‘Says here that one,’ Mr Teague said, pointing, ‘is Ann Butler, died 20th October 1711, at the age of 23. “Beloved wife”, it says. And this must be her husband.’
He moved on. I held my breath for one long heartbeat without meaning to.
‘Jack Butler,’ Mr Teague read from the book. The stone had split across the centre, as though something had been dropped on it. ‘No dates on this one, strangely. Just an epigraph: “My God will raise me up, I trust.”’
I breathed again. Jack Butler would have died an older man, I knew, because he’d lived to see his journals published nearly a quarter of a century after the time when I’d met him. And the quote from the poem by Sir Walter Raleigh, an earlier seafaring rogue, seemed quite fitting for Jack.
I asked, ‘So there are no other Butlers here?’
Mr Teague read down the list of inscriptions again. ‘Not here, no. That’s the lot. Were they relatives, then?’
‘No, I’m doing some research for Susan’s new venture.’ I knew he’d have heard about that. ‘You know, finding out who used to live at Trelowarth.’
‘Well, here’s the lad coming now that you ought to be asking about things like that.’ Mr Teague gave a nod to the road where a cyclist was just coming round the sharp bend at the top of The Hill from Polgelly. I recognised Oliver straight away, even with his cycling helmet on.
‘That is,’ said Mr Teague, ‘if you’ve not already been asking him.’
I caught a sly tone in his voice that made me wonder just what else was being talked around the village pubs, these days.
It hardly helped that Oliver, when he caught sight of us beside the hedge, slid to a stop beside the road and smiled a brilliant welcome. ‘Morning, Eva. Mr Teague.’
The hard climb up The Hill had left him faintly winded, and his T-shirt clung with perspiration to his chest and shoulders while the muscles of his legs beneath the biking shorts were perfectly defined.
‘Oliver.’ With one more knowing nod in my direction Mr Teague said, ‘Well, I’ll let you two young people talk. I’ve got my work to do.’
I said, ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘It weren’t much.’
As he started to go, I remembered to ask, ‘Mr Teague, could you tell me the date of Ann Butler’s death one more time, please?’
His weathered fingers flipped the pages of the book again to find it – October 20, 1711 – and I thanked him for a second time and, as he headed back across the churchyard to the place he’d left his garden shears, I turned instead to Oliver. ‘Do you have a pen?’
He found that amusing. ‘Do I look like I have a pen?’
I glanced once again at his close-fitting T-shirt and biking shorts, and said, ‘No problem,’ repeating the date in my memory a few times to hold it there.
Oliver asked, ‘Who’s Ann Butler?’
‘Daniel Butler’s wife.’
‘You’ve found out more about them, then, your Butler brothers.’
‘Just a bit. That’s Jack,’ I said, and pointed to the broken stone. ‘The younger brother.’
‘So where’s Daniel?’
‘I don’t know.’ I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about not finding him. There might be peace, I thought, in knowing how he’d died, and when, and yet a part of me was happiest not knowing.
Oliver felt confident that he could track the information down, in time. ‘I like a challenge.’
‘So I see.’ I nodded at the bike. ‘You do this sort of thing for fun, then, do you?’
‘Actually, today I’m off on business.’
‘Business?’ I know I looked as surprised as I sounded, but really, that outfit …
He grinned. ‘One of my holiday cottages up St Non’s way has a burst pipe. I’m meeting the plumber at ten.’
‘Susan’s plumber?’
‘Don’t know. Does she have one?’
I nodded. ‘From Andrews & Son, in St Non’s.’
‘Then it might be. Working on the tea room for her, is he?’ At my nod, he said, ‘Felicity keeps telling me I ought to come by sometime and see how that’s getting on.’ And then, ‘She also told me yesterday you’d found a knife, or something, that you wanted me to look at?’
‘Oh. Daniel’s … I mean, Mark’s knife. Yes.’ My slip seemed not to register with Oliver.
‘Maybe I’ll stop in on my way back, then. Have a look. You’ll be in, will you?’
I had to admit that I probably would be.
‘Then I’ll see you later.’ With a brilliant smile of promise he set off again, the bike wheels whirring as he picked up speed along the narrow road.
And watching him, I couldn’t help but wonder if the tenant of his cottage was a woman. Because if she was, then her day was about to get better than she could have hoped, having Oliver and maybe Susan’s good-looking young plumber at work on that burst pipe together.
I felt another tiny twinge of guilt that I could not return the interest Oliver was showing in me. After all, I’d met him first, before I had met Daniel. But I couldn’t help my feelings. There’s either a spark or there isn’t, my sister had once told me. There wasn’t with Oliver. Whether I’d met Daniel Butler before him or after him, I knew it wouldn’t have made any difference.
I looked down and said to Ann Butler’s grave, ‘You understand, don’t you?’