Chapter 12 #2
Rachel nodded. ‘They were, but female monasteries relied on priests to provide for their spiritual care, chiefly to celebrate Mass in their chapels but also to hear the confessions of the nuns and give the last rites to the sick and dying.’ She reached for a sheaf of papers, flicking through it.
‘Here are all the priests we know of as associated with Winterhill… Hmm, Bartholemew of Pewsey, Joseph of Chiseldon… Yes, here we are – Nicholas Lowndes of Westerbrook. He died in 1536, so he might well have been one of the last priests here before the Dissolution.’ She looked up.
‘Oh, hang on! I remember something about a Nicholas from one of the antiquarian books on Winterhill. What was it?’ She grabbed a battered tome from the table.
‘Yes, here it is. He’s the one who was considered a local saint and venerated by the community here for his holiness. There are lots of legends about him.’
‘What was a local saint?’ Owen was intrigued. ‘Someone who performed unofficial miracles?’
Rachel gave him a reproving look. ‘He was a widely respected cleric. According to the local histories, Nicholas was a guardian figure, providing protection. There’s a list of his miraculous deeds here – curing the sick, purifying the waters of the river when they ran with poison, protecting the flocks from ravening wolves—’
‘In the sixteenth century?’ Owen queried. ‘The Berkshire Downs were even more dangerous than I’d realised.’
‘Well, you get the general idea,’ Rachel said.
‘Even if the facts may have been embroidered, Nicholas of Westerbrook was a guardian-type, a defender of those in need. And after death his tomb would have been venerated. I think Peter already has plans to feature him in the exhibition so if we find his tomb as well, it will be even better.’ She waved at a whiteboard on the wall where the team had evidently been brainstorming ideas for the project.
Under the heading ‘Human Stories’ was a list of names including Father Nicholas and also, Owen spotted, that of Marris North. He felt a sudden chill.
‘You don’t think that the tomb might actually be that of Marris North rather than Father Nicholas, do you?
’ he asked. ‘As she was the last prioress of Winterhill?’ He wasn’t sure why the thought disturbed him so much; the vivid woman of the portrait was long dead and must be buried somewhere, he supposed.
Yet he felt relief when Rachel shook her head.
‘Marris is buried with her husband Sir William Sharington in the family tomb in the parish church,’ she said.
‘It’s rather cute, actually. Their two effigies lie side by side, hands entwined.
The epitaph reads “Love will transcend both death and time”.
Those two must have been a real love match in an era when most people married for wealth and status. ’
A wave of emotion crashed over Owen without any warning.
Loss, regret, longing… Love will transcend both death and time.
I will find you again, my dearest love… He blinked and the room came back into focus, the feelings fading away like old rose petals falling.
What the hell just happened to him? He had no idea, but he realised with relief that Rachel hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.
‘Speaking of material for the exhibition,’ she was saying, ‘what do you make of this?’ She had opened her laptop and was angling the screen towards him.
She clicked on a picture. Leaning over her shoulder, Owen saw that it was a slightly blurry photograph of what looked like a student party taking place in a big hall; there were lots of people standing around chatting with glasses in their hands, dressed in what could only be referred to as an eclectic mix of fashions.
It didn’t look like a recent picture. There was something about the quality of the image that suggested it must be ten or more years old.
In the centre of the photograph was a painting on an easel, the background consisting of shades of dark blue, black and grey, stormy colours and a threatening atmosphere.
Rachel zoomed in closer and Owen saw that in the foreground of that painting were two kneeling figures with blank faces and white headdresses, the brightness a stark contrast to the swirling darkness behind them.
A shadowy figure of a man stood beside them, leaning on a spade.
‘There’s a bit of a Handmaid’s Tale vibe going on there,’ Owen commented.
‘It’s called Winterhill,’ Rachel said. Owen could hear the excitement in her voice.
‘I found it when I was searching online for references to the priory.’ She glanced at him over her shoulder.
‘You can imagine how weird it was looking through various maps, plans and photos of the ruins, then coming across this. Not what I was expecting at all.’
‘No.’ Owen drew the laptop towards him. ‘It’s certainly different. What have you found out about it?’
‘Well, it’s all rather intriguing.’ Rachel’s eyes sparkled.
‘I was able to identify the event and the date for a start, because there’s a poster on the wall in the photo.
’ She moved the focus to the back wall of the student hall.
‘Look – it says “Chelsea College of Arts” and the date is 2005 and it’s the launch of the second-year degree show. ’
‘Impressive detective work,’ Owen said.
‘Thank you.’ Rachel tapped on the keyboard and brought up another picture. This time it was a close up of the painting itself. ‘Now, I found the catalogue from 2005 and guess who was in the second year of the Fine Art degree that year?’
‘Bree Bergin,’ Owen said.
Rachel looked disappointed. ‘How did you guess?’
‘There’s a signature in the corner of the painting,’ Owen pointed out. ‘Also, there’s a line about the artwork at the bottom of the page.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Rachel perked up. ‘Well, anyway, you can also tell it’s her style once you know.
Even though she was still at college, she was already developing that rather spooky, atmospheric approach.
It’s quite a disturbing painting when you look at it closely.
The two nuns, kneeling beside a grave, the gravedigger who looks as though he’s just buried someone, and the jagged ruins of the priory soaring behind them.
It’s a notional idea of the priory, of course.
The ruins don’t look like that these days, but if you look at old paintings of them from the seventeenth century, there was a lot more still standing. ’
‘And of course Jenna and Bree and their sister grew up in Winterhill,’ Owen commented, ‘so it’s no wonder Bree might have taken some of her early inspiration from around here.
’ He clicked back onto the first photograph and scoured the indistinct faces of the crowd to see if he could recognise a younger version of Jenna, but couldn’t find her.
‘There’s no trace of where the painting is these days,’ Rachel said regretfully. ‘It’s not mentioned at all in Bree Bergin’s catalogue raisonné, which is odd, since that should contain all of an artist’s work. It must be in private hands, I guess, or perhaps she painted over it.’
‘It’s got a sold sticker on it in the photo,’ Owen said, squinting, ‘so I expect you’re right, that it belongs to a collector who doesn’t want to advertise the fact, for whatever reason.’
‘It’s a shame.’ Rachel sighed. ‘I’d have loved to borrow it for the exhibition.’ She gave him side eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you could ask Jenna to ask Bree where it is now, to see if there’s any chance…’
‘No,’ Owen said firmly. ‘I really like Jenna and I’m not going to risk her thinking that I’m playing her just so that you can get to know her famous sister.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rachel agreed, smiling. She reached to close the lid of the laptop but Owen put out a hand to stop her.
He had located Bree North in the background of the picture now, in a little cluster of people who were all chatting and laughing together.
Her vivid red hair was a bright splash of colour, like an impressionist painting, her face a blur, but her figure blazed with animation.
Beside her stood an older man with fair hair, his face almost indistinguishable, but there was something in the set of his shoulders and the way that he held himself that had Owen looking twice.
‘Rach,’ he said, pointing, ‘isn’t that Jack…’
‘Our cousin?’ Rachel was staring. ‘It could be. What would he have been doing there, though?’
They both studied the image in silence for a long moment.
‘I guess it’s possible they knew each other,’ Owen said, ‘since Jack’s always lived around here.’ He studied the casually intimate way in which the man’s arm was draped over Bree’s shoulder and her hand was against his chest. ‘They look as though they were together.’
‘Hmm, surely she was a bit young for him?’ Rachel was frowning.
‘Jack’s only nine years older than we are,’ Owen pointed out. ‘It’s an age gap but not a huge one.’
‘He’s not the only familiar face either,’ Rachel said, peering closer. ‘Isn’t that Peter Cox, looking rather grungier than he does now? He also grew up in Winterhill. Seems like everyone knew each other back in the day.’
Owen found himself laughing as he looked at the youthful version of the po-faced curator with his ripped jeans and scruffy checked shirt. ‘You should tease him about that,’ he said.
Rachel pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he’d appreciate it. Peter doesn’t have much of a sense of humour.’
Owen grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘I’m off to Bristol this afternoon for the first meeting of a new start-up project.’ He gave Rachel a hug. ‘Give my love to Hugh and Humph.’ He bent down to pat Titus’s silky head. ‘See you soon, pal.’
‘Are you bringing Jenna to the fundraiser tomorrow?’ Rachel asked. ‘It would be lovely to get to know her better.’