Collected works of j s f.., p.848
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 848
Eddison nodded.
“Then why should Mrs. Martenroyde, after entering her death in the family Bible, have crossed the entry out?”
“I wouldn’t know of that. But I can very well understand it. Hannah’s never spoken of that vagary of hers to me, but you remember what Avis told you? Soon after the news of Deborah’s death came, she began not to credit it, said her sister would be coming back some time. Ay, that crossing out of the entry’s rather sad. Oh, well, that’s all something of the past. We’re concerned with the present. I’m wondering, every day, what’s going to happen next — and if anything will happen. Or is the mystery of James Martenroyde’s death going to be one of the unsolved order?”
What did happen next happened next day. At noon Avis Riley, coming home to her dinner from her morning’s work at the mill, asked to see Eddison and me, and as soon as she saw us blurted out her news in brusque fashion.
“Mally Brewster’s off,” she announced.
“What do you mean— ‘off’?” asked Eddison, startled out of his usual equanimity. “Off where?”
“Left Mill House,” replied Avis. “Run away — at least, it looks like it. You know where Becca Thorp lives, Mr. Eddison? — that little cottage near the Scarthdale Arms. Well, Becca was up very early this morning, as usual, getting them lads of hers off to the mill, and Mally Brewster walked in on her and asked for a cup of tea. And she told Becca she was going — she said she couldn’t bide at Mill House any longer.”
“Who told you all that?” demanded Eddison.
“Becca herself,” said Avis. “I chanced to meet her as I was passing that way.”
“Did Mally tell Becca why she couldn’t bide any longer at Mill House?” asked Eddison.
“Nay, I don’t know that,” replied Avis. “That was all Becca told me — and I didn’t ask any questions. But I thought you and Mr. Camberwell would like to know.” Eddison turned to me.
“We’ll go down and see Becca Thorp,” he said. “I’ll get the car out.”
I glanced at him in surprise. It was scarcely a stone’s throw to Becca Thorp’s cottage — why take the car? Then I guessed at his intention.
“You mean to follow the old woman?” I asked. “Mally?”
“Probably,” he answered. “It depends on what we hear. Anyway, we’ve got to know what’s made her leave Mill House.”
Ten minutes later we were at the door of Becca Thorp’s cottage. Becca herself opened it — a big, shrewd-eyed woman who, at sight of Eddison, held the door still wider.
“Morning, Becca,” said Eddison. “Can we have a word with you?”
“Come your ways in, Mr. Eddison,” replied Becca. “There’s nobody here but our two lads, having their dinners, and you’ll make no difference to them while they’re on at that job — they’re always as hungry as hunters when they come in from their work.”
We followed her into the living-room of the cottage, where at a table beneath the little flower-pots of the window-ledge two hefty young fellows in the linen overalls which the millhands wore were steadily at work with knives and forks on plates piled high with meat and vegetables. Each looked up and gave my companion a stolid nod; each went on with his eating as if nothing else in the world mattered. Eddison turned to Becca, who was already busy with something that was cooking on the oven top.
“You’ve had Mally Brewster here this morning?” he asked. “Avis Riley has just told us. What’s it all about?”
“Nay, naught but that she’s off, Mr. Eddison,” replied Becca. “She come in here first thing this morning, just as these here lads were starting for their work, and begged a cup of tea, and of course I saw there was something amiss and I made her sit down and have some breakfast. And she told me that she couldn’t bide a minute longer at Mill House yonder, and she’d got up early, before any of ’em were stirring, and had made shift to get out of a chamber window and — well, there it was! — she was going.”
“But why couldn’t she bide there any longer?” asked Eddison. “What had happened? She’d been there long enough to get used to anything, I should think.”
Becca Thorp gave us a queer look.
“Why, I’ll tell you, Mr. Eddison,” she answered. “I didn’t tell yon lass Avis, but I’ve just told them lads, and I’ll tell you. She said she couldn’t bide an hour longer at Mill House, for she was seeing James Martenroyde’s ghost every night, regular!”
“Seeing James Martenroyde’s ghost!” exclaimed Eddison.
“That’s what she said,” replied Becca. “James Martenroyde’s ghost!”
“Where did she see it?” asked Eddison.
“Nay, she didn’t say,” answered Becca. “I reckon it didn’t matter where she saw it. But I could tell that she believed she did see it — and I could see, too, that the poor old thing was fair frightened and upset. Anyway, she’s gone — she went off as soon as she’d drunk a cup of tea and eaten a morsel of bread.”
“Where has she gone?” asked Eddison.
“Why, she said she should go to her own place,” replied Becca, “and I know where that is. She came from Shawes, the other side of Todmanhawe Fell, and she said there’d be them that knew her and would take her in. But I said to her, ‘Why,’ I said, ‘it’s many and many a long year since you were ever in them parts’ — I said so, d’ye see, Mr. Eddison, because I knew old Mally had never set foot outside of Mill House for I don’t know when— ‘and,’ I said, ‘all your folks’ll be dead and gone.’ But she wouldn’t have it — there’d be somebody as remembered her, she said, and she’d go where she came from. And away she went.”
“Have any of the Mill House people been here to inquire about her?” asked Eddison.
“Nay, they haven’t,” replied Becca. “But I’ll lay Hannah Martenroyde wouldn’t be over-well suited when she found she’d flown. No — they haven’t been here.”
“How was she going to get to Shawes?” asked Eddison. “Why, it must be twelve miles across the fell — and in winter, too!”
“More like sixteen, sir,” said one of the lads. “There’ll be snow up on the top, and all.”
“Well, she aimed at walking,” said Becca. “She’d naught with her but a little bundle. Oh, she’d walk sixteen miles — a strong woman, is old Mally. Were you for going after her, Mr. Eddison?”
“I am going after her,” replied Eddison, buttoning up his overcoat. “And at once. But you needn’t tell anybody — you lads keep your mouths shut when you get back to the mill.”
Amid assurances of secrecy from Becca and her lads we left the cottage and went out to the car. Eddison turned it in the direction of the road which led to the upper reaches of the dale.
“Couldn’t bide because she was seeing James Martenroyde’s ghost every day!” he muttered as the car moved off. “Now, what on earth’s the meaning of that? Anyhow, we’ve got to find out — if we can.”
One o’clock struck from the church tower as we left Todmanhawe behind. Eddison accelerated the pace.
“She’s had about seven hours’ start of us,” he remarked. “Still, it’s a rough and a steep road, once you come to the fellside, and she’s an old woman — we shall catch her before she’s near Shawes. And even if we do—” He paused at that and drove on some little distance before finishing his sentence— “even if we do catch her, Camberwell, I’m doubtful if we shall get anything out of her — I know these dale folks! Still, you may take my word for it, the truth about Martenroyde’s death is known to Mally Brewster!”
“You feel sure of that?” I said.
“I am sure — now,” he answered. “And I’m surprised that Mrs. Martenroyde isn’t away after the old woman. For that matter, she may be. We shall see — I’m going on, anyway, till I’ve run Mally to earth. It’ll not take us long to cross the fell to Shawes. You’ve not been to Shawes, I think, but it’s not far — lies in the next dale.”
I had never been up Scarthdale, the way we were going, at all, having had no opportunity and not caring particularly to go exploring it in winter. This was a typical winter day: a grey, monotonous sky overhead, wreaths of mist circling about the tops of the fells and among the plantations of larch and pine on the hillsides, and a general feeling that snow was somewhere above and would fall before the day was out. For all that, it was impossible not to realize the wonderful beauty of the valley, with its winding river, now full and rushing along between its rocky banks, its old-world, grey-walled villages, its chasm of wood, crag, hill — I determined to return and explore it fully when summer came round. I was being hurried through it now; the road, if winding, was good, and we met scarcely any traffic; Eddison drove his car along at high speed. But at the end of the ninth or tenth mile the road and the scenery changed; the dale narrowed to a dark and gloomy defile, and the road became little more than a cart-track, along which it was necessary to slow down. A mile farther on we came to a little hamlet — an old church standing on the river-bank, a farmstead or two, a few cottages, and a quaint roadside inn. Eddison pulled up.
“Last inhabited place in the dale,” he remarked. “Naught but solitude and eeriness beyond this. We’ve missed our lunch at home, Camberwell — get out and we’ll have a bite and a drink. And we’ll ask if old Mally’s been seen.”
We went into the little inn. Its landlady cut us some sandwiches and drew us some ale; we ate and drank in front of a roaring fire of logs. The landlady stared inquisitively at my companion.
“Not oft that we see you up in these parts, Mr. Eddison,” she remarked. “You are a stranger!”
“Ay,” assented Eddison, “and I shouldn’t be here now, on a cold day like this, missis, if I hadn’t had some business.” Then, with an air that suggested confidence, he told her what we were after. “You haven’t heard of or seen her?” he concluded. “If she’s making for Shawes, she’d have to pass here.”
“Nay, I haven’t, Mr. Eddison,” replied the landlady. “But then, of course, if she didn’t call in, I shouldn’t see her. Shawes do you say she’ll make for? Eh, why, she’ll have to cross Todmanhawe Fell, and the moor above there’s thick with snow! You’ll have a job to get your car up there.”
“We’ll try, anyhow,” said Eddison; “and whether we do it or not, we’ll drop in on you coming back, for a cup of tea, so keep your kettle boiling.”
“Nay, it’s always on the boil, is our kettle, Mr. Eddison,” laughed the landlady. “I’ll be ready for you. But eh, dear me, the idea of that poor old woman crossing yon moor — I hope you’ll find her.”
“We’ll try, missis,” said Eddison, with a grim smile, “and I dare say we shall — if somebody else hasn’t found her already.” He motioned me to follow him outside the inn, and we got into the car and went off again. “Last trace of civilization, that, Camberwell,” he said as we left the little hamlet behind. “We’re for the wild now — and the hill-tops. You’ll think you’ve come to the world’s end.”
The character of the dale had changed. It had now narrowed to a defile; the river was become a stream running over rocks and boulders; the road, which followed the windings of the river, afforded just sufficient room for the car. And from this point onward there was not a house or cottage to be seen — we were alone with the dark fells and the darkening sky.
We came at last, a mile or two farther on, to a point where the track turned abruptly to the right, revealing itself as a zigzag which ran steeply up the fellside. Eddison said this was the foot of the pass, and that we should have reached an altitude of over two thousand feet when we came to the moor above. His was a powerful car, and we were soon on the height; I found myself gazing with something like awe at a vast tableland of ling and heath, high above the world, yet flanked on every side by the great hills of the Pennine Range. Not a human habitation was in sight, and the mountain sheep were few. This, I felt, was solitude. But when we were half-way across the moor, Eddison let out a sharp exclamation and, looking ahead, I realized that our quest was not in vain.
CHAPTER XVIII. LOYALTY
THE QUEER, DUMPY figure in front of us was moving steadily along, slowly, but with a firm, regular gait which showed that it was good for more miles yet of that dreary moorland road. It carried a little bundle in one hand; the other grasped a stout umbrella, making use of it as a walking-stick — in every movement of foot and hand I saw determination. Mally Brewster had a goal ahead and was making for it ere night fell.
“We musn’t let her know we’re after her,” said Eddison as we drew near. “We shall get naught out of her if we do. Surprise is the ticket.”
He slowed down as we came up to the old woman — who, hearing us approaching, had moved a little aside, but without turning her head — passed her for a yard or two, and then abruptly pulled up.
“Why, that’s Mally — Mally Brewster!” he exclaimed, with well-simulated wonder. “Bless me, Mally, what ever are you doing here, so far from home, and on a cold day like this?”
The old woman, checked in her walk, stared doubtfully at us. For a moment she made as if to slip past the car, which Eddison had steered a little across her side of the narrow track, but after another glance at her questioner she stopped and looked at him steadily.
“I’m going home, master,” she answered. “I come from Shawes.”
“Shawes, eh?” said Eddison. “Ay, well, you’re none so far off it now, to be sure. But — you haven’t left Mrs. Martenroyde, have you? I thought you were a fixture at Mill House.”
The old woman shook her head.
“Nay, master,” she answered, “it’s time I went home. I want rest.”
“I dare say you do,” said Eddison sympathetically. “But couldn’t Ramsden have driven you to Shawes? It’s a long way for an old lass like you, across these fells.”
“I’m none tired, master,” answered Mally. “I’ve taken my time. It’s none rest of that sort I want,” she went on, suddenly showing signs of confidence. “I’m strong enough in body. Master! I couldn’t bide in yon house any longer — I couldn’t!”
“Nay!” exclaimed Eddison, still affecting surprise. “Why — weren’t they good to you — and you such an old servant to ’em?”
But Mally shook her head again.
“It wasn’t that, master — there was naught to complain of that way — I was one of ’em, as you might say,” she replied. “But I couldn’t bide — I couldn’t bide!”
“What for?” asked Eddison. “Come, now — you can tell me. You know me. What’s the trouble?”
The old woman hesitated, looking from one to the other of us. Suddenly her queer old face grew dark with memory.
“It was James Martenroyde, master,” she said in a low voice. “I ha’ been seeing his ghost, day in, day out, ever since he was put away!”
“James Martenroyde’s ghost!” exclaimed Eddison. “Nay! But where, my lass, where? And when?”
“I ha’ seen it every day, master, but most at nights — it was night when he was killed,” replied Mally. “There he was when I laid down in my chamber, and wouldn’t go from my sight. And as long as I stopped in that house, I knew I should see him. And I came away — and now I must go home, master, I must go where I came from.”
She made as if to pass us, but Eddison checked her.
“Stop a bit, my lass,” he said. “Mally, you know me — and you know something else. Something about James Martenroyde’s death. What is it, now?”
The old woman started, looking at him with a sudden fear. Again she made as if to go on.
“I ha’ said overmuch,” she muttered. “You must let me go, master.”
“You needn’t be afraid, my lass,” said Eddison. “But come now, you do know something, don’t you? Something about the Martenroydes, eh? Tell me — you know I’m a lawyer.”
Mally paused, giving Eddison a long, steady look. Then she shook her head — and I knew Eddison would get nothing from her.
“Nay, master,” she answered, “I cannot say anything about Martenroydes. I ha’ eaten their bread and sheltered under their roof for more than thirty years, and I cannot say a word. You must let me go, master. The dark’s coming.”
I realized now how well Eddison knew his fellow dales-folk. He asked no further questions — on that subject, at any rate.
“Ay, the dark’s coming,” he repeated. “Get into the car, my lass, and I’ll take you where you want to go.”
But Mally made no sign of accepting this invitation.
“Nay, thanking you, master,” she answered. “We’re on the edge of the moor now, and it’s naught but a bit of a fell down yonder to Shawes, and there’s a house on the way that I want to call at — I’d rather walk, master.”
“As you like,” said Eddison. “Have you relations at Shawes?”
“Ay, master — in the churchyard,” replied Mally. “All dead and gone is my folk. But there’s them i’ the place that knows me and’ll take me in. And I’ve money.”
“Well, take care of yourself,” said Eddison. Without further word he began to turn the car. “You know where to find me if you want a bit of help,” he added as it came round. “Do you hear, now?”
“Ay, master,” the old woman answered, “I know.”
We turned in our seats to watch her. She went steadily forward again along the moorland track, never turning her head. Not far off rose one of the grey stone walls which ran in regular lines across the heather, pierced here and there by narrow gateways; through one of these she disappeared, and Eddison’s car moved off again — by the way we had come.
“ ’Eaten their bread and sheltered under their roof — and I cannot say a word,’ ” repeated Eddison. “There’s loyalty for you, Camberwell. I knew it was useless to ask her anything after that. But — she knows something!”
“What do you think she meant when she spoke of seeing James Martenroyde’s ghost?” I asked. “Did she mean it literally?”
“No,” he answered. “I thought you’d not understand that. She meant she was always dreaming of it, seeing it-something — in her mind’s eye. I tell you, my lad, that old lass knows! But, Lord save us, what is it she knows? Something that happened that night is known to her and has made a lasting impression on her. And she’ll probably carry her knowledge to her grave — unrevealed.”
