The legend of the seventh virgin

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Two days after the bones of the walled-up nun were found in St. Larnston Abbas, the five of us were together. There were Justin and Johnny St. Larnston, Mellyora Martin, Dick Kimber and myself, Kerensa Carlee — with as grand a name as any of them, for all that I lived in a cob-walled cottage and they were the gentry.

The Abbas had belonged to the St. Larnstons for centuries; and before they had owned it, it had been a convent. Impressive, built naturally of Cornish stone, its battlemented towers were pure Norman; it had been restored here and there and one wing was obviously Tudor. I had never been inside the house at that time but I knew the surrounding district very well; and it was not the house which was unique, for, interesting as it was, there were many more in England—and even Cornwall—as interesting and as antiquated. It was the Six Virgins who made St. Larnston Abbas different from all the others.

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