Markers of Descent

By Lucia Cascioli

Herman Beasley, known as the finest wood craftsman in England, enjoys making furniture for the villagers of Barnswallow. But in 1486, Herman’s peaceful life takes an unexpected turn.

Hundreds of years later, Professor William Moore moves from England to Canada where he receives an anonymous package from Barnswallow. Soon, he finds himself entangled—along with a determined forensic specialist and a friend—in a complex mystery that began to unravel well before his time.

Markers of Descent intertwines the past and present as the characters attempt to solve a centuries-old mystery while humankind hangs in the balance.

Lucia Cascioli is a Canadian writer. Spiral, her first thriller, was named a finalist at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Her other books include Struck, Shifters, Letters to the Grave, From Scratch to Finish, WTF? Tales from the Burbs, and The Getaway Book. Lucia lives in the Greater Toronto Area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483435312

Book preview

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Prologue

1561

Every day was ordinary, and that suited the villagers of Barnswallow just fine.

They went about their daily chores, rising early and laying their heads to sleep after dusk each evening. In the year 1561, as the fall breeze began to cool their lands, they joined in celebration to enjoy the fruits of their labour. Around large tables, lively conversations could be heard rising louder and louder, interrupted only by bubbles of laughter and chords of traditional songs. They recounted changes that had occurred in the year gone by: marriages, births, and deaths of loved ones. They were grateful for every blessing, satisfied with what they had, longing not for riches beyond their imagination.

Here, on the outskirts of the small English village of Barnswallow, lived Herman, a gentle soul of ninety-five. He spent his days whittling away on the broken branches of his many beech trees. Herman loved the peace and tranquillity of his country abode. He enjoyed sitting on his stoop listening to the melodies of the birds perched high in his trees and the hum of the breeze as it whistled through the leaves on windy day.

Herman was a quiet man who had earned his solitude. As a young lad, he had worked for the village carpenter crafting furniture for the locals, who compensated him for his services with whatever exchange they could offer. This meant, of course, that rarely did he have a farthing to his name. He did, however, always have a full stomach, for the villagers were honest and welcoming folk who never let a completed task go unpaid.

Herman was content with his work. He was an avid student and learned much as an apprentice. When the village carpenter took his last earthly breath at a ripe age, it was natural that Herman assume his role. He did so gladly and shared the joy of his craft with all who entered his humble shop.

His customers, in turn, spoke highly of their village carpenter at local fairs, and soon word of his work had spread far beyond the hills of tiny Barnswallow. Unbeknownst to Herman, he was being praised in the highest circles as the finest wood craftsman in all of England. Word of his talent had burrowed as far as the king’s ear – a king who had known his father, a man Herman had hardly known.

In 1486, at the age of twenty, Herman’s life took an unexpected turn – one of many.

PART I

June 1, Present Day

If only these walls could talk! The real estate agent blathered on about the century-old house as she roamed its halls with potential buyers. Twenty had already wandered through so far that day, bringing the week’s grand total to thirty-five. She hoped the house would be off the market by Monday.

And here we have the main staircase, Rebecca said, raising her voice so that it echoed in the empty space along with the tapping of her spiked heels. It’s been mended several times since it was built. You may find this hard to believe, but this staircase is older than our country.

She knew that these words would spur on a chain of questions.

What do you mean? the gentleman asked. I thought you said this house was built in the 1920s.

She had him. One look at his herringbone Harris tweed jacket with its patched elbows and Rebecca would have known that he was the history professor type, even if the European history books stacked in the back seat of his Saab hadn’t given his interests away.

Mr. William Moore ran his fingers across the spindles. A sunbeam reached in and shone on his head. Rebecca detected that his longish hair was greying. He wore a pale blue button-down shirt and brown leather shoes. She had noticed they were wearing awfully thin as he walked up the stairs to the front door when they arrived.

Rebecca Grant had placed more Sold signs on houses than her fellow agents even during the leanest of economic times. She was good at her job and had learned to read people. Her honed skills put money in the bank and funded her dream of an early retirement.

You’re right, Rebecca began. The house is from the 1920s, but the staircase was brought over from England years later. The original builder managed to have it removed piece by piece from an old castle. Most of it went up in flames, unfortunately. Somehow, the fire department saved the staircase just in time.

His interest piqued, Mr. Moore could not help but probe further. Do you know the name of the castle? Where in England? If –

All of the historic documentation on the house will be made available to the new owner, she said. I haven’t even been given permission to read it. I’ve told you all that was explained to me. You’ll have to just buy the house, Mr. Moore, if you want to know the rest. She smiled broadly.

He fit with the house. After spending a good hour going through it thoroughly with him, she could sense his love for the place. Others had been interested but quickly found faults with the old abode – too many creaks in the floor, too much to repair and replace, and of course, not nearly enough closet space, even though the listing boasted twenty-two rooms. The reasons for not buying the house outnumbered the beauty of it by the time they got back to the front door.

Mr. Moore was different. Maybe it was his age, or maybe it was the pensive way he nodded at the little facts she shared with him. He definitely had a soft spot for the uniqueness of the place. It was as if the house had been waiting for him to claim it.

Later that evening, while she was soaking in the tub, her phone vibrated to life on the bath mat. I want to buy the house. No need to negotiate. I’ll pay the asking price. Inspection is not an issue.

Rebecca quickly called the selling agent to take it off the market. Three days later, the deal was done.

June 4

Perched high atop the staircase, Mr. Moore scanned the old house. He inhaled the smell of it – dirt, decay, and he thought he detected a hint of lavender. After years of abandonment, nature had come to reclaim it. The paint had cracked only to be replaced by the ivy infiltrating through the windows and holes in the attic. He could hear critters scurrying behind the walls and above his head. A smile crossed his face. No doubt they would consider him the intruder.

How fortunate he considered himself to own such a fine home. After signing through a mountain of paperwork confirming what he could and could not do to the house and the property, he had finally been given the keys. He expected there to be a number of is to dot and ts to cross. After all, the house was once owned by the famous Elgin family. They had made their money in the retail business. Now the heirs to the family fortune could see no reason to keep the house. It was too far for them to drive. They were downtown Torontonians. Anything that was north of city by forty-five minutes was not worth the drive. They certainly would not move out to the small town of Nobleton. They all had elaborate cottages to which they arrived by helicopter. This property was merely something to take off the books and off their hands. He had no doubt that the money they received would be put toward needless renovations (absolutely necessary to them, of course) to their stylish weekend-escape homes. The executor of the estate could not change the conditions stipulated in the Elgin will. Adamant that the land and the home not be developed as part of the suburban sprawl, the new owner, amongst other limitations, could not tear down the old house, build any extensions, have additional structures erected on the property, or use the site for commercial purposes. These were conditions to which Mr. Moore was more than willing to agree.

He couldn’t understand why the heirs did not see the beauty or historical value of the site. It was only as good as the final sale figure. Anyone willing to pay the full asking price was a blessing to them – a means to an end.

Although Rebecca had told him the house was built in the 1920s, he knew it to be built in 1937, the date he noted on the foundation stone he found one day as he surveyed the outside of the property. From afar he had gazed at it in admiration. Its Norman style was impressive. He adored its round arches, the tower that stood proudly against the blue sky, and the brown shingled roof, now in desperate need of repair.

Mr. Moore sighed. He walked over to a hall window, rubbed a circle of dirt away from the pane, and placed his elbows on the dusty peeling sill. He stared out at the once-tended garden. At the beginning of June, the brown-eyed Susan and hollyhock were barely visible amongst the much taller and sturdier weeds. He spotted hosta leaves pushing out of the tall grass and a hydrangea bush drooped over a crumbling birdbath.

He certainly hoped he would get to tend the grounds before the beginning of the school year. First he would have to hire a professional restorer and contractor (if such a title existed). His focus would have to be on the immediate necessities, and there were many besides the roof. The windows would all need replacing, the chimneys and furnaces would need to be cleaned and repaired to ensure they were in excellent working condition, and pipes and faucets would need to be inspected along with the electrical boxes and outlets. This darling would have to be shielded from another harsh winter. Most importantly, the staircase would need to be protected while the skilled workers went up and down its stairs with their clunky work boots. It would be saved for last. A team of experts would be needed to bring it back to life.

The ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the house and jolted him out of his mental planning. A tradesman, he thought.

He went to the front door, expecting to see men clad in overalls. Instead, he received a welcome surprise.

Package for you, the deliveryman said as the door began to open.

Thank you, Mr. Moore replied.

Sign here.

With pleasure, Mr. Moore said, holding the precious delivery he had been anxiously awaiting since the moment he took possession of the house. Rebecca had promised him the house’s detailed history, something which none of the remaining Elgin clan had bothered to learn and therefore could not share or appreciate.

He locked the door and sat on a step. The staircase creaked beneath him.

The package came sealed in a clear plastic bag. It was a square cardboard box the size of a small stool that was in turn wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The return address was from a Ms. Winthrope residing in the town of Barnswallow, England. This was not at all what he had expected.

Mr. Moore remembered Barnswallow fondly. It was the place of his birth and where he had been raised by his loving parents and shaped by childhood friends.

Life, however, had taken him far from his roots, as life sometimes does. It had been years – thirty, to be precise – since he had walked its cobbled streets. He had not returned since the untimely death of his parents in a car accident. Entrenched in his studies at the time, he had felt the guilt of not being there for them. As the years passed, he knew that his familiarity of Barnswallow was long gone. Visiting would no doubt crush his rose-coloured glasses of that place. Time was cruel that way. He preferred to picture them living happily in their country cottage.

Barnswallow? he said aloud to the walls surrounding him.

He could not recall anyone with the name Winthrope in Barnswallow. How odd, he thought.

He slowly removed a strip off the cardboard box cushioned by foam padding and gently pulled a large plastic envelope out with a label that read, Soon, it will be time.

Mr. Moore stared at the signature beneath this odd phrase. It appeared to be written by an old hand, judging from the hesitations in the various loops. He would need to examine it and the package, which appeared to contain a number of smaller envelopes in more detail.

Not here, he thought as he looked around at his dusty, damp abode. The letters looked quite ancient and fragile. He supposed that perhaps it was a collection of his parents’ musings that someone had found and believed it best to ship them off to him. The message could possibly be a reminder that he could not avoid his roots. It was all rather strange to him.

The truth was, he hadn’t the heart to open the vault of his childhood memories. He would delve into his past once he had finished tackling the tasks at hand. He placed them back in the box and laid it beside him. The stairs creaked another heavy sigh, reminding him of the many repairs still to be completed.

July 9

Mr. Moore couldn’t believe a month had gone by since he had taken possession of the estate. Every day for the last four weeks had brought with it various tradesmen who would swarm several areas of the house at one time. The buzzing of saws, the pounding of hammers, and the constant barking of orders from the contractor he had hired to oversee the restoration were all too much for Mr. Moore.

To escape the progress being made, he puttered around the garden and did what he could to bring it back to order. He felt at peace in the garden. Here, at least, he knew how to do a few things until the team of professional gardeners arrived after the tradesmen’s departure. He had wound the clematis to a makeshift trellis, cut back the overgrown bushes, pulled weeds, and made piles of everything that he had cleared where the composters would be placed. He craned his neck to examine the treetops that formed a canopy over one area of the garden. He followed the bark of one particular oak with his eyes down to its base, where he thought the perfect spot for a reading nook lay. A smile crossed his face as he imagined himself holding finely steeped tea in his favourite cup.

Satisfied with his progress, he admired the beauty of his home and her surroundings. Still weeks away from the beginning of the new school year, he looked forward to spending the time getting to know her better.

You talk about your house as if she’s the love of your life, his friend Charles had joked over an ale at the local pub one night.

Perhaps she is, Mr. Moore replied, more to himself than to his companion.

Charles Fitzgerald was a friend of Mr. Moore’s from their university days. He had last been in Crete for a dig and returned early in order to prepare for a rather full fall term. He and Mr. Moore had roomed together at Christ Church College at Oxford University and got along splendidly from their first meeting. It was Charles who had persuaded Mr. Moore to make the leap