Ferguson unclasped his hands and leaned forward slightly, frowning. ‘Where is this all leading?’
Kingston sniffed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so pedantic. Anyway, when we opened up the chapel, we found three coins in there, on the floor. One is dated 1963, the other two 1959.’
‘Meaning …’ Ferguson looked up to the ceiling, calculating. ‘They couldn’t have been there for more than forty years?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, if your guess is right, that is a puzzle. You said there’s no other way into the chapel?’
‘No. We’ve gone over every inch of the damned place several times. It’s quite small and austere, so another entry would be easy to find.’
Ferguson said nothing for a moment. ‘But you didn’t come all the way here to tell me just that, I take it?’
‘No, you’re right, Roger.’ Kingston got up, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and commenced pacing the small room, chin up, as if addressing an invisible jury. ‘There are two things, both related to something that I read in one of the books you lent me. There’s a section dealing with the Reformation stating that with the dissolution of the monasteries, Wickersham, like all the monastic buildings in England, was destroyed. It didn’t state if the land was sold or became the property of the Crown.’
‘That’s correct,’said Ferguson. ‘The priory church here in Taunton was destroyed around the same time.’
‘What got me thinking was a paragraph concerning the upheaval, that the churches had to scramble to protect and hide their monies and priceless treasures.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And none have ever been found.’
Ferguson laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And I doubt ever will.’
Kingston had stopped pacing and stood facing Ferguson, his back to the window. ‘Bear with me, please, Roger. There’s a reference in the same book stating that the house at Wickersham was built in 1758. Further, it states that the house was built in the vicinity of the old monastery. Jamie’s book says much the same thing, that Wickersham was built on the grounds of an old priory.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Isn’t it possible, even remotely, that part of the old priory was built underground and still exists? I know priests’ holes are not uncommon. Weren’t they devised for the same reason? To conceal things?’
‘Priests, mostly.’ He rubbed his chin with his forefinger. ‘I see what you’re getting at, though. The chapel could stand on the site of the old priory.’
Kingston returned to the chair, placing his hands squarely on the back, looking at Ferguson. ‘And about the only way of proving that, short of knocking the damned place down and excavating, would be if there were some records—drawings, maps, sketches—of the old priory which we could compare with a present-day plan of Wickersham.’ He sat down again. ‘Think you can offer any help?’
Ferguson swivelled his chair so that he was side-on to Kingston and looked up at the ceiling as he spoke. ‘The monastery at Wickersham has always been a bit of a mystery. For as long as I’ve been here—which is too long, I might add—the exact location has been subject to considerable debate. Indeed, there’s very little left of the monastery here in Taunton but there’s no question of its location and its size. It was an Augustinian priory founded in the reign of Henry I by the Bishop of Winchester.’ He frowned. ‘William Giffard, I believe his name was. That’s why we have the street names, Priory Avenue and Priory Bridge.’
Kingston was impressed but not really surprised that Ferguson had instant recall of all this information. ‘So, do you think your chaps could do some digging and see if they can turn up any more information about the location of the priory at Wickersham?’
‘I doubt seriously that we’re going to be able to find out more than we know already. It’s a subject that’s been heavily researched over the years—by historians, archaeologists, theologians, architectural types, you name it—but I don’t see the harm in conducting further searches. One never knows. That’s what we’re here for, doctor.’
At the door they shook hands. ‘Don’t you forget now,’ said Ferguson. ‘I have to see that chapel and the well—very soon.’
Chapter Eight
Kingston had been less than forthcoming when he told Ferguson about the chapel being locked up. It was, indeed, locked but it was Kingston who had the key, a very large iron key, which hung on a carved wooden rack in the hall of his cottage.