‘He didn’t do as he was told, did he, ma’am?’ said Dale tremulously. ‘He didn’t destroy it. Do you think … was it … a trap?’
‘It could be. If Tremaine really wrote this, why hasn’t he said so?’ In fact, it seemed to me to be a very obvious, not to say a blatant, trap. But though Eric had a fine physique and spectacular good looks, he did not have a complex mind, let alone a devious one. To him, that note probably meant simply what it said. Or had it? I might be doing him an injustice. He might have a straightforward mind but he wasn’t a fool. Perhaps he had had doubts. He had perhaps assumed, as he had said to Kate, that he could look after himself, but just in case, had left the note for us to find. We would never know.
‘Tremaine surely can’t have wanted to injure Eric Lake,’ Sybil said in bewilderment. ‘He can’t have written this!’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Dear God, we shall have to take Eric home to West Leys and tell Kate! This is … it makes no sense!’
The three of us stood there, staring at each other in bewilderment and horror.
‘I never wrote this, of course not!’ Tremaine bristled with indignation. He, Brockley, Meddick and a burly miner had between them borne Eric up to the house and carried him to his room, on a makeshift bier, covered discreetly with a blanket. Once he was laid on his bed, I summoned Tremaine to the parlour and there, with Sybil and the Brockleys as witnesses, I produced the note. Tremaine read it and at once exploded.
‘No one has suggested that there are signs of copper in that mine. I’ve not seen any. It’s nonsense! And even if there were, there’d be no need for all this secrecy and carryin’ on as if it’s some kind of skulduggery! And that there ain’t my signature. Find me a pen and I’ll show you what my signature is. I can write but I don’t use all them big, noble words, neither, words like bruit. I know its meanin’ but I wouldn’t use it.’
We gave him a pen and he demonstrated his signature. It bore not the slightest resemblance to the one on the note. I stared from one to the other for some moments, and was certain. Tremaine’s signature was plain and clear. The handwriting on the note was more elaborate, shaping some letters quite differently.
‘Who was the boy who brought this?’ I said. ‘Can we find out?’
‘We could ask Harry,’ said Brockley.
‘But I don’t want Harry having to think about … oh, well, I suppose he will anyway.’ But we would have to be careful. At the mine, when he told us about the note, Harry had been gratified by the adult attention, but he was still just a child and might become tongue-tied if faced with direct questions. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.
I found Harry in his room, reading. Tessie was sitting with him, this time mending one of his jackets. Harry, a proper boy, could be hard on clothes. I sat down on his bed and said: ‘Harry, you say you saw a boy bring a note for Master Lake. Did you know the boy or was he a stranger?’
Harry looked uneasy. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘No one is angry with you. We’ve found the note but we don’t know who sent it. If we knew who the boy was, that would help us to find out.’
‘Tessie was cross yesterday when I went out and played with the boys whose dads work at the mine.’
‘You had no permission to go,’ said Tessie sternly.
‘There was no harm done,’ I said. ‘Let it be, Tessie. Harry had a pleasant afternoon practising archery. Harry …’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harry. ‘I thought … I thought it was Jem Horne – his father’s one of the miners. He was one of the boys I played with. But I don’t know him well and the boy with the note was away across the courtyard from me …’
‘That’s a start,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘Thank you, Harry. You can go downstairs now. Go out to the stable and help Joseph.’
Having seen Harry sensibly occupied, I returned to the parlour, to report what my son had told me.
‘Jem Horne?’ said Tremaine. ‘Aye, his da’s Will Horne. He helped bring Master Lake up the hill. He’s in the kitchen now, takin’ some ale. I’ll fetch him.’
Will Horne was the burly miner, a hard-faced, heavily built man, who came into the parlour reluctantly, staring round at us, obviously wondering why he was there and what he could have done wrong.
‘Will,’ said Tremaine, ‘where is your son Jem? Seems it might have been him as brought a note to Master Lake, that got Master Lake down to the mine.’
‘A note? My Jem? He didn’t say aught to me about it!’
‘Harry might be mistaken. But he glimpsed the boy who brought the note and thought he looked something like Jem,’ I said. ‘We feel we must ask. Could you bring him here?’
Master Horne was clearly irritated, but Tremaine looked at him sternly and he did as he was bid. It took some time, as the boy was apparently at home with his mother and sisters in their lodgings in Black Rock, but father and son eventually appeared together. Jem was about ten, I thought, an intelligent-looking lad though at the moment a sullen one. Harry, it seemed, had identified him correctly. Jem’s father had already questioned him and to begin with, it was Will Horne who told us the story, with Jem nodding and saying: ‘Yes, that’s how it be,’ every now and then, and rubbing a suspiciously reddened ear. Will Horne had evidently not approved of his son’s errand or its secrecy.
It was a simple story enough. Mistress Horne, the previous day, had had a fancy for some fresh fish and the Penzance fisherman had probably gone fishing in the morning. There would be fish for sale late in the day.
‘Fish straight out of the sea and fried in butter, nothing like it,’ Will Horne told us. ‘My wife she sets great store by it and she’m right. She allus goes to the same fisherman. Ned Shaw, that’s ’un’s name.’
The previous afternoon, as soon as the rain had stopped, Mistress Horne had despatched Jem to Penzance to buy from Ned’s catch. ‘He took one of the hosses as hadn’t been working at the mine yesterday. Trotted off bareback. Wouldn’t take ’un long to get to Penzance,’ said Horne.
Jem had found the fisherman on the quay in conversation with a man, a stranger, who was apparently asking if Ned Shaw knew of a messenger who could go to Rosmorwen in a hurry. ‘Someone had told him that Shaw knows just about everyone in Penzance,’ said Horne.
Jem had arrived at that moment and Shaw had immediately recommended him. At this point, Jem spoke for himself. ‘He told him my dad was working at the mine at Rosmorwen, and that we’m living in Black Rock, so couldn’t I take the message – it’d hardly take me out of my way.’
The stranger had given Jem a little roll of paper, sealed, and told him to be very careful with it, because it was of serious importance. And it was also very private. He was to give it only into the hands of Master Eric Lake – did he think he could do that?’
‘Aye, I’ve seen Master Lake, I knew what he looked like,’ said Jem. ‘And he give me a silver coin, worth a lot, that is …’ Here, he glowered at his father and I surmised that Will had not only boxed his son’s ears; he had snatched the silver coin as well. ‘Give it me so as I’d get the letter to Master Lake and no other and not tell no one,’ said Jem resentfully. ‘Not even your own father, he said to me. So I did. Honest business. Then I went home with the fish.’
‘At your age, you don’t have business that you don’t talk to your da about!’ barked Horne.
‘Well, I did then. So I brought the letter and as I come in through the gate here, I see Master Lake, so I give it him. That’s all.’
‘What did this stranger look like?’ Tremaine asked.
‘Dunno. Cold wind off the sea and he had a cloak on with a hood and hood were up. Couldn’t see much of ’un’s face, ’twere all in shadow. He were just a man in a cloak.’
‘Talkin’ to strangers! Takin’ money for errands ’ee don’t understand!’ Horne fairly snarled it. ‘Time you was workin’ alongside me at the mine and keepin’ out of mischief and earnin’ proper money that I know all about. I’ll see about it, if Master Tremaine here’ll take on a mischievous brat like
you …’
Tremaine and the Hornes departed presently, wrangling over Jem’s future. Meddick, shaking his head in shocked bewilderment, went about his duties; Sybil and Dale, pale and distressed, went to the kitchen to help Kerenza, who was very upset. The two village women had been so badly distracted by the disaster that Kerenza had sent them home. Brockley and I stayed in the parlour. I was thinking. Many small things were sliding together in my mind and making an unpleasant picture.
Brockley said: ‘Whoever gave that note to Jem could have followed him, on horseback. With a rope. Could have got Master Lake to walk ahead of him into the mine, struck him down from behind and then used the horse and the rope to bring down the support and make it look like an accident.’
But who? The unspoken question hung in the air.
At last, I said: ‘I’m like someone peering through a window with very small panes, so that the view outside is all criss-crossed with the lead frames, and the glass is thick, so nothing outside is clear. There’s something out there but I can only see pieces of it. But … I think it’s a monster.’
‘I know,’ said Brockley. ‘And I think I could put a name to it. Or them. I can glimpse two monsters. Can you?’
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Yes.
FIFTEEN
The Grievous Homecoming
‘I don’t understand,’ said Kate, sinking down on to a settle in the West Leys parlour. She had taken one bewildered look at our sombre faces when we arrived at the door, and another at the sight of Eric’s dark-chestnut horse, which we had brought home hitched to the back of the coach, and had then mutely obeyed my gentle warning to go inside, yes, into the parlour, for privacy’s sake, and sit down, Kate. We have unhappy news for you. She had now been told the news, but clearly couldn’t take it in. ‘You say that Eric is … is … dead! But …’
Her hands folded protectively over the hump that was their child. ‘Our baby will be born in January. It’s his son or daughter. He’d want to see his child! He can’t be dead!’ She saw by my face that he was. ‘What happened? Was he ill? Eric is never ill! He …’
‘We’ve brought him home,’ I said. Whatever else we all had on our minds, and as far as Brockley and I were concerned, that was a good deal, we had known that to bring Eric home to West Leys was our first duty. ‘He’s outside, in a coffin, on a wagon. We hired it in Penzance.’
‘I have told the driver and Joseph to go to your kitchen for refreshments,’ said Brockley. ‘They are being looked after.’
‘And I have sent Tessie and Harry upstairs for the moment,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t object, as this is your house. But we came straight here – I didn’t want to turn aside so as to leave them at Hawkswood – and now that we’ve got here, I wanted them out of the way while we broke this sad news to you.’
‘If Eric is … there … then I want to see him,’ said Kate.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, my dear.’ She had been my ward and I was very fond of her. This was a hard task for me. ‘The coffin has been nailed shut and … it’s been nearly three weeks.’ It was better, I thought, not to describe his injuries. ‘We had to get the coffin made and the wagon arranged,’ I said, ‘and there was an inquest and then we were two weeks on the road and the weather has kept so warm …’
‘You mean he’s not fit to be seen?’
‘I mean that, yes, dear Kate. I am sorry.’
‘He’s dead. I’ll never see him again. He’ll never see his baby. He … I …’
As the tears came, I went to put my arms round her. Sybil said: ‘Come, Dale, let’s ask in the kitchen for some wine … or something … Kate must have something.’
They went out. Brockley hovered, looking worried and helpless. Kate drew herself out of my arms, and rose and stumbled to a window. ‘Look,’ she said.
The window faced the back of the house and the slope of the grassy hillside that rose beyond. A few sheep were grazing there, and the path leading upwards vanished over the saddleback at the top.
‘Up there,’ Kate said. ‘That’s where Eric and I used to walk, early on summer mornings. I think I’ve told you about it. Even before we broke our fast, we used to walk up to that dip in the hill, and the sun would be just high enough to be hanging over it, as if it was welcoming us. We would climb hand in hand. And now … now …’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Yes, you did tell me. Oh Kate, I’m so very sorry.’ I steadied her back to her seat. Sybil and Dale appeared with the wine and I coaxed Kate into taking a glass and sipping it. Sybil said: ‘We brought him home as quickly as we could. He can have a resting place in the parish churchyard here. You can … visit him there.’
‘But what happened?’ Kate demanded. ‘You haven’t told me! You didn’t answer when I asked! What happened?’
Carefully, I said: ‘Tin has been found on Rosmorwen land. A mine has been started, with a tunnel. Eric went alone to inspect the tunnel for some reason and there was a fall of rock. He must have been killed at once. There was an inquest, and the verdict was accidental death.’
This wasn’t the moment to say so, but the inquest had infuriated me. The coroner seemed to be out of his depth. The mysterious note had not been given proper importance and in my opinion and Brockley’s the coroner had sadly misled the jury. But this wasn’t the right time for telling Kate that her husband, Eric Lake, that handsome, upstanding young man, who looked so much like a Viking god, had almost certainly been murdered, and that Brockley and I thought we knew by whom.
West Leys was in the parish of a church called St Peter’s, which stood in the village of Brentvale, half a mile away. Kate was incapable for the moment of making any arrangements, but her brother Duncan and his wife Bessie were there, although when we arrived at West Leys, the two of them had actually been in the village, ordering stores.
On their return, the grievous news was broken to them and I was thankful to see them, because they were kindly and sensible and they at once wrapped Kate round with the right words, the right caresses, and the right kind of care. She was to rest and leave everything to them. They would see the vicar of St Peter’s, they would inform Eric’s parents, they would organize the funeral. Kate would in any case not attend; it was never wise for spouses to be present on such occasions; they were likely to become too upset and Kate must not be upset any more than she already was; she had the baby to think about.
Bessie, helped by Dale, put her sister-in-law to bed while Duncan sped back to the village to see the vicar. He returned to say that the ceremony could take place the next day; the gravedigger had already been set to work.
‘We can leave quite soon after that,’ I said to Brockley. ‘I’ll send Joseph to Hawkswood to let Wilder know what has happened and tell him when to expect us. Duncan and Bessie say they will stay on for a while. They have offered to take Kate back to Dover with them, but she says she would rather stay here, that the place needs a mistress, and there is the farm to look after. Harvest is near.’
‘Kate’s brave,’ said Sybil. ‘She will come through.’
It was wet on the day of the burial, with a thin, penetrating drizzle, infinitely depressing. There was no wind to speak of, just drifting veils of fine rain, obscuring the hills, as though the smooth grey skies were also weeping. It was difficult to believe that the Eric Lake I had known, that striking, healthy, good-hearted young man, was no longer part of the world, was inside the coffin that was being lowered into the wet wound of the grave, would lie in the earth for ever.
When the vicar pronounced the committal, I cried and so did Dale and Sybil, standing one on either side of me. Brockley stood apart, quiet and serious. The West Leys farm workers were there, together with acquaintances from the village, and Duncan Ferguson too. Christopher Spelton was absent, on duty, but had written a beautifully worded letter of condolence. Eric’s parents were not there, either. They did not live all that far away but they were both in their seventies and had sent word that they were too stricken to face the horror of witnessing the funera
l of their only child. His mother, apparently, had taken to her bed.
Kate on the other hand hadn’t stayed abed for long. During the funeral, Bessie had remained in the house with her, and the two of them had busied themselves, preparing to receive the mourners after the ceremony. Food and drink would be provided. It would do honour to Eric. Now that the first shock had passed, Kate was indeed being brave. As I would have expected. I had seen in the past how courageous she was. She would certainly come through this, and – all going well – she would have Eric’s child to comfort her. My heart still wept for her and the future she had lost.
When we returned to the house, at the head of a straggling procession of mourners, all on foot, we found that Joseph had returned from Hawkswood and was at the trough, watering the horse he had used. Beside him, another man was also watering a horse. ‘Christopher!’ I said. ‘You came after all!’
Spelton turned to me and Joseph said: ‘Leave your horse to me, sir. I’ll see to both of them.’ Spelton said: ‘Thank you for sending me word about Eric. I came in haste. I was given an official errand to you at just the same time, anyway. I met Joseph at Hawkswood.’
‘Come inside,’ I said.
We went in. The crowd followed, to be met by Kate and Bessie and shown into the parlour. I steered Christopher to the small room that Eric had used as an office and partial storeroom. He had kept records there, concerning stock and harvests and income, and also a couple of shelves of useful things such as candles, a tray of mixed nails, some balls of twine, some pigskin bags containing seed of various kinds. It was a gloomy little room but it was private. In answer to a glance from me, Brockley came with us.
‘What is this errand?’ I asked.
‘I wish I could have got here for the funeral,’ Christopher said. ‘I must apologize because I could not. This is a terrible business! Eric was my cousin, and his mother is my Aunt Anne and I’ve heard from my Uncle Diccon that she was so shocked by the news that … well, she is in her bed, paralysed all down one side. She may never recover. Ursula, I came by way of Hawkswood. I went there partly to see if there had been another letter from Janus, which there had. Wilder had it safely and I took charge of it. I have it with me now. But I also went to Hawkswood to fetch you. You are needed by the queen.’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 13
