Dimanche Diller at Sea

“Is something wrong, Aunt Verity?”

“Read this, Dimanche.”

The letter Verity handed to Dimanche was handwritten on expensive paper. This is what it said: Dimanche tossed the letter down. “Don’t worry, Aunt Verity,” she said. “I know all about the Deed and Title.”

Bludgeon, Bludgeon & Co., SolicitorsCanal Walk ChambersRockford Market

Friday, 22nd June.

Dear Madam,Every one hundred years, on Midsummer Midnight, the Reigning Sovereign calls upon a Lawyer of this county to inspect and ratify the Diller Deed and Title.

This century it’s us – Bludgeon & Bludgeon.

We therefore plan to call upon you to inspect the said Deed and Title, with customary hospitality of a Hogshead of Brandy, on Midsummer Midnight. We beg to remind you that the Ancient Proclamation was laid down by King William the First in the Royal Domesday Book of 1086 and that no Diller has ever failed to obey it.

Your Obedient Servants,Baldwin and Bartholomew Bludgeon.

PS Should Miss Diller fail to present the Deed and Title, then everything – House, Hall, Woods, Goods, Serfs, Chattels, and Appurtenances – including children – must pass into the hand of whomever else may do so.

“Do you, Dimanche? I had quite forgotten it. I don’t even know where it is. I suppose I shall have to tidy my desk.” Verity Victorine sighed. Sometimes she longed for the quiet of the convent.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Verity, it isn’t in your desk. It’s in a strongbox in the bank at Rockford Market.”

The little furrows beneath Verity’s white coif vanished, and she poured herself a second cup of chocolate, this time without marmalade.

“Dimanche, you’re a marvel! How do you know?”

“There’s a chest in the attic, Aunt Verity, it’s full of family papers. I opened it once, when I was looking for a penknife, and read some of them. One was from Great-grandfather Darius, the last Diller to present the Deed and Tide for inspection. He wrote down where it’s kept, and what it looks like, and what you have to do with it, so that the next Diller to do it – me – would know.”

“That’s that, then, Dimanche,” said Verity, happily.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

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Beyond the summer meadow, Polly Cockle’s kitchen window caught the morning sun, and winked. Dimanche smiled as Polly left her cottage and crossed the meadow, stopping now and then to enjoy the flowers that grew beside the path.

Polly had come to Hilton Hall during the dark days of Valburga Vilemile’s rule, to be Dimanche’s nanny. She had arrived on Dimanche’s third birthday, and until the day that Verity Victorine arrived, and Valburga Vilemile departed, she never left Dimanche’s side. They even took their holidays together, pony trekking in the New Forest, and rock climbing on the beautiful island of Skye. They had been through victory and defeat together, and they were more than ordinary friends.

Polly’s husband, Cosmo Cockle, was the gardener at Hilton Hall. He, too, was a true friend to Dimanche, and often brought her little presents – a bunch of earthy carrots, a yellow pear, and once, a mysterious pupa that Dimanche kept in a jar until the creature within was ready to emerge and fly free. When Polly and Cosmo were married in the church at Hilton in the Hollow, Dimanche was their bridesmaid.

Polly smiled hello to Verity and Dimanche as she came into the kitchen. Dimanche poured her a cup of hot chocolate and passed her the Rockford Record.

“Will you listen to this!” Polly exclaimed, after a moment’s reading.

RAIDERS ROB ROCKFORD

WHILE CITIZENS SLUMBER!

“IT’S CRIMINAL!” SAYS

CHAUNCEY COIN.

Thieves broke in last night and robbed the bank in Rockford Market Square. Valuable old documents have gone astray.

Dimanche and Verity turned suddenly pale.

… “This is the first time in the history of our little bank that we have sustained a loss due to criminal activity,” said distressed Manager Chauncey Coin, fifty-year-old grandfather of seven. “Fire we’ve suffered. Flood too, when the Fenny burst its banks in 1855. But crime? Never!”

“Dimanche! Verity!” Polly cried. “Whatever is the matter?”

Verity phoned the bank at once, and Chauncey Coin confirmed her worst fears.

The Diller Deed was gone.

Barely ten minutes later, Verity, Polly and Dimanche were bumping anxiously along between dusty summer hedges on the Rockford Market bus.

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Brother Betony stood on the bridge in Monks Wood and stared down into the peat brown swirls and dimples of the Fenny.

His black robe seemed to drift around him in the early evening air. He leaned his elbows on the wooden railing and rested his pale face on his pale hands.

Upstream he could see the grey stones of the ruined Abbey, half-hidden by green bracken. Downstream, trees and more trees wove a leafy border to the sky. In one of them – it was an ancient yew – someone had carved a heart into the bark around the letters B and B.

A vixen trotted over the bridge. For all the notice that she took of Brother Betony, he might have been part of the parapet.

Next, Dimanche appeared on the path. Brother Betony watched her for a moment with a smile on his old face. He straightened himself slowly, and his black robe brushed soundlessly against the wooden railings of the bridge. An old wound pinched at the top of his backbone. He raised a pale hand to the back of his neck to ease the stiffness there, and faded slowly into the golden evening light.

Dimanche sat down on the bridge and dangled her legs over the edge. She ran over the day’s events in her mind. The visit to the bank had upset Sister Verity dreadfully, though Chauncey Coin had been both kind and helpful. The police had been sent for, and Chief Superintendent Barry Bullpit was on his way. There was nothing to be done but wait, Aunt Verity had said.

Dimanche did not agree. She stood up as the sun began to set and made her way out of Monks Wood as fast as she could. She did not want to be there alone, when darkness filled the silent space between the trees. Already the wood lapped round her like deep water. Beyond lay open country. A fallow deer, making for the fields to fill its belly with soft grass, startled Dimanche with a sudden cough.

Hawthorn hedges criss-crossed the little valley, turning it into a giant’s chess board. Beside a deep pool of the Fenny, an old stone boathouse caught the light, and shone. On any other summer evening, Dimanche might have stopped to launch the raft she kept there, but tonight there wasn’t time. She must reach the old quarry before dark.

The quarry was a disused chalk pit, hollowed out of the side of a hill. Protected from winter storms by a white cliff left by the extraction of the chalk, it looked across the wide sweep of the Fenny valley to the south and west. Private and secluded, this was the regular stopping place of Papa Fettler. The old barn, which had once held sacks of chalk, now made a stable for his pony. A spring rose nearby, providing drinking water, cold and clear, and very slightly bubbly. Papa Fettler had built a small round well, conveniently placed, and kept a cup and bucket handy.

“Will you take a drop of my champagne?” he would ask Dimanche, when she called to see him there. Dimanche would take the tin mug, and dip, sip, and relish the clean taste.

Papa Fettler’s home was a battered caravan. He travelled where fancy took him, and stopped where evening found him, and you could never be sure where that might be, but the quarry was a good place to look. On this particular evening Dimanche was very glad to find him there.

“Well, Miss Dimanche,” he remarked, as she came panting round the bend of the cart track. “You look proper rattled. Will you take a bowl of mushroom soup? Or perhaps you’d like a dandelion salad?”

Dimanche shook her head. “No thanks, I’m not hungry, Papa Fettler. And anyway there isn’t time.”

“No time for supper? Why not, Miss Dimanche?”

“Something awful’s happened, Papa Fettler, and we may all have to leave the Hilton Valley – even you!”