Dead Ground in Between (31 page)

I
T WAS SHEER BLISS TO STAY IN BED UNTIL SEVEN
o'clock, when they were awakened by the boys going downstairs. They were whispering and tiptoeing, a surefire method of waking any sleeping adults. Tyler rolled on his side and looked into Nuala's sleep-rumpled face.

“Shall we get up and let the lads open their presents? You can supervise while I light the stove and make the tea.”

This was in fact quite a procedure given the lack of electricity in the cottage, but Tyler wanted to experience what Nuala experienced every day.

Nuala kissed him heartily. “Sounds wonderful. Add some toast to that and I'll be in heaven. You'll find there are four eggs in the pantry. They're for us.”

“Get up when you're ready. I'll look after things.”

He got dressed fully before heading downstairs.

To preserve coal, Nuala had decided all activity should take place in the kitchen, and she'd stood the little tree in the corner. The boys had festooned it with paper chains. When he came in, they were standing looking at the socks hanging from the mantelpiece, each with their name sewn on them.

“Thought I'd come and help out,” said Tyler. Not exactly lying but certainly with the intent to evade.

“Shall I let Mrs. Keogh know you're here?” asked Jan.

“No, that's all right, son, she knows.”

At that moment, Nuala herself entered and saved him further prevarication. She was wearing her dressing gown. He'd thought of buying her a new one but truth was he liked the
old plaid he'd first seen her wearing.

“Inspector Tyler is going to have breakfast with us this morning, boys. He's volunteered to get the stove going, then we'll see what Saint Nicholas brought us.”

“I heard Saint N-Nicholas arrive, last night,” said Pim in a conspiratorial tone of voice. “I think he's got a c-cough, though. He was moaning.”

“Right,” said Nuala, hardly able to keep from laughing. “The inspector will act as Saint Nicholas' helper and give out the presents.” She picked up a blanket from the back of the chair and waved it at the boys. “Wrap up with this. I don't want you to catch cold. You can squeeze up together on the armchair.”

They obeyed with alacrity. Anything to get Christmas moving along.

Tyler hurried with the lighting of the stove. “All right. Fire's going. Kettle's on the hob. Let's see what we've got.”

The boys' excitement at opening their presents was heartwarming. Nuala had found a spinning top somewhere and given it to them as a Hanukkah gift. Jan said they'd played with one just like it when they were in Holland, the dreidel, they called it. He put it aside politely, and Tyler could see the memories were painful. His presents were well received, especially the sweets. Nuala seemed to like her little brooch and had him pin it on.
Whew
.

Finally the only present left was his. The boys watched curiously while he tore off the wrapping. No, not tore off. Peeled off. The paper was too precious and had to be carefully preserved. Inside was a plain box, and inside that a handsome dressing gown of blue wool.

“Matches your eyes,” said Nuala. She lowered her voice. “You can keep it here if you like.”

“Great idea,” Tyler whispered back.

The boiled eggs, the toast with a slather of butter spread on it, the sweets – it was a veritable feast. Tyler felt happier than he had in a long time. He hadn't always enjoyed Christmas with his own children; there had often been such strain between him and Vera, it was hard to overcome.

Sometime in the late morning there was a knock at the door. It was Oliver Rowell.

“Just came to wish everybody a happy Christmas.” He waved at the boys, who were on the floor playing with their new toys. “It's going to be a proper white one by the look of it. You'll be able to build a snowman.”

Nuala greeted him warmly. She knew an ally when she saw one.

“Come in, Oliver. I've got a hot toddy just waiting for you.”

“Delightful. What an admirable woman,” said Rowell in his best Scrooge voice.

“The boys will love to show you their presents,” said Tyler. “And I think there's something underneath the tree with your name on it.”

In the nick of time, Tyler had remembered Rowell's wish for fleece slippers, and, with Dorothy's help, he'd tracked down a fancy pair.

“Who's minding the shop, by the way?”

“Constable Mortimer is on till three. I gave her short hours today. She's invited Sam Wickers to have dinner with her family.” Rowell chuckled. “The lad seemed more nervous about the prospect of meeting the Mortimers than he would be at having to face a marauding horde.” He handed Tyler an envelope. “Morning post arrived, sir. Don't want to spoil anything but this is marked urgent, so I thought I'd better bring it over.”

Tyler stared at the all-too-familiar handwriting. Clare's. His stomach immediately knotted up. He could see by the franking it was much more recent than the one he'd read a couple of weeks ago. He walked away from the hearth and opened the letter. Rowell chatted with the boys.

Tyler looked up to see that Nuala was watching him.

“It's from her, isn't it? Has she come back?”

“Yes,” said Tyler. “I'll have to go. I'm to meet her at the train station.”

Nuala was holding the new dressing gown over her arm. She held it out to him. “Perhaps you had better take this with you.”

Tyler caught her hand. “I'm sorry, Nuala.”

She shrugged, although her face was pale. “I'd meet Paddy at the station too if he came back.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. She allowed it for a moment, then pulled away.

“You'll let me know what you decide, won't you?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Go on then, before I throw myself at your feet and hang on to your legs. I'll tell the boys you've been called away on an important case.”

Tyler got his coat and stepped out into the cold Christmas morning.

Up on the east field the snow fell slowly and steadily, blanketing the ground, until the raw patch of earth disappeared from view. Forty paces between the two hawthorn trees, ten paces south from the midway point, with Clee Hill to the north. Floating down the wind came the far-off jingle of a horse's bridle. The clay pot with its precious contents nestled deeper into the earth until it too vanished.

I called my good friend Enid one day a couple of years ago. She lives in Bitterley, a small village in Shropshire. We grew up together and stay in touch regularly. That day, she said she had a visitor and thought I would enjoy talking to him. On the line came Howard Murphy, a man with a strong Yorkshire accent. He is retired and loves going out with his metal detector to look for treasure, and he told me that in 2011 he had discovered something exciting in a field not too far from the village. In England, with such a depth of history, a Roman coin or a bit of Viking buckle is always being dug up in the fields. What Howard had found, however, was very unusual. It has come to be known as “the Bitterley Hoard,” and it is one of the largest caches of Civil War coins yet found. Howard described it to me: a small clay pot, or tyg, as they are called; inside the pot was a leather pouch, mostly disintegrated by now; and in the pouch were 137 coins, two gold and the rest silver. The dates ranged from the reign of Elizabeth I (1558–1603) to that of Charles I (1625–1649). Not exactly a fortune, but a goodly amount nonetheless.

Howard asked if I would like him to show me where he'd found it. I jumped at the chance. Nobody really knew for sure where the money had come from or why it was buried in a farmer's field far from anywhere. There were theories, of course, but basically it was a mystery. Ha! What delicious bait to dangle before me!

I did some research: the area had been a hotbed of conflict between Cavaliers and Roundheads during the Civil War that had ripped up the country between 1642 and Charles' execution in 1649. Then, a few months later, I went to England and met up with Howard, who showed me where the treasure had been buried. As I stood in that grassy field on a bright summer's day, I communed with the long-dead man who had buried the coins, probably in haste, and not been able to return to claim them. I had some answers.

For the purposes of my story I have fictionalized the treasure ever so slightly: Jasper Cartwright removes one gold coin and two silver coins, reburying the 137 that were discovered nearly seventy years later. That's all.

I have been intrigued by the notion of this money reappearing during another terrible conflict. Not a civil war but a world war: 1942. Of course it has to vanish again.

The Bitterley Hoard is now in the protection of the Ludlow Museum, but in 2015 I was privileged to actually hold the treasure. Even though the coins are wafer-thin, they were heavy in my hand.

From all of this, I created
Dead Ground in Between
.

As always I am grateful to my good friends: to Enid (Molly) Harley, who made the first introduction; to Pam Rowan and Jessie Bailey, who are always so willing to find material for me. To Howard Murphy, for showing me where he made his discovery. And especially I must thank Peter Reavill, archaeologist and Finds Liaison officer for Shropshire and Herefordshire, who was happy to allow me to touch the coins, and discussed with me some possible reasons why they had been buried.

Derek Beattie kindly shared his extensive knowledge of Ludlow history.

Dennis Hunt gave me valuable information about his childhood on a farm during World War II.

Stanton Stephens at Castle Bookshop in Ludlow has been a wonderful supporter.

Special thanks to Jon Saxon of the
Ludlow Ledger
. Long may it thrive!

My friend, Peter Benne, himself a child of war, was most helpful with getting the Dutch children right.

My gratitude continues to my publisher, McClelland & Stewart, and my wonderful editor, Lara Hinchberger.