The Mysteries of Bran House || Fleckney Gothic Mystery

Prologue

The day of the funeral was sunny and warm, and Peggy felt some sort of a helpless befuddlement. She kept squinting, her swollen eyes almost blind after so many hours of crying. Her cardigan was too hot for the Summer weather, and a tag on her new dress kept scraping at her nape. She kept lifting her hand to her head in her usual anxious habit, only to remember that she wasn't wearing her toque and her veil anymore.

"Sister Margaret," a low male voice called her.

She turned sharply and stared at the man. She hadn't seen him in several years, not since he'd moved back to his native county.

"It's not 'sister' anymore," she said. "Hello, Oliver."

The man smiled at her softly. It was such a bizarre experience: they'd switched roles. She'd given up her tunic and scapular after twelve years; he was in a full clerical attire.

"How shall I call you now then? Ms. Brown?"

A shaky, joyless chuckle burst out of her.

"Well, that's just not right." She shook her head. "Da used to call me Peggy, before I took my vows." She threw another look at the fresh grave.

"Peggy sounds lovely."

"And you? It's the Reverent Holyoake now, innit?" Peggy asked and pointed at the man's collar with her eyes.

"It's always just Oliver to you," he said. "And if you ever feel like it, it would make me very happy if you called me Ollie, like your father used to."

Peggy's eyes filled with tears. "He did, didn't he?" She sniffled. "Thank you so much for taking care of his parish papers, Oliver. I'm so proper unequipped for– for life, really." She splayed her hand over her stomach - but the rosary wasn't there, of course. "They kept asking me all those questions, regarding his will, and the cottage, and a hundred other things. And then I was supposed to choose a coffin, and– It's only been four months since my dispensation. I've only just figured out how mobile phones work," she joked apologetically.

The man nodded. Peggy released a shuddered breath. One would think that a male who looked like some sort of an action film star would prompt the most impure thoughts; but Oliver Holyoake, even as a young curate in her father's church, had always struck Peggy as the most calming and reassuring presence. He was objectively one of the most attractive males one could imagine; but at the time her vows had protected her against the temptation. And since becoming the man's friend, she was blissfully immune to his transcendental magnetism.

"What are you going to do now, Peggy?" he asked.

She waved at one of her father's many acquaintances. A few people had been still lingering near the grave; some slowly walking away now.

"I honestly have no idea. As you can imagine, it's all rather sudden," she answered with a sigh. "If I hadn't decided to leave the convent, I don't think he would've told me about his illness," she said suddenly, and a sob quaked through her. "I'm not best pleased with him, still," she continued. "My father, I mean. Not Him with a capital H."

He chortled quietly. "In my church we go with 'They' with a capital T."

"Oh I do love that," Peggy said and smiled. It felt odd, as if her face had forgotten how to. "Father would say, whatever revs your engine."

"Ah yes, 'revs.' He was so very fond of puns." Holyoake snorted. "I remember how he got in trouble with some of his sermons."

"There's a reason why you ended writing them after a while."

Peggy looked around, once again stunned by the peaceful bucolic picture of the parish graveyard. The splitting headache torturing her temples was disorienting.

"Peggy, may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?"

Peggy lifted her eyes at him.

"Or, to be more precise," the Reverend Holyoake said with a smile, "may I issue you an invitation to the county of Fleckney?"