Alice’s Secret: A gripping story of love, loss and a historical mystery finally revealed. Lynne Francis
As Alys busied herself in the kitchen that evening, chopping onions and garlic, frying, stirring, adding chorizo, tomatoes, Arborio rice and fresh herbs, and absorbing the fragrance filling the room, her mind was drawn back to her afternoon at the bathing pool. It had been an effort to swim in the end, once she’d woken, fuzzy-headed, from her nap in the warm sun. She’d opened her eyes, but couldn’t quite take in where she was at first. There was the smell of greenery, of bracken and ferns. Her mouth was dry, and to her horror she realised it was open. She sat up. Had she been snoring? Drooling? Thank goodness there was no one around to see! Her swimming costume felt hot and sticky against her skin, so she unbuttoned her dress and shrugged it off, unlacing her sneakers before she picked her way over the slippery stones at the edge of the pool. Her plain black costume was in striking contrast to her usual attire, chosen because she’d always preferred to be as inconspicuous as possible in the swimming pool at her gym.
Once in the water, she hadn’t been able to help a grin spreading right across her face despite the chill that was starting to numb her whole body. It was a spectacular spot for a swim – about as unlike the gym pool as it was possible to be. She looked up towards the wooded hill on one side of the valley, gorse banks on the other, climbing up to plateaus of fields at the top.
When she turned back, she’d noticed a figure crossing the packhorse bridge. She paid it no attention, imagining whoever it was to be a hiker, making their way over the stream to pick up the Pennine Way. So, she’d been less than pleased when they’d turned off the bridge and headed over towards the pool. With the sun in her eyes, she’d been able to make out little more than the figure of a man, with a dog lead in his hands, but no dog to be seen.
‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen a dog go past, have you?’
Alys, treading water, felt a little vulnerable. She hoped that whoever it was would move on quickly. She didn’t relish getting out of the water in front of him, but she was also feeling distinctly chilly. She shook her head but, before she could respond further, the man went on.
‘Oh well, no matter. It won’t be the first time she’s got home before me.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been hearing that you’ve done wonders for Moira’s business. And you seem to be enjoying the countryside. I’ve noticed you out and about on your walks.’
Alys, still treading water, had manoeuvred herself so that the sun was no longer in her eyes. That, and the turn of the conversation, brought the realisation that the dog walker with the missing dog was Rob. She briefly considered the fact that he’d noticed her out and about. What did that mean, she wondered?
A response was clearly called for. ‘D-d-do you ever swim here?’ she asked through chattering teeth.
‘Are you mad?’ Rob laughed. ‘Locals don’t come in here, except maybe in August, when the water’s low enough to paddle. I don’t think I’ve swum here since I was a lad –’ he bent to dip a hand in the water and shuddered melodramatically. ‘Now I know why!’
Alys laughed, despite herself. ‘Call yourself a northerner?’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in here every day, breaking the ice in winter to get in.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ said Rob, turning back towards the bridge. ‘I’d think about getting out before you catch pneumonia, though.’ And with that he was gone, whistling and calling for his dog. Alys had watched him on his way, before turning round and taking a few quick strokes from one side of the pool to the other. Then, floating on her back, she gazed up into the depths of the blue sky. She’d found herself smiling at the turn that the day had taken.
A smile that was echoed now, then quickly erased as she realised that she’d stopped stirring and was in danger of burning the risotto.
Alys was quiet as she and Moira ate. She poured a glass of red wine for her aunt, but just water for herself.
‘Nothing for you this evening?’ Moira raised an eyebrow. If her niece was anything to go by, young people had become very abstemious. In her day, you never passed up the opportunity of a glass of wine. Alys had seemed to drink less and less each day since she’d arrived. She was looking better by the day, though, so perhaps there was something to be said for abstinence, Moira thought ruefully. Alys had a light tan, her hair was a little blonder, with threads of red and gold in the mix, and today she positively seemed to glow. She said she’d been for a swim in the bathing pool. Moira couldn’t begin to imagine doing such a thing herself. All that water off the Pennines – too bracing by half! Alys was definitely more relaxed in herself, too. No more nervous twisting of rings and bracelets. Although tonight she was a little quiet, a little on edge, perhaps? Moira wondered if something was up – perhaps with that boyfriend back home that Kate had mentioned? Alys herself hadn’t mentioned him once in the weeks that she’d been there. But before Moira could think of a way to pose the question without appearing to be nosey, Alys stood up and started to clear the table.
‘If you’ll be all right, I think I’ll just pop out for a bit of a walk. I’ll do the washing up when I get back. It’s such a lovely evening, but I don’t think it’s going to last. The forecast said rain for tomorrow. I’d like to make the most of it while I can.’
Alys left via the garden, drinking in the scent of the early roses tumbling on trailing stems along the garden wall. Swifts swooped and called above her, coming closer to the houses as the evening wore on. Jackdaws chack-chacked from the church tower. With no clear idea of where she was heading, Alys let herself into the graveyard through the wooden gate and followed the path as it curved around to the back of the church. It was very peaceful, with just the calling of the jackdaws and the occasional hoo-hooing of a woodpigeon to disturb the stillness. Some of the older gravestones had fallen, and the words carved on the headstones around the edges of the graveyard, where it was more exposed to the elements, were illegible.
She settled herself on a seat beneath a yew tree at the heart of the graveyard. Her eye was drawn to a headstone draped in trailing ivy, close to her seat. The setting sun picked out an arched design, carved on top of the stone, which looked strangely familiar. Curious, she got up to take a closer look. The stone was quite weathered, and coin-like shapes of yellow and grey-green lichens spotted its surface. Suckers of ivy had left silvery scars on the stone, an indication that someone had cleared it away in the past. Alys could just make out the name and the date:
1875–1895
Alice Bancroft
Alys felt a chill run through her. She’d died so young! Only twenty years old – fifteen years younger than Alys herself was now. And she had the same first name – well, almost. She shivered. She looked again at the surname – Bancroft – it wasn’t familiar to her. But the design on the stone was. She traced it with her finger. Fat seed pods intertwined with trailing tendrils and vines, rather like something that she’d seen on a William Morris print. Surely it was the same as the distinctive carving that she had noticed on the gatepost and around the door of the last house at the top of the village? But why was the stone so intricately carved, and yet there was no message of remembrance? It seemed odd, especially for someone so young. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and took a photo in the fading light, then headed back to the house, resolving to see if she could find out more.
The thought of the gravestone that she had spotted had bothered Alys for a day or so. She examined the photo on her phone, enlarging it as if it might offer up some clues. Was it just that it was always a shock to come across the grave of someone young? That sense of a life lost before it had even been lived?
As the days passed in a blur of early morning baking and serving in the café, followed by the rigorous cleaning demanded by Moira at the end of each day, Alys thought about it less and less.
‘It’s no good having tables and chairs that stick to you. And crumbs hiding underneath the cushions. It’s best to clean up every night, no matter how tired you