On Beulah Height

by Reginald Hill

  And though very little physical change was possible, it was as if they saw Elizabeth Wulfstan shrink to Betsy Allgood as she sat heavily on her chair and began crying.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Though he’d only heard them once, Pascoe could not get the words of the song out of his mind. They sounded there as he lay in bed and they were still with him next morning as he toiled up the fell.

  Oh, yes, they’ve only gone out walking,

  Returning now, all laughing and talking.

  There was no laughing and talking among the men who laboured up the hillside with him. It was already warm enough to make them sweat under the burden of picks and shovels, even though the sun had not yet risen high enough to fill the valley. But up ahead the eastern flanks of the double peak were already washed with gold.

  We’ll catch up with them on Beulah Height

  In bright sunlight.

  The weather’s bright on Beulah Height.

  Now they were close enough to see the sheep fold, a semicircle of dry-stone wall built against the craggy face of the saddle.

  Still no one spoke. Like men in a dream they moved, needing no instructions when they reached the fold, but advancing on the crag as if to some well-rehearsed choreography, and swinging their picks in unison as they probed for the weakness they knew must be present in its apparently solid facade.

  Three times they swung and three times they struck, and at the third blow a strange thing happened.

  Sparks flew as metal clashed against granite and all at once the air seemed to ignite as a bright lava of sunlight poured down the ridge into the hollow of the fold.

  At the same time a huge slab of rock swung open like the gates of a fortress.

  The men stepped back, amazed. And fearful too. Only Pascoe held his ground, straining his eyes to see into that black cavern, straining them so much that after a while his fancy created the impression of movement.

  Fancy? This was no fancy. There was movement in there. He could see shapes in the darkness, small forms advancing slowly towards the light.

  And now the first was close enough for the sun to give detail to the uncertain outline. Oh, Christ! It was a child, a girl with long blonde hair, blinking her eyes against the unaccustomed light and bearing in her arms a bouquet of fresh-picked foxgloves. Behind her came another child, also carrying flowers. And another … Oh, sweet Jesus. He recognized these children from their photographs. The first was Jenny Hardcastle, the second Madge Telford. And the third Mary Wulfstan, her mother’s features unmistakable in the small solemn face.

  How to account for this Pascoe did not know. Nor did he care. His heart was swelling with such joy he could hardly breathe. So this was how it ended. All that pain and grief and despair hadn’t been for nothing. They were alive, alive, alive…

  But the miracle wasn’t over. Another figure came forward. He looked and did not dare believe. Lorraine. Lorraine Dacre, holding her flowers in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other, as though just awoken from sleep.

  And behind came another…

  Now it wasn’t joy that pumped Pascoe’s heart, it was fear. He was choking. Not with fear of the child he was seeing, but fear of the knowledge that came with her … the knowledge that she had no place in this wild, high landscape, that it was only his imagination that could have put her there …

  The fifth figure was Zandra Purlingstone.

  He threw back his head and shrieked his rage and despair to the empty sky. For a second it seemed he stood alone on the bare hillside. Then even that illusion was gone. He was lying in his bed with the pearly light of dawn turning his window into a magic lantern screen against which moved the slender boughs of the silver birch which grew at the bottom of his garden.

  He rose and dressed swiftly. He had plenty of time to keep his first appointment of the day, but there was something else he needed to do which took him in quite the wrong direction. Not pausing for breakfast, he got into his car and drove through the still empty streets into town.

  At the hospital, a security man advanced to challenge him, recognized him, and called a greeting. Pascoe raised a hand but did not pause. Lightly he ran up the stairs, waved a hand at a surprised Sister, and went into the small room where Rosie lay.

  Late last night he’d spoken to Ellie on the phone, told her what had happened, where he needed to be the following morning. Dalziel had assured him his presence would not be necessary. Pascoe hadn’t argued, simply said he’d be there. Ellie had understood, told him to go home, get what rest he could, assured him that Rosie was doing marvellously well.

  Last night Ellie’s voice, her reassurance, had been enough. This morning he needed to see for himself.

  Ellie had had her bed brought into the room so she could be at her daughter’s side. She stirred as Pascoe entered but did not waken. He smiled down at her then tiptoed past to Rosie’s bed.

  She had thrown the top sheet off and lay there curled with one fist pushed up against her chin, like Rodin’s Thinker.

  Think on, my love. But not too much. Not yet. Time enough to wrestle with life’s problems. Time enough.

  Gently he drew the sheet over her. It would be nice to kick off his shoes and lie down here with his wife and child, and wake with them in a little while. But there was work to be done. A debt to be paid. What had Ellie called him? Pious Aeneas, always on his way to the Lavinian shore.

  How the gods must love irony to let the sight of those he loved most both tempt him from his duty and give him the strength to do it.

  He brushed Rosie’s brow with his lips, then stooped over Ellie. A writing pad lay by her side, half-hidden by the duvet. She still clutched a pencil in her hand. She’d started writing again. She was indomitable! For her, a huge crisis endured gave her strength to turn away and confront all the smaller crises put on hold. Indomitable!

  Guiltily he peeked at the pencilled scrawl. Suppose it wasn’t a new book, but something intensely personal… but no, there were the reassuring words Chapter One. He read the opening lines.

  It was a dark and stormy night. The wind was blowing off the sea and the guard commander bowed into it with his cloak wrapped around his face as he left the shelter of the grove and began to clamber up to the headland.

  Ellie stirred. He looked down at her with love and admiration. Indomitable. A new tune, she’d said. I think we’ll all be ready for some new tunes after this. And with typical boldness she’d chosen as her fanfare the corniest opening line in literature!

  With a woman like this by his side, a man could go anywhere.

  But first he had somewhere to go by himself.

  He kissed her gently and went out of the room.

  The breeze which had stirred the birch tree at dawn was stronger now, pulling at his hair, portending change. As he sped north he saw for the first time in weeks the smooth blue ocean of sky break against the far horizon in a faint spume of silver cloud.

  The gate across the reservoir road was thronged with grim-faced policemen who checked his warrant even though they knew him. Today was by the book.

  Despite his efforts at speed, his diversion had made him late and he saw the others waiting for him at the head of the mere. Greetings were short and muted. They watched in silence as he pulled on his boots.

  Finally he was ready. At a grunted signal from Andy Dalziel, they turned their faces to the rising fell and went to keep their rendezvous on Beulah Height.