Blackstone fell, p.15
Blackstone Fell, page 15
Judith was an owl, not a lark. She loved to sleep in as late as possible, and getting any sense out of her before ten o’clock was the devil’s own work. Quintus Royle blamed the old fools who had brought her up, sparing the rod and inevitably spoiling the child. It had been left to him to inculcate in her the habits becoming a rector’s wife. A thankless task. After all these years, it was time to face the truth. He’d failed. Worse than that, she’d betrayed him.
Last night, his patience had finally snapped. The time for circumlocution was past. He’d decided to have it out with her. When he taxed her with her adultery, she’d screamed that he was a cruel and heartless beast. She wasn’t always compliant; over the years, she’d bleated about certain of his proclivities, but this time she’d gone much further than ever before. When he called her a whore, she actually said that she hated him.
The slap on her cheek had been entirely unpremeditated. He was a man of God, a cerebral individual not given to violence. But he was only human. A mere mortal, and thus a sinner. Judith prated on endlessly about her feelings, but never concerned herself with his. When he hit her, she’d run upstairs in floods of tears. He heard the rattle of the lock turning in her bedroom door. Her racking sobs persisted, drowning out the sound of rain rapping the windowpanes. She was still crying when he retired, as was his invariable custom, at ten. The noise didn’t stop him drifting off to sleep. His conscience was clear. That glancing blow to her face had not even drawn blood. She had provoked him beyond endurance. Her behaviour was shameful. Pure wickedness.
He patted the bull terrier’s egg-shaped head. ‘Time for your walk.’
Triangular eyes returned his gaze. The creature loves me more than my own wife, he thought. Judith had proved unable to give him a child. Something wrong with her innards; he didn’t know the details and had no wish to enquire. Perhaps it was as well. At one time he’d yearned for a son, but what if the boy inherited her weaknesses? She would be sure to spoil a child, with calamitous results. He could not tolerate a milksop for an offspring. At least his dog was resilient and brave.
Once they were out of doors, he inhaled the fresh air. The grass and the leaves shone in the morning light. The downpour had washed the landscape, but this was no Eden. It would take more than a single cloudburst to cleanse Blackstone Fell.
He crossed the clapper bridge and let the dog off the leash. ‘Go on, Moses. Have a run, boy.’
The bull terrier raced away down the track, leaving his master to muse on his misfortune in marrying a harlot. He’d fought against the growing suspicion that his wife’s faithlessness had progressed from nursing infantile crushes on American film stars to the filthy reality of carnal relations with a man in the village. The indications had been there for some time, but he had refused to acknowledge them. Lately, however, it had become impossible for him to deny the truth to himself. She’d become more remote than ever. It was as if his very touch disgusted her. Yet they were man and wife. One flesh.
Last night, he’d come close to securing an admission of guilt. In the end she’d kept her luscious lips buttoned, but it wasn’t her silence that inflamed his temper. It was the glint of contempt in her beautiful eyes.
And they were beautiful. Even now, after everything that had gone wrong between them, he found her loveliness beguiling. But her allure was tainted. How could he ever trust her again? She was the Messalina of the Pennines.
Who had cuckolded him? He’d agonised about the culprit’s identity, not daring to contemplate the unspeakable possibility that Judith had consorted with a servant or someone from Blackstone Foot. The rector’s wife would be quite a trophy for a low-browed lecher, some brute of a peasant. For all her faults, he could not believe that Judith would stoop so low. Who, then? In the upper village there were just a handful of plausible candidates. Not the professor; that was unthinkable. His son was a very different matter. Yes, the culprit must be one of four men. Denzil Sambrook. Young Carrodus. Harold Lejeune. And Major Huckerby.
His hands shaking with anger, he tramped along the path towards the Fell, whistling for Moses. The bull terrier was nowhere to be seen.
‘Moses! Here, boy!’
There was no sign of him. Quintus Royle gnashed his teeth. The black dog was trained to obey. The rector prized fidelity. He was close to the base of the Fell and as he passed through the clump of trees, the mouth of the cave came into view. He called again.
‘Moses!’
He was answered with a faint growl. The dog couldn’t be far away. Had he entered the cave?
‘Moses!’ He approached the cave. ‘Moses!’
Still the dog failed to come rushing back to him. He felt his temper rising. It was unaccountable.
Quintus Royle would not see sixty again, but he prided himself on retaining a spry physique. If he needed to enter the cave, so be it. Breathing hard, he got down on his haunches and peered into the darkness.
‘There you are!’
Moses was still growling, as if on guard. Whatever he was guarding was bulky and broken.
Quintus Royle moved forward and squeezed himself into the opening of the cave. He stared, unsure whether to believe his eyes.
Moses had found a blood-soaked corpse.
14
‘Morning,’ Trueman said as he walked into the back room of The New Jerusalem where food was served to paying guests.
A tall woman with iron-grey hair sat reading the Bradford Telegraph & Argus. An unopened copy of the Witness lay on the tablecloth, next to her coffee cup and an empty toast rack. Her back was straight, her build spare. She gave an unintelligible grunt and didn’t look up.
‘Rotten weather when I arrived,’ Trueman persisted. ‘Hoping for better luck today. I don’t know this part of the country and I fancy taking a walk to get my bearings. I’m here on business, mainly, but all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh?’
The woman took no notice. He tried again.
‘The name’s Mann, by the way. Hugh Mann. Human, you see? Don’t laugh, I’ve heard all the jokes a hundred times before.’
The woman lowered the newspaper and peered at him through small, rimless glasses. A severe but intelligent gaze, Trueman thought. She didn’t pretend to be amused by his feeble quip. If, as Dilys suspected, she was a retired schoolmistress, she’d brook no tomfoolery in the classroom. Her round face was weather-beaten, her leathery cheeks and bony hands spotted with age. It was tempting to diagnose a dried-up spinster, but he had learned from his sister’s disfigurement. A quick glance never gave you a proper measure of a person. The woman’s features were nicely proportioned and her bone structure striking. Thirty years ago or more, she must have attracted plenty of suitors. And she’d not forgotten how to brush off men who tried to soft-soap her.
‘If you’ll excuse me.’ She dropped the newspaper on the table and got to her feet. ‘This belongs to Mr Crawshaw, but he won’t mind you taking a look. I’m afraid the news is parochial, but they don’t take the Times here and the Witness is unreadable tosh. Good day to you.’
With that, she was gone. Moments later, Dilys arrived to take his order for breakfast. Mrs Crawshaw was a martyr to arthritis, and Dilys helped in the kitchen as well as serving behind the bar. Trueman contented himself with idle chit-chat while he polished off the last of his Yorkshire ham.
‘Enjoy your chat with the major last night?’ she asked.
‘Good bloke, that,’ Trueman said, wiping his mouth with a cotton napkin. ‘Not in the market for a new car, mind. Nor was Dr Sambrook, more’s the pity.’
‘He’s one of these intellectuals,’ Dilys said. ‘Too clever for me.’
‘Not your type, eh?’
She shrugged. ‘The major, now, he’s a real gent. Such a terrible shame about his wife.’
‘You liked Mrs Huckerby?’
There was a momentary hesitation. ‘I hardly knew her. They never used to come in here. It’s only since the tragedy that I’ve got to know the major. Since she died, he’s got into the way of drowning his sorrows.’
‘An occasional drink is a great solace,’ Trueman said.
‘After he’s had a few, he gets downcast. I do my best to cheer him up, but grief’s a terrible thing, Mr Mann.’
‘It is that. And don’t stand on ceremony, you can tell I’m not one of the nobs.’ He grinned. ‘Common as muck, that’s me. So go on, pet. Call me Hugh. Hugh Mann, get it?’
He’d taken the precaution of masquerading as his cousin from Workington, whose full name was Hubert Mann and who was invariably called Hugh. Rachel had urged him to borrow a verifiable identity, in case someone bothered to check up on him.
She laughed. ‘All right, Hugh Mann.’
‘That’s more like it.’ His amusement faded. ‘Shame about the major. His wife had nervous trouble, I gather?’
‘So they say. She was a quiet one. Stand-offish, some folk said.’
‘I imagine they were a devoted couple.’
‘You never know what goes on behind closed doors,’ Dilys said darkly.
‘Was there any… talk, then?’
‘Oh no,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’m sure I don’t mean to imply anything. Her death was such a shock, that’s all. She looked a bit frail and washed-out, but some women do, don’t you find?’
‘Present company most definitely excepted,’ Trueman said gallantly. ‘You’re a genuine Yorkshire rose, if you don’t mind my saying so. Even if by rights you ought to come from the Red Rose county, with that wonderful head of hair.’
‘You’re a right charmer, Hugh Mann,’ she said, running a hand through her unruly mop. ‘And no mistake.’
He steered the conversation back to the topic of the late Mrs Huckerby. ‘Terrible way for anyone to end it all. Self-poisoning, I gather?’
‘It was awful,’ she said. ‘Nothing was proved, but everyone reckoned she topped herself. She collected the tablets the doctor prescribed until there were enough to make sure she’d never wake up again. There was a lot of talk in the village. We’ve had nothing like that since old Mr Barrass the cobbler hanged himself from a coat hook.’
‘Folk always gossip, don’t they? Shocking. Must make it even harder to cope with the grief. Rough on a man, when he loses his wife.’ Trueman gave a philosophical shake of the head. ‘But life goes on.’
Dilys nodded in vigorous assent. ‘Exactly what I’ve told the major. He’s not such an old buffer yet, and he keeps himself fit. Army training, I suppose. He’s in here most nights. Not that I’m complaining. Good for business.’
Trueman gave her a wicked grin. ‘Who can blame him? Bet he enjoys the scenery.’
She smiled. ‘Flattery doesn’t always get you everywhere.’
‘Sorry to hear that, pet, but hope springs eternal.’
‘Less than twenty-four hours since you signed the visitors’ book, and already you’re taking liberties!’
‘I bet the major is one of your secret admirers.’ He winked at her. ‘Maybe not so secret, eh?’
She winked back. ‘Jealous, are you?’
‘Helpless in the clutches of the green-eyed monster.’
She laughed. ‘Well, you’re not as smart as you think you are, Hugh Mann. The poor major can’t get over what happened. Believe it or not, he’s even talked about making contact with his wife in the spirit world.’
‘Get away!’
‘As true as I’m standing here. You know, séances and whatnot. I heard that he and the rector fell out over it. Mr Royle reckons all this spiritualist malarkey is unchristian. He’s a rum one, the rector, and no mistake. I feel sorry for that poor wife of his. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But I suppose he’s right, it’s a load of malarkey. Not that I’d say so to the major. Only the other week he was bending Dr Sambrook’s ear about the afterlife. Not what we expect in The New Jerusalem. People are usually more interested in whether Bradford City will beat Bradford Park Avenue.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Trueman said as she paused for breath, ‘a scientist would sympathise with the idea of getting in touch with the dead.’
She spread her arms. ‘I can’t make him out, that Dr Sambrook. Got his head in the clouds, if you ask me.’
‘I bet you’re much smarter, when it comes to things that really matter.’
‘Get away with your bother. Off to work now? Or are you on the skive?’
‘Treating myself to one or two well-earned days off work, pet. I’ll have a look-see at the village, maybe climb up the Fell. Good to get a breath of air after yesterday’s storm. And this afternoon, I’ve got an appointment at the sanatorium.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You’re not…?’
‘It’s about my father-in-law,’ he said. ‘Since my missus died, he’s gone downhill fast. By the sound of it, Blackstone Sanatorium is ideal for anyone who has trouble with the nerves.’
She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
He feigned anxiety. ‘You don’t think they are quacks, do you? I’d hate my father-in-law to go anywhere that wasn’t…’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘Ever since the place was built, folk have called it the Mausoleum, but only because it’s an eyesore. The professor has always been very close about his work.’
‘What about his daughter? Are you friends? Two lasses who grew up in a small village?’
She gave him a hard stare. ‘Daphne Sambrook’s older than me, I’ll have you know. We’ve never had anything to do with each other. The local kids used to make fun of her after the accident.’
‘Accident?’
‘It was when she and her brother were kids. The professor bought a new Daimler, but as he was driving along the lane that crosses the moor, he lost control on a bend.’
Trueman tutted. ‘Daimlers, eh? I bet he braked too hard and the wheel rim collapsed. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Mrs Sambrook was killed. The professor lost an eye and Daphne was badly scarred. For a year after the accident, she didn’t utter a word. The professor set up a family trust to care for her. But she’s a tough one. She made a very good recovery, though you can still see a livid mark on her brow.’
‘And she is deputy matron at the sanatorium?’
‘That’s what they call her. From what I can make out, her main job is to look after the books. She isn’t a scientific type. She came back not long before Dr Carrodus bought his practice here. There was gossip that her brother wanted the two of them to make a match of it. Not that it was ever likely. The doctor is jolly and she’s always had a sharp tongue. She’s never bothered to get to know folk in the village. Even so, it doesn’t cost anything to be civil, does it?’
‘Snob, eh?’
‘It’s not so much that. We have a saying round here.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Nobbut a mile between Foot and Fell, and far apart as Heaven and Hell.’
Trueman raised his eyebrows. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Meaning we’ve got nowt in common with the posh folk in the upper village. The likes of the Lejeunes and the Sambrooks. And the rector and his wife, for that matter. They keep themselves to themselves.’
‘What about the staff at the sanatorium?’
‘The professor has always forbidden them from talking about what goes on there. Anyone who opens their gob gets the boot.’
‘Sounds mysterious.’
‘You can understand why they want to keep things hush-hush. People who go there to be cured pay a lot of money. Or their families do. Nobody likes to hang out their dirty washing in public? I mean it’s not nice, is it, if folk know you’ve gone doolally?’
‘Ah. They want discretion.’
‘That’s the word. And that’s what they get.’
‘The treatment usually sets them right, then, does it?’
‘I expect so,’ she said. ‘Otherwise people wouldn’t keep coughing up, would they?’
His admiring gaze lingered on her. ‘Sounds like the Sambrooks have cornered the market. An outfit like that must be a real gold mine. They must be rolling in it.’
‘The professor’s a boffin, got his head in the clouds. He doesn’t care about money, always goes around looking like a scruffy old tramp.’
‘Not like his son, eh? That suit he wore looked like a Savile Row job.’
‘It’s not just his clothes,’ Dilys said. ‘In his own way, he sees himself as a lord of the manor.’
‘Well, he does live in a manor, doesn’t he?’
‘That isn’t the half of it, believe me. He and his family trust have started buying up land and houses. They even bought Blackstone Lodge from Harold Lejeune.’
‘Blackstone Lodge?’
‘Yes, the gatehouse of the Tower. Been in that family since the place was built, but the Lejeunes ran out of money years ago. You can’t live on a view. There’s a whisper going round that Harold wants to get rid of the Tower.’
‘Didn’t I hear about some sort of legend?’
‘Sharp ears you’ve got,’ she said. ‘Yes, there’s an old tale about the gatehouse. Men have vanished from there without trace.’
‘Good grief!’
‘Harold Lejeune’s own brother went missing just before war broke out. I was only a kiddie at the time, but there was a big to-do about it. Alfred Lejeune, his name was. Went into the Lodge and never came out again. Or so they say. They searched the moor and the Fell, but he was never found.’
‘So that’s how Harold came to own the Tower?’
‘Not that it’s done him much good. By all accounts, he never wanted to come back to England. He lived on the Continent for years before his brother was declared dead.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, he went out there to hunt rare plants. That’s where he met his wife. I heard he didn’t really want to live in the Tower at all. The grounds are a wilderness. He’s never even planted a bed of his precious flowers.’
‘What do you think happened to Alfred Lejeune?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But I do know what will happen to me if I don’t get these plates washed.’
Trueman got up. ‘I’d better leave you to it.’
