Dulcie stirred languorously. It was her day off and, for once, her husband Richard had a day off at the same time. Her Reader would lead the morning Matins, her son Peter was a responsible ten years old, and would be supervising their daughter Sara, just six, as they ate their breakfast.

Richard rolled closer and caressed a breast. “Any ideas about plans for the day?”

“Mmmm.”

He chuckled. “Care to share them with me?”

“Mmmm.” She moved so as to increase the pressure of his hand upon her. “I thought we might go to Mersea Island for a sea-food lunch and a walk. I’d quite like to visit St. Edmund church.”

“Sounds good. A break in routine and a change of scenery.”

“Want to walk the kids to school with me?”

“Love to.”

“Then we need to get up and have breakfast.”

Sara, in particular, was excited to have both parents walking with her to school. Peter, well, he was too ‘old’ at ‘nearly eleven’ to show he was pleased. Next September he’d be walking to the High School on his own. Dulcie and Richard left him with his friends to play until school began, and his parents went, each holding one of Sara’s hands, round to the Infants’ entrance.

With the kids in school, they set off in Richard’s SUV for Mersea. It’s only a few miles, maybe fifteen, from Maldon to West Mersea, but the roads are narrow and twisty, thus it was ten o’clock before they crossed The Strood and found a parking place, and time for coffee and a snack. Suitably refreshed, they set out to walk more or less east to the church. However, halfway there, Dulcie’s attention was caught by an information board and four graves, all bright with flowers, and they stopped to read. (The tale is told in ‘Pursuit of Peace’). The first grave had an engraved stone:

Martha Jenkins, née Smith.

Born 17^th December 1797

Died 29^th April 1813.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

“How curious,” Dulcie murmured, moving to the board. She read the account, which referenced ‘The Manor Mystery’, but then moved to the other head-stones. They, however, only bore the legend ‘An Unknown Woman’ and ‘Rest in Peace’. Then, “How sad.”

As they stood there, holding hands, a woman emerged from the house following a little boy who carried a red ball, which he proceeded to kick around a small patch of grass. Apart from a track leading to the back of the house, most of the area in front was clearly a meadow, if not fully established. The woman saw them and waved, but concentrated on the boy’s activities.

“We’d better head to the church,” Dulcie commented, turning to Richard.

“Lead on, Darling.”

The church of Saint Edmund, King and Martyr, dates from the twelfth century though the building is later. Happily, the door was unlocked – Dulcie had worried, as so many churches these days have to be locked when not in use – and they entered quietly.

Richard sat in a pew near the front, while Dulcie went forward to kneel in the chancel. She remained there on her knees, eyes closed, for a few minutes before hearing a beloved voice.

“Little Sister.”

“Lord?”

“As you know, not all who claim My name belong to me.”

“Yes, Lord. But some may turn...”

“Indeed,” there was a smile in the voice, “often because you call them. But I want to tell you that ... not all who belong to me claim My name.”

“Lord?”

“Today, you will meet one who does not bear My name, yet is loved by Me. She will introduce you to one who needs your ministry.”

“Lord?”

“Remember that love is the fulfilment of the Law, little sister.”

“Yes, Lord.” And the warm presence remained as she stood and went to her husband. “Ready for lunch, my love?”

“Certainly.”

As the outing had been spur-of-the-moment, they hadn’t booked anywhere, but there was plenty of choice, and the Fox Inn had a range of seafood on the menu, as well as draught beer. Dulcie enjoyed a draught beer, while Richard a non-alcoholic ginger beer. As they were waiting for their meal, however, a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman approached. When she saw Dulcie’s clerical collar, she hesitated, but took a deep breath and spoke.

“Excuse me, but is your name Dulcie?” She pronounced it with a soft ‘c’, her voice soft with a discernable Irish accent.

Dulcie raised an eyebrow, but smiled. “My name is usually pronounced with a hard ‘c’,” she said, “but that is my name.”

“It’s just...” the woman broke off, “I got a message that a woman called Dulcie would be in here at lunch-time who could help a friend of mine.”

Dulcie’s smile broadened. “How odd! Not long ago I was told I would meet someone with a friend who needed help, but I would need to be ... open minded. Not to judge.”

Richard broke in then, “Darling, I’ve never, ever, known you to judge anyone.”

Dulcie shook her head briefly. “Outside, maybe. There’ve been times...”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the woman said.

“You aren’t,” Dulcie said, with another smile. “Why don’t you sit with us?”

“If you’re sure? I’m Mary O’Donnell.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “I suppose I need to say up front that I’m a witch.”

“Ah!” Dulcie sighed. “That explains things somewhat. How may I help you ... or your friend?”

They were interrupted by the arrival of their meals. The waiter asked Mary if she wanted her meal delivered to that table, rather than the one she’d been sitting at. She raised an eyebrow at Dulcie and Richard. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Dulcie then murmured a grace before Richard and she picked up their knives and forks.

“So, Dulcie,” Mary began, but her lunch appeared and derailed her train of thought. The waiter placed it in front of her and she bowed her head and muttered something in Gaelic before picking up her knife and fork. “The Manor Mystery.”

Dulcie finished her mouthful. “Heard about it for the first time today. Those graves, ‘unknown women’. Desperately sad.”

“Yes,” Mary nodded, “they were early teens, as far as the osteo-archaeologist could tell, between twelve and sixteen. Nothing to identify them, though.” She hesitated, but went on, “The story is, well, most people wouldn’t be able to believe it.”

“Most people wouldn’t believe what I’ve experienced,” Dulcie commented. “If it’s supernatural, well, I am the Diocesan Exorcist.”

“It’s hard for me to trust a Christian,” Mary said, quietly, “they tend to carry a prejudice against such as me.”

Dulcie nodded. The three of them enjoyed their meals while they were hot, and Mary began to speak between mouthfuls, so the tale was a little disjointed, but in essence was as follows:

“It seems that Squire Jenkins took a young wife, Martha Smith. He was not a popular man, being prone to drunkenness and violent outbursts. Martha disappeared shortly after Easter in 1813. All the Squire would say was ‘she run away’. That the girl – only fifteen – would run away from his temper was believable, but not that she would just disappear. Anyway. Some time after, there was a fire at the Manor, and the burned body of the Squire was found in the cellar surrounded by broken glass. It was thought that he’d collapsed, drunk, and overturned a burning oil lamp. But people began to see a wraith walking the site. No-one would buy the place, though the surrounding property was sold off. But a few years ago, a man, Trevor Shepherd, bought the remaining acre, parked a caravan there, and began to clear the remains of the building. He told me he’d met a young woman in drab, old fashioned clothing, who spoke in an archaic way.”

She paused long enough for a drink and several mouthfuls, before going on, “He experienced dreams and allowed a team to dig an area behind the remains of the old building. What do you think they found?”

“A grave?”

“Exactly. They found the grave of a young woman, who was reburied as you can see, by the road, with full Christian ceremony, after which my friends and I performed a Wiccan ceremony and planted meadow flowers and bulbs on the grave.”

“It looks lovely,” Dulcie said, while Richard was nodding.

“Thank you. Here comes the unbelievable part, though. In Chelmsford, a young woman who had been a drug addict, and was in a vegetative state?” She glanced at Richard, who nodded.

“Brain dead, but sufficient autonomic function remaining that she didn’t actually physically die.”

“Exactly. But after a couple of years like that, Rita Greenleigh woke up about the time the ceremonies to bury Martha were completed. Except that she insisted that her name was Martha. And the way she spoke. Anyway, after a year or so, Rita/Martha was able to live independently, and travelled to Mersea, where she met Trevor. Between them, they found the old Squire’s treasure, and, in due course, married. In the process of building a new house, though, they came across three other burials, presumably victims of the old Squire, though we don’t know that for sure.”

“Quite a story,” Dulcie said, seriously. “But how can I help?”

“There are two ways,” Mary told her. “Maybe. Perhaps you can help Martha, who is a Christian; I can’t explain, but I think she needs absolution. The other ... Well, I hear Christians sometimes have a gift of knowledge. None of the incantations I’ve tried has succeeded in finding a name for any of the other girls.”

Dulcie sat quiet and shut her eyes. The sense of a warm presence, which had never quite disappeared, strengthened. She opened her eyes. “I am not unwilling,” she smiled, “and I think my Lord is in this, which is hopeful. My gift is usually a prophetic one, but I have experienced Knowledge. However, there is a matter of ... professional courtesy, if you like. This is not my parish. My position as Exorcist permits me to act anywhere in the Diocese, but usually by invitation. Do you have any sort of relationship with the Rector of the parish?”

Mary smiled. “Not really. I think he’d like to pretend I don’t exist.”

“Pity.” Dulcie sighed. “Could you bring ... Martha? To Maldon?”

“I could, or her husband. He has a car. Their little boy will need a minder.”

“Suppose you give me a call when you’ve spoken to Martha?” Dulcie rummaged for, and found, a card which she handed to Mary.

“I will do that.”

They finished their meal and lingered over coffee until it was time for Dulcie and Richard to return to Maldon to collect Sara from school. In conversation it became apparent to Dulcie that she and Mary had a great deal in common.

Sara was delighted to see them, while Peter had gone to a friend’s house for tea. The three of them walked home.

Two weeks later, Dulcie ushered Mary and Martha into her office and settled them with cups of tea. Over the tea, Martha began her story.

“The Squire bought me from my father, who had a small-holding in Tolleshunt D’Arcy. The Squire did marry me, but that was all he did for me. The sex hurt and he hit me when I cried or protested. He hit me if a meal wasn’t to his liking, or, sometimes, when someone or something else upset him. He drank a lot, and had a lot going on which made money. I think he was smuggling, amongst other things. Anyway, one day he was in a real temper about something. I don’t know what it was, but he beat me and beat me. It was the strangest thing, but I found myself looking down on him and my body. It was ... a mess. He left it there and went out to dig a hole as I watched. And watched him pick up my body and dump it in the grave, and shovel the earth back.” The young woman had been speaking in quite matter-of-fact tones, glancing at Dulcie or Mary from time to time. “I watched him, you know. Then one evening I followed him into the cellar of the Manor, but slipped the bolt on the door to the wine store. Inside I watched him drink, and drink. But something changed, and he could see me. I could see the fear, and I laughed as I tipped the lamp over and set fire to the litter on the floor. I watched as he tried to get out, and screamed as the fire took hold. I watched as he collapsed, then I left and watched the Manor burn down. I killed him, Dulcie. And walked the grounds of the Manor until my Trevor came and was kind to a poor girl. My body was found, and reburied near the road with a proper funeral ... and a ceremony led by my friend Mary. Then I woke up in the body of Rita Greenleigh.”

Dulcie sat quietly, attentive, and didn’t rush to fill the silence that followed.

After a while, Martha continued. “It was so lovely to know Trevor. It’s wonderful to be married to him, and to have our son, Paul. But somehow, I cannot forget that I killed the old Squire. I go to church, you know, and listen to the readings and the sermons. It’s wrong to kill.” She sighed. “He’d killed before. I didn’t know, but we found those bodies when we built the new house. But two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Dulcie sat quietly. “No, you’re right, Martha. But sometimes things aren’t as straightforward as they seem, and usually it’s a mistake to see things in black and white. May I pray for you?”

“I suppose so...”

Dulcie turned to Mary. “Will you join us?”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She cocked her head, looking at Dulcie, and smiled. “Okay. Why not?”

“I’m just an ordinary girl,” Dulcie stated, “nothing special at all. When I’m at a loss, like now, I find that letting God pray in me often gives an answer.” She closed her eyes and began to speak. Neither Martha nor Mary understood the words, but they certainly felt something. As Dulcie spoke, the other women found themselves in an enormous room, filled with people of all nations, colours, cultures. It was very bright, and the colours of the clothes vibrant, or brilliant white. Martha, nervous, took Dulcie’s hand.

Dulcie’s eyes fixed on One she longed for, Who smiled and approached them.

“Well, Little Sister. You come once again. I think I know your companion.” He turned to Martha, who found that her eyes were caught by His, and she couldn’t look away. She dropped to her knees, though, peering up at Him. “So, Martha, you are troubled?”

“Lord ... I killed him. He hurt me, and I killed him.”

“You did. But Martha, he was doomed to destruction. You were the instrument of the wrath of the Father. He was a murderer, a thief, and far gone in evil. You bear no guilt in this, dear girl.” He laid his hand upon her head. “Go in peace, little one, you are loved. Receive the Spirit, and live out your destiny as wife and mother.”