Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Page A

and got her with unholy child?”
    “You are swift.” I took another sip of now cold tea, “But I suppose that is an old story in more ways than one. What makes this one grislier is that the monk hanged himself.”
    “Fascinating.”
    I glared at him. “Don’t you dare sneer. It was all very sad. The wretched girl’s family booted her out of the house. And don’t tell me that was the done thing in those days. Even for the sixteenth century (and this happened shortly before the Dissolution) they must have been hateful people. Where could she go? Pretty ironic when you think that the usual source of succour would be the monastery.”
    “It may still have been. Going on the premise that all monks are brothers, that baby was not short of uncles. Wouldn’t surprise me if the jolly old chaps set to and raised the little tyke while Mummy went gadding off to be a nun as penance for her sins.”
    “How can you snicker like that! You’re exactly like the Reverend Snapper. He positively seethed with delight when relating how that poor girl barely survived the stocks and a dunking in the village pond, to say nothing of the death of her spineless lover. Standing in those Ruins I could feel her horror, feel how she must have felt when her baby—a little girl—was born. Who would dare help her even if they wished? Okay, I know I sound soppily sentimental, but there is a reason. That young mother wrapped her child in a blanket, put her in a basket, and left her on the doorstep of some local gentry, people who were childless and kind. She also left them a note which read ‘This is your daughter Tessa.’ Oh, Harry, can you imagine how I felt when I heard that! The monk’s name was Tessail. Those people did raise her and she grew up to marry a cousin of the family.”
    “Very interesting, though long-winded. But ...” I sensed rather than saw Harry stiffen in his chair.
    “But nothing. The cousin inherited the property through an entail or something, and Tessa’s descendants still live in the old ancestral, Cloisters—a house that, ironically, was built on the monastery land a few years after the monks were given the push.”
    “Jolly good. All’s well that ends well.” Harry stood, stretching languidly, muscles rippling under the wool shirt.
    “Not entirely.” I didn’t have to fake the wistfulness in my voice. “Tessa never knew what became of her mother.”
    “So saith your gleeful little cleric. What an incurable dreamer you are, Tess.” Moving towards me he twined a loose strand of my hair around one of his fingers. “The legend would lose much in the telling if the fallen woman had ended her days fat and happy, swilling down mead at the local tavern. Don’t glare at me. I don’t want you agonizing … seeing yourself as the reincarnation of this namesake.”
    “Harry, that isn’t it at all.”
    He stepped away from me. “Give yourself a break, Tessa. You can’t blithely assume, because your own history bears something of a resemblance to a dubious folk tale, that your mother ever lived anywhere near Flaxby Meade. All right. I’ll grant you are dealing with an interesting coincidence. But thousands of day trippers will have heard some version of the story you were told. If this is to be fantasy time, I suggest that some woman found herself pregnant under difficult circumstances and decided her child would have a better chance in life if presented to the world with a romantic flourish.”
    I took a patient breath. “Please listen. We have the legend. We have F.M.’s easy proximity to Kings Ransome and now we discover the Monk’s Pottery. Conveniently placed, I might add, right next door to the cafe. And guess what I found among the monk salt and pepper shakers? A monk flask. An absolute double of the one left in the basket with me.”
    Take that Harry. Start taking me seriously.
    But he didn’t. He was now leaning up against the kitchen counter quirking a compassionate smile at me. Every moment