my sister, Christiana,’ replied Jenny. ‘Every year she’s the harvest queen. It’s her job to make the corn dolly.’
‘What’s a corn dolly?’ asked Joe.
‘It’s an old farming tradition,’ explained Jenny. ‘In the old days, before we all became Christians, people believed the spirit of the land lived in the crop and that, when it was harvested, the spirit became homeless. So with the last few ears of whatever crop it was, they made the corn dolly – a sort of temporary home for the spirit over the winter. In the spring, it got ploughed back into the land. I used to be jealous of Christiana when I was a kid and begged Dad to let me be queen just once. He always said if I could ever make a corn dolly like Christiana then I would be.’
‘So did you?’ asked Tom.
‘No, it’s bloody impossible – ’scuse me, Vicar. I don’t know how she does it. She’ll have finished it by the end of the evening. Now then, let’s have a drink.’
Harry found himself being steered, along with the adult Fletchers, towards the drinks table. Around them, the hall was filling up and people were starting to spill out through a pair of wooden doors into the large walled garden beyond. Harry could see the deep turquoise blue of the evening sky and fruit trees hung with lanterns. A four-piece fiddle-and-pipe band was getting ready to play.
Along one wall had been fastened museum-style glass cases and their contents had attracted the attention of the Fletcher boys and their father. Harry joined them. The cases showed archaeological artefacts that had been discovered on the moors and preserved by the Renshaw family in their own private museum. There were flint tools from the Neolithic period, Bronze Age weapons, Roman jewellery, even a human bone or two.
He wasn’t able to look for long before his attention was claimed. Over and over again, people introduced themselves to him, until he lost all hope of remembering names.
After an hour or so it seemed he’d met everyone. The hall was getting hot and he set off for the garden doors, only to pause when he saw the Fletcher boys and a few of the village children gathered around the harvest queen on her schoolmaster’s throne. Over their heads he watched the quick, skilled fingers of Sinclair’s eldest daughter.
She was a big woman, almost six feet tall and with a large frame. She’d be in her late thirties, he guessed, maybe early forties. Her hair was a thick dark brown and her skin was largely unlined. She would have been a good-looking woman, had there been some spark of intelligence behind those large brown eyes, had her mouth not hung open, as though she’d forgotten the norm was to keep it closed.
Maybe she had. Maybe every ounce of thought in her head was concentrated upon her hands. They were moving at an incredible speed. Binding, twisting, plaiting, over and over again her fingers twitched as the last of the hay, soaked and made supple now, was manipulated into shape. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, not once did she look down at her work, but in the short time she’d been in her chair, a loop of about six inches long had been formed and she was now fastening long straws, twisting and weaving them into place.
‘It’s a Pennine spiral,’ said a voice. Harry and the boys turned at the same moment to see that Tobias Renshaw had joined them. ‘Corn dollies are traditional all over the UK,’ the older man went on, ‘but each region tends to have its own particular design. The spiral is considered one of the most difficult to craft. My granddaughter’s brains all went into her fingers.’
Harry looked quickly at Christiana; her face twisted for a second but her gaze didn’t falter. Neither did her hands.
‘She looks like she’s concentrating hard,’ said Harry. ‘Does she mind being watched?’
‘Christiana lives in her own world,’ said the old man. ‘I doubt she knows we’re here.’
Harry saw Christiana dart a quick look at her grandfather. He put his hands on the Fletcher boys’ shoulders. ‘Come on, you two,’ he said, ‘Let’s leave Miss Renshaw in peace. We can admire her work later.’
He turned, about to guide the boys out into the garden to find their parents. Tobias stopped him with a hand against his chest.
‘I think you must despise our traditions, Vicar,’ he said. The pressure of his hand felt surprisingly strong for so elderly a