The Chalice

FIVE

Unwrapping a creamy new beeswax candle, Verity laid it down, with some trepidation, on a stone window ledge the size of a gravestone.

Still not sure, not at all sure, that she could go through with this.

It was late afternoon, but, even with all its hanging lights on, the room was as deep and shadowed as the nave of an old parish church.

The best-known old buildings in Glastonbury, apart from the Abbey, which was ruined – so tragic – were the one-time courthouse, known as the Tribunal, and the George and Pilgrims inn, both in the High Street, both mellow and famously beautiful.

And then there was Meadwell.

Which was hunched among umbrella trees about a mile out of town, to the east of the Tor. And was terribly, terribly old. But not famous, not mellow and not what one would call beautiful.

Rather like me, thought Verity, who looked after Meadwell for the Pixhill Trust and ran it as a sort of guesthouse. Most of the time she was decidedly not a sad or introspective or timid person. But tonight was the night of the Abbot's Dinner – and, as the sourly humid November day dwindled into evening, she realised that her little cat, Stella, had still not come home.

Of course this was not the first time. Nor was Stella the first cat to decide that, despite the veritable army of mice, it simply did not wish to live at Meadwell.

But tonight being the night of the Abbot's Dinner, Verity could not bear to be entirely alone.

Because Meadwell was so venerable, Grade Two listed and starred, little could be done to relieve the dispiriting gloom resulting from tiny, mullioned windows which must never be enlarged, oak panelling too delicate to disturb and enormous beams so oppressively low that even little Verity was obliged to stoop.

A touch of whitewash between the beams might have lightened the atmosphere a little, but there were sixteenth-century builders' marks to be protected. Also, in two of the upstairs rooms without panelling, repainting of the walls was forbidden because of what was described as Elizabethan graffiti – words, names perhaps, carved and burned into the sallow surface.

Of Verity's own presence here there was little evidence beyond, on a shelf inside the inglenook, a collection of novels by the great John Cowper Powys, whose sensually extravagant prose was her secret vice and her refuge. She considered it part of her role not to disturb the house's historic ambience, to flit mouselike about the place.

Most of the holiday guests – elderly, educated people, retired doctors, retired teachers, friends of the Trust – said how much they absolutely loved the house, with its tremendous character. In summer.

But even high summer entered Meadwell with uncharacteristic caution, pale sunbeams edging nervously around the oaken doors like the servants of a despot.

And it was getting darker. It was. Not simply because of the time of year; the house itself was gathering shadows, its beams blackening, its walls going grey like old, sick skin, its deeper corners becoming well-like and impenetrable.

It was as if only the Colonel had been able to keep the shadows at bay, and now the fabric of Meadwell was darkening around her, as if hung with mourning drapes; And in spite of her faith she was beginning to be…

… afraid?

But I do not see.

Verity Does Not See. It had become like a mantra – and after all these years in Glastonbury and attendance at hundreds of esoteric lectures at the Assembly Rooms, there was very little one could tell Verity about mantras.

'I do not see.'

Whispering it as she opened the door of the oak cupboard in the corner to the left of the great inglenook and took down the silver candlestick. It should have been cleaned and polished this morning, but she'd been putting it off ever since the upsetting telephone call from Major Shepherd.

'Awfully sorry, my dear. Most awfully sorry.' His wheeze had been like an old-fashioned vacuum-cleaner starting up, the bag inflating.

Verity had told him, in her bright, singing way, not to worry in the slightest. Just look after himself, drink plenty of water, keep warm, leave everything to her.

Not expecting, for one moment, that the Abbot's Dinner would be able to proceed without the chairman of the Trust. Without, in fact, any guests at all, only Verity, who would prepare the meal, and…

… and the Abbot.

Whom She Did Not See.

This day was almost invariably a dull day. Subdued. When the late Colonel Pixhill was here, it was the one day of the year on which he was never seen to smile. He would mope about the garden, gathering the first dismal crop of dead leaves, pausing occasionally to sniff thoughtfully at the air like an old English setter.

On this day nearly twenty years ago, the Colonel had come into her kitchen, put a sad hand on her shoulder and solemnly thanked her for all her years of service. Saying sincerely that he didn't know how- he would have managed here without her.

It had occurred to Verity later, with a shiver of sorrow and unease, that he must have sniffed his own death that morning on the bitter wind coming down from the Tor.

Don't think of it.

Verily pursed her lips, straightened up and glared defiantly into the gathering dark of the dining hall.

'At least… at least I…'

Although, apparently, it had been the most essential qualification for a mistress of Meadwell. At her initial interview, some thirty years ago, the Colonel had broached the issue delicately but with persistence.

Quite an old place, this, Miss Endicott. Damned old. Damned cold. Bit grim, really. Lot of ladies would find that off-putting.

I suppose they would.

Might be… how shall I put it?… a trifle timid about living here. If they were left alone.

Yes.

But not you? Think about it before you answer. Wind howling, timbers creaking sort of stuff.

You mean they might be afraid of… spirit-manifestation, Colonel.

Well. Hmm. That sort of thing.

I… I am not privileged to see the dead.

I see. Consider it a privilege, would you? If you could see the damn things?

No, I… I suppose I'm rather a superficial person, that is, I believe in God and have an interest in the spiritual, as… as a force for healing. And therefore I should dearly love to live in Glastonbury. But I don't think it necessary or desirable for us all to have… communion. If we believe, then that is enough, and if we do not wish to see, God will respect that. I am not afraid of old places. I try to be a simple person. I get on with what I have to do, and I… I do not See.

Each year she'd polished the candlestick and laid the table for the Abbot's Dinner, as if it was just another evening meal. After the Colonel's death, she'd imagined and rather hoped – that the Dinner would be discontinued.

However, under the direction of the Pixhill Trust, it had become even more of an Occasion – now also as a memorial for Colonel Pixhill. It was, said Major Shepherd, one of the most important of the Colonel's conditions.

For ten years or so, the Dinner had been well attended by members of the Trust, two or three of them even staying on for a few days afterwards. This had pleased Verity, who found life in general rather dreary when the holiday season was over and Mrs Green, the cook, and Tracy, the maid, had disappeared for the winter.

But, as age and infirmity eroded the Trust, fewer and fewer chairs had been required around the dining table. Most of the original trustees had been, after all, the Colonel's contemporaries, fellow officers and associates. The new, younger ones – including the Colonel's son, Oliver, were apparently less concerned with the more eccentric traditions and, indeed, were keen to modernise the administration of the Trust.

Major Shepherd had been adamant that the Abbot's Dinner must not be allowed to lapse… even when, last year, he and Verity had found themselves alone at the huge table, the silver candlestick between them, the Major speaking the words he claimed not to understand. And now it had come to this.

'My dear, none of us is getting any younger,' the Major had admitted on the telephone this morning. 'Except, perhaps, for you, Verity.' She could imagine the tired twinkle in his faded grey eyes. 'You never seem to change.'

Which she decided to take as a compliment to her vegan lifestyle and her beloved Bach Flower Remedies.

'I shall be seventy next year, Major. But…' She'd thought it a timely moment to remind him. '… I have absolutely no notion of retirement, you understand. I wouldn't know where to put myself.'

'Perish the thought.' And he'd gone on, somewhat hesitantly, to raise the question of the Abbot's Dinner, which she was convinced would have to be abandoned.

'I do realise, my dear, you must have been finding it increasingly something of a trial. And perhaps a little… well, sinister?'

'Oh, no. Major…'

Oh, yes, Major. Sadly.

'So obviously, I wouldn't dream of asking you to go through the whole ceremony on your own tonight.'

Verity had been so relieved that she had had to cover the mouthpiece to muffle her sigh. She would go out tonight. In the absence of a scheduled Cauldron meeting, she could perhaps invite herself to Dame Wanda's charming townhouse for the evening. Or see if there was an interesting talk at the Assembly Rooms. Or even a potentially tedious talk – there would at least be people there and tea to share.

'But perhaps,' Major Shepherd had said at the end of a particularly painful wheeze, 'I could prevail upon you…'

'Oh. That is, you don't have to prevail. Major.' Verity's brightness had begun to dissipate.

'… to light the Abbot's candle?'

'Oh.'

'And perhaps…'

Verity had closed her eyes.

'… short prayer?'

'I…'

'I'm so sorry, Verity. We'll be there with you in spirit. George Pixhill too, I'm sure.'

'In spirit. Yes.'

I do not…

Now she brought out the silver polish, laid an oilcloth over the long, oak dining table and began to work on the candlestick. Her throat was parched, her chest tight.

But she had her duty. She polished and polished, until the candlestick shone in the dark air like the moon.

The Abbot was used to fine things.

It would be four hundred and fifty six years since he was hanged on the Tor.