“A gathering, a council,” Vambéry explained. “One of the most important meetings in the history of the Church, called to reconcile the differences between the Roman and Celtic churches in the British Isles. At this time, there were few sites considered holier. In the tenth century, the entire structure was destroyed by the Danes, and the current abbey was built to once again house Benedictine monks. It was an active monastery for nearly five hundred years, until Henry VIII ordered the dissolution of all monasteries in 1539. That allowed the buildings and land to be bought by Richard Cholmley, a major land owner from Yorkshire. His family lived on the property until the eighteenth century, at which point it was abandoned. This is the part I found most interesting.” He paused for a second, then leaned into the table. “Mr. Cholmley used stones from the abbey to build his house. As was tradition at that time, before he could dismantle a holy sanctuary, the structure was deconsecrated by the Church. Only then could pieces be used to build a private home.”
“Are you sure of this?” I asked.
“Absolutely. The cemetery and remaining grounds no doubt stayed within the graces of the church, but the abbey did not; it is no longer holy ground. Many believe the lady in white to be Hilda, the original abbess, roaming the ruins of the abbey she loved, but like I said earlier, I believe this to be Miss Crone, and why not? If you are to believe the story of the Dearg-Due, what better place for someone who renounced God to hide than an abbey, which is now deconsecrated?”
“A place believed to be holy, but is not. Hiding in plain sight,” said Thornley. “Truly remarkable.”
Something caught Vambéry’s eye just then and he stood. “Please excuse me for a minute.”
I watched as he left the table and walked down the block to the corner of Bridge Street and Church, where a flower vendor had recently arrived and was setting up shop. She was unpacking her blossoms and spreading them out on a blanket along the side of the road. They spoke for a moment, then the woman pointed to her wagon and money exchanged hands. She handed Vambéry a basket, which he carried back to the table and set at its center.
“If we do find Miss Crone in the abbey, I would like to present her with this gift,” Vambéry said. “There is nothing a woman likes more than fresh-cut flowers.”
I leaned forward and looked in the straw basket. It was filled with large white wild roses.
* * *
? ? ?
17 AUGUST 1868, 4:58 p.m.—We climbed the steps to the abbey, commencing at Church Street, winding our way up the cliffside to the abbey above in a gently curving progression of steps. Earlier, Vambéry’s trunks had found their way safely to his room at the Duke of York Inn. He had retrieved specific items from them and filled four leather satchels, which he then divvied up amongst us to carry. While I did not look in the others’ satchels, mine held mirrors and crosses of all different sizes. As Thornley walked in front of me, I could see the barrel of a rifle protruding from his bag. He had shown it to me earlier; a new Snider–Enfield Mark III, its barrel shortened to make for ease of travel. I also saw Vambéry place the roses in Matilda’s bag. I am not sure what was contained in his own satchel, but whatever it was appeared to be hefty—he shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other every few minutes.
In just the last half hour, the sky had grown more woeful as storm clouds rolled in. I could see the harbor in the distance, the ships now returning to port. Those already docked were tying down in anticipation of the oncoming inclement weather. With each step we took ascending the steps, the air grew a little colder and the fog a little closer, until all we could make out was the fine mist surrounding us. The world below, the little town of Whitby, became hazy. I could not help but recall what Vambéry had said about Dracul manipulating the weather and I wondered if he was here now. By the time we achieved the halfway point