered, would condemn me to be bound to a stake and burned to ash. This was the cruel fate my mother suffered. The gift was strong in her but she used it only for good as a healer. I vowed as a child to follow her ways and tried very hard to keep that promise. She feared for me and wanted me to keep my gift hidden, but in the end it grew too strong and betrayed me.

I tried, mama.

I tried.

As Ellen settled back against the cushions to read more, a folded page fell onto her lap. It bore an official-looking wax seal that had been removed at some time and tucked into the folds of the page. Ellen held it to the light and noted an imprint of what looked like a priest in long robes holding two sceptres by his sides.

She set it aside but something Wormsley had said drew her gaze back to the wax seal.

Following some third eye hunch, she pulled up a browser on her phone and a minute's worth of searching later, she found the identical seal and her eyes popped wide. For the second time that day, Ellen whispered a name. "Stephen Langton."

The same Stephen Langton who had written instructions that had been sealed and kept under lock and key through several generations, had also written a document that was tucked between the pages of a book that appeared to be a diary of sorts, written by a girl who claimed to be a witch.

Wait.

Seven centuries, Wormsley had said. But he also said Enndolynn Ware's birth had been in 1273.

She frowned and reached for her phone again, opening a browser to verify her confusion. And she was right. Langton had been dead more than fifty years before Enndolynn Ware's name appeared in the church registry.

The Langton document was written on vellum, old and cracked on the seams but a cautious, and very gentle peek inside told her it was Latin, written in a precise, very meticulous hand, very different from the handwriting in the folio. There were also smudges at the bottom that might have been signatures, but only one was legible and confirmed the identity of the author.

"Damn. Stephen Langton. How on earth did you get in here? And what possible connection would you have to Enndolynn Ware?"

Ellen carefully folded the wax seal back into its vellum envelope and sandwiched the document between the loose pages before returning the folio to the wooden box. She sank back against the pillows, too tired to think about it and the next thing she knew, there was daylight shining through the windows and she could hear the low thrum of a hotel coming to life.

She made herself a cup of coffee—which may have been blasphemous to do herself in such a suite—then stood at the window watching the traffic on the Thames. The London Eye was off to her right across a bridge with several arches. She was on the top floor, which put her above the trees along the riverbank, and with the exception of a partially muted boat whistle, she could hear little of the outside world.

She wandered into the sitting room and pondered phoning home to bring her roommate, Payton, up to date on what was happening.

And then there was Sam, her sometimes on, most times off boyfriend. Man-friend? They were currently off at the moment, so a call from her might be interpreted as her wanting to be on again. She dismissed the thought of calling Payton too, at least until she had a better idea of what the hell she was going to do, much less say. Payton would no doubt declare herself indispensable and offer to fly right over to help Ellen spend some of her newfound money. Whether or not Ellen took her up on her generous offer, word would spread throughout Queens and the greater state of New York like the waves of a tsunami and she would likely hear from people she hadn't seen since she was in grade school.

In the end, she decided there was something more pressing she had to do. She dressed in her suit and took the elevator down to the mezzanine and out onto the street. With two hours to go before meeting up with Wormsley, she made good use of every minute maxing out her credit card in the shops. Carrying a dozen bags back to the room, she was able to snip off the price tags without risking a heart attack by looking at them again. She repacked her suitcase and one of the weekenders. She changed out of her silk suit, folding it carefully in some of the reams of tissue that had come with her purchases, and put on a pair of plain black pants—that had cost over a hundred pounds! —and a white cashmere pullover. Satisfied that she didn't feel like quite the hobo she had on arrival, she called the porter to pick up her bags then made her way down to the lobby to meet Wormsley.

She spotted him instantly in his natty tweed jacket, sitting primly in one of the Queen Anne chairs. There was now a black bowler hat to complete his dapper Elmer Fudd look, and the requisite black umbrella that every English gentleman of his generation seemed to carry.

He had also brought Veronica whose hair was piled and sprayed into another gravity-challenging hive. She wore a flowered dress with a flared skirt and a matching bolero jacket, coordinating the red of her lipstick with the vibrant red of the flowers. Her fingernails and toenails, visible through the 1940's open toed style shoes, were the same shade of red, making Ellen wonder how long it took her to organise herself each day.

Wormsley informed Ellen that he had paid the hotel bill but was quite shocked to hear that she had not indulged in a proper English breakfast, and insisted they find the dining car the instant they boarded the train. Telling him she was not much of a breakfast person did nothing to stop him from ordering one of everything on the menu…sausage, eggs, beans, bacon, French toast, crumpets, tomatoes, ham, and something dreadfully healthy-looking called muesli. The bounty was shared between the three of them, and was soon reduced to crumbs over soft, satisfied belches.

"I do hope you don't mind taking the train," Wormsley said, wiping a spot of strawberry jam off his lapel. "London traffic is horrendous, regardless of the hour or the day one attempts to exit to the country. Had we taken a car, the travel time would easily have been doubled to four or more hours just to reach Nottingham."

"I don't mind at all," Ellen said. "I am accustomed to taking subway trains everywhere in New York. Not that they can be remotely compared to this," she added, waving a hand to indicate the spacious dining car. "Most passengers are stuffed in like sardines and stand for however long it takes to get from one station to another."

Wormsley nodded. "I have had the dubious pleasure. On one such occasion, it was rush-hour and the trains were so crowded and emptied so fast I was swept along with the tide and found myself on the wrong street hugging a lamp post for dear life as the flood of humanity raged past."

Ellen laughed. "Never, ever go near a New York subway in rush hour if you are just visiting the city. It can cause permanent trauma."

Wormsley reached across the table and patted her hand. "Good to hear you laugh, my dear. I was hoping all of this had not caused you any manner of trauma. Did you have a chance to read through all of the legal falderal? Did you have any questions or concerns?"

"Not exactly a concern, but I did find something peculiar while I was reading through the folio."

If he'd been a hound, his ears would have perked upright. "You were able to read the rose folio?"

"Apparently, after a bottle of good wine, I can read archaic gypsy."

Wormsley glanced at Veronica, then back at Ellen. "Fascinating."

"Even more so because she admits, right on the first page, that she has what she refers to as ‘a gift'. One that her mother also possessed and used in her practice as a healer."

Wormsley's owl eyes never blinked. "You said you found something even more peculiar than the seven-hundred-year-old writings of a supposed witch?"

Ellen nibbled on her lip. "Odd in one sense, rather fabulous in another. It is another document written by Stephen Langton."

The little man's eyebrows shot up and his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. It was clearly not what he had expected to hear. "The Archbishop of Canterbury? Are you certain?"

Ellen nodded. "The wax seal had been removed, but it was there, tucked inside the folds of paper. I found an image of the seal online and while I am no expert, both the seal and his signature look real. The document was written in Latin, so I have no idea what it was about, but it looked very official."

Wormsley leaned back and placed his hands flat on the table. "But… that would mean…"

"That would mean Enndolynn Ware had a document in her possession, written by the Archbishop, who had been dead for five decades before she was born."

Wormsley frowned. "One must wonder why no one has deemed it prudent to mention it before now. Your grandmother would surely have come across it, as would Henry, since he was the last one to have the folio in his custody. If either of them had come across such a paper, one would think they would have wanted it locked up safely in the vault with the other important papers. The value would be inestimable." He blinked and looked at Ellen. "Gracious. Where is it now?"

"I put it back in the folio, which is in my suitcase with the rest of the papers you gave me. As I said, it is written in Latin, so I have no idea what it says."

Wormsley took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the moisture that had gathered on his brow and upper lip. "I am, as the youth of today would say: gobsmacked."

"Me an' all," Veronica chimed in. "Never knew of a simple peasant girl could read or write, ne'ermind have the wherewithal to carry about letters from a dead archbishop."

"Or a living one, for that matter," Wormsley said. "If the document is genuine, I know someone who might be able to help us determine what it is about, someone who will be ten times as gobsmacked as I just to hold a piece of history in his hands. Luckily for us, he happens to work for you."

"He works for me?"

"Well, for the estate. He was a professor at Cambridge, with a degree in archaeology. He came to Lincoln between semesters, oh…five years ago now, I believe, and has remained in residence ever since. He and your uncle got along famously and spent hours together on hands and knees with brushes and torches, crawling about the ruins of the castle. The professor was quite devastated upon Henry's death and I am certain he will be anxious to meet the potential new owner."

Terrific, Ellen thought. I have inherited a ruined castle, an Elizabethan manor house, four thousand acres of land, a few hundred million dollars… and now a dusty old professor of archaeology.