Black Heather

by Virginia Coffman

  A moment or two later I distinctly heard the same sound of a footstep upon the gravel close to the low stone wall, on the churchyard side, and this time I saw a form quite distinct from the gravestones rise up from behind one of the monumental crosses, as if it had been crouching there. It was a man, and as I lifted my lantern to get a look at the skulking rogue, it occurred to me that I might have surprised the sexton at his work. Perhaps he had been digging a grave. But that was ridiculous on the face of it. No one could be up to any good hiding behind gravestones in the dark of a chill autumn night.

  I could not conceive of any reason why he might intend me harm unless he was a madman, and as I considered afterward, I should have pretended I had not observed him and hurried into the house to report his antics. But instead, I raised the lantern and swung it out to illuminate the wall at my feet and the gravestone where I had caught my first glimpse of the crouching man. He was there still, springing back as if dazed at my light and putting up his arm to ward off the unexpected brightness.

  “What the devil, girl! Will you blind me then? A fine end to a fruitless wait.”

  “Wait?” I echoed stupidly. “You’ll have a long wait, sir, if you rendezvous with the inhabitants of graveyards.”

  He laughed, and my lantern shone upon flashing teeth in a curiously winning face that bore Irish or Scottish features, I thought. The man’s sandy hair was blowing in the wind. He was not as young as he probably liked to pretend. There was a look about his eyes, the same look I had noticed in the squire’s son in Cornwall, who spent all his time either ruining scullery maids or hanging about the local public houses. But attractive, yes. I gave up all notions that this man in the graveyard was either mad or a footpad.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to blind you, but I was startled.”

  He leaped nimbly over the wall and put out his hand. For an instant I thought he meant me mischief, and I barely caught myself before swinging my lantern as a weapon. I saw then that he meant to take my hand in greeting, and I was nonplussed as to how he could do that with both my hands full. He managed, however, by taking my cream crock and holding it for me.

  As he took my fingers in a surprisingly warm, rather fleshy grip, I said, “It is very cold. I must go in.

  “Oh, certainly, lass. I shouldn’t like to make trouble between you and the old lady. What a dragon she is!”

  “Sir!” I rebuked him, hoping he would let me go. I began to dislike his manner.

  “Now, now, pretty love, I wish only for a small favor. Promise me?”

  “I don’t know. You may be a housebreaker, for all I should guess.”

  He laughed again, the cheerful sound of a man who has no problems his charm won’t conquer. “No, truly! I am to meet the old dragon’s granddaughter, Elspeth. But we must do it by stealth, thanks to precious Grandmama.”

  “I’m sure it’s no affair of mine.” Nevertheless, I did resent being party to a deception of my hostess and friend.

  “Well, but—I should not like to deceive you. You understand, it may be that...” He paused and gave me a winning boyish smile that very nearly fooled me into assuming he was a boy, but the merciless rays of the lantern pointed up the lines of maturity and perhaps even dissipation in his face, and I rather pitied him for his careful pretense. “It may be that Elspeth and I will need your sweet offices on our behalf.” He squeezed my hand and seemed quite ready for closer familiarities, but I managed to evade him.

  “I shouldn’t count upon it,” I told him coolly, and reached for the cream crock. “You would do better to meet Miss Sedley in the church, which is, at least, not so cold and unromantic as a graveyard.”

  “You crush all my pretensions. What a setdown! Well, I’ll let you go because you are cold, poor child. Perhaps next time.”

  Because he was so absolutely without scruples and, further, made no pretense of being otherwise, I smiled with the equivocal reply, “Perhaps not.”

  I started along the path to Sedley House, pursued by the fellow’s taunting voice. “My sweet, how am I to know your name? I can scarcely ask Elspeth.”

  “I suggest you do.”

  “Now, now; that has all the marks of a jilted woman. Come, I’ll give you my name, and in exchange, you must name the female behind that lovely face.”

  I walked on, feeling like an addlepated milkmaid. Behind me, his voice rippled on with all the skill of the born seducer. “Promise you’ll not run chattering to the old dragon?” When I made no commitment, he finished, with what I thought later was an incredible self-assurance. “Remember me, now. Patrick Kelleher, very much at your service, love.”

  It did not really occur to me immediately where I had heard that name before. I went into the kitchen and gave over the cream and the lantern, receiving a somewhat puzzled look from Mrs. Famblechook, who had gone on to bake her moogin without the wee dram requested of me, if I could judge by the delicious smells of spice, ginger, and sugar that came from the old black oven in the fireplace.

  Meg Markham was replacing a book in the little bookroom off the downstairs parlor when I came through. I asked her whether Mrs. Sedley expected me to sit with her at supper.

  “She’s asked if you’ll take supper in company of Miss Elspeth, Miss. But the young lady’s late-come.” Meg gave me an odd little smile and added, “Though it’s my thought young Miss will be a trifling later yet.”

  It struck me then just who Patrick Kelleher was, and I was so shaken by the shocking knowledge, that I could scarcely prevent it from showing in my face and my voice. “Why do you say that? I saw a light in the church when I was at the still-room. And it is scarcely two minutes’ walk from here.”

  Meg looked as near to sly as was possible in such an open, sunny face. “But will she be coming in two minutes? Not if she’s to meet a—a gentleman somewheres in betwixt there and here.”

  I stated upstairs to my room but paused before I reached the first landing. I leaned over the newel post, for Meg was directly beneath me, looking up. “Do you know who that gentleman is?”

  Meg beckoned to me with one finger. I came down a few steps. “There’s some, like Missus, and like Sir Nicholas, him that’s the justice of the peace hereabouts ... They think as how the gentleman’s a foul wife-killer.”

  It seemed almost too incredible that the jolly, boyish, laughing Patrick Kelleher could have killed anyone, especially a woman. And if he was Elspeth Sedley’s uncle, the business was even more unsavory. Had she no feeling for her murdered Aunt Megan?

  “Why do they think he killed Megan Sedley?” Meg’s eyes widened. “By the Lord! Excusing the word, mum, you’ll never be telling me you knew all along it was Patrick Kelleher!”

  “Why do they think so?”

  A young, low, feminine voice cut between us, sharp as a blade. “It is a lie, Meg, and you know it well! He’d never hurt Aunt Megan.” Moving quietly out of the shadows of the little central hall was the lovely, slumberous-eyed Elspeth Sedley of the miniature that Mrs. Sedley had sent Mama. I could see now exactly why Sir Nicholas and the girl’s good-looking Uncle Patrick both awaited her, though probably each awaited her in a different sense.

  She looked up at me, seeming to sweep her long dark lashes over me as though they were broom-straws and a dusty carpet. “Grandmama said you had come. And someone else saw you tonight by the stillroom, hoping to spy upon me, I daresay. You must be the Cornish girl.”

  I was surprised by her deliberate rudeness as one is often more upset by such behavior than by wickedness.

  “I have a name,” I said. “All Cornish girls do. Mine is Kathleen Bodmun.” Then I turned to Meg. “I’ll take supper in my room. But you needn’t trouble. I’ll fetch it up myself.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Meg stood aside, and I passed her on my way to the kitchen. Behind us, Elspeth called out after us, still in her throaty, sensuous young voice, “He was innocent! It is wicked to spread those lies about Uncle Patrick. I only meet him so I may solve a frightful wrong! Tell that to
Grandmama when you go bearing tales about my meeting him tonight.”

  I carefully did not hear her, and Meg, closing the kitchen door, shut us away from her hateful accusations. I had no intention whatever of bearing tales about her to Mrs. Sedley. It was none of my affair, and it would only bring more pain to the older woman. But I was younger than I thought and more vulnerable to childish, mistaken opinions about my nature. It took several minutes of jolly good nature by Mrs. Famblechook, along with the very first ginger cake out of the oven, before I felt my old brisk self again.

  And Meg was a great help in her friendly way. “Mustn’t pay no mind to Miss Elspeth. She always had a fondness for Mr. Patrick. It’s like she was a wee bit jealous of her Aunt Megan when the poor lady was alive.”

  The smell of succulent foods had brought Timothy, Mrs. Sedley’s pretty little tawny kitten, out from under the chopping table to pause at my feet, then leap with infinite grace upon my lap. He nibbled the moogin I fed him, carefully licking his white paws afterward. I petted his soft fur, and he purred contentedly until the palm of my hand was snagged on his small jeweled collar. The jewels were false but looked well against the copper and white of his coat. One of the jewels was missing, and where my hand had caught on the sharp, empty jewel socket, something else had caught there earlier. It was a narrow strip of lace about two inches long and badly stained with rust. The lace itself was of very fine quality, however— much finer than I was used to—and I was still examining it when Mrs. Famblechook leaned over my shoulder to see what had aroused my interest.

  “There, now, Meg-girl. Come and see,” she said. “It’s a bad lad, so he is. Atearing of the lace off Missus’ petticoat. And devilish fine quality. Where d’ye be thinking he got the blood on it? Is the poor beastie hurt then?”

  I almost dropped the bit of lace at this discovery. So the stains were not rust, after all!

  Meg reached over my shoulder and fingered the lace while Timothy squirmed uneasily. Her head was close over mine, and I heard her sharp intake of breath. She withdrew her hand as though it had touched fire. I looked up at her, puzzled by her extraordinary attitude.

  “Missus never wears such lace, nor yet young Miss. ’Tis from one of them heathen places across the water. Like Brussels. Ay! It was from Brussels Miss Megan was used to send, to fetch such lace, and all to please Master Patrick. Where was the little cat today, Miss?”

  Shaken by this revelation, I could only say, “I chased Timmy into an old house up on the moor. He may have run by some old garments lying about.”

  The cook and Meg looked at each other.

  “The beastie went into the cellar,” Mrs. Famblechook guessed.

  I was astonished at this probably correct guess, spoken at hazard. “He did get away and may have gone into the cellar. Why?”

  “But that’s where Miss Megan was found, months after the fire. Buried in the debris. She’d been struck on the head before the fire. There was still bloodstains.”

  “Hush,” said Meg. “If you’d not had that Madeira, you’d not talk so free.”

  “You mean”—I joggled poor Timothy, who meowed his protest—“Timothy found Megan Sedley’s body?”

  They both shuddered.

  “No, Miss; no!” Meg cried quickly. “That was found more than eleven years gone. But maybe some of her lace shawl is still in the cellar.”

  Mrs. Famblechook nodded.

  “Aye. And stained with the poor lady’s very own life’s blood. Fancy! After all the years. What will Sir Nicholas say? He loved her, Miss, but she married Master Patrick and lived to regret it.”

  “Please, never mind that.” I stopped them before they went on with the harrowing details. I knew I would dream about them, in any case.

  Meg shrugged. “Well then, Miss, there’s no more to it. Save only ... the haunts that folk do see of nights abovestairs at the Hag’s Head.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When I slept that night for the first time in the charming little guest room of Sedley House, I was quite sure I should dream of ghastly murders and of odd noises haunting my bedchamber. But the truth is, I dreamed of attending an assembly ball at Bath and of dancing down the line with two faceless gentlemen—quite an unorthodox procedure, even in a dream. I remember, though, that I was hard put to choose between them for the second set. And when I awoke to an enchanting if cloudy autumn day, I still did not recognize the faces of my two gallants. It was most puzzling.

  I was out upon the cobbled street of Maidenmoor at an early hour, delighted with the brisk, misty look of the place. The surrounding moors high above us that had, for me, the feel of a thick fur collar. There were some at home that had said I should hate the North Country and never, in any circumstances, wish to establish a school in “damp, forbidding Yorkshire.” Yet, had it not been for the suddenness of yesterday’s storm and my pursuit of mischievous little Timothy, I should have found the Heatherton Moor a thing of beauty even then. I liked the brisk challenge of the climate and the feeling of immensity in its space.

  Before walking down through the village that bordered on its steep, narrow street, I looked behind the village, up across the limitless stretch of what the south of England called “wasteland” but which still had the last, faintly heathery glow upon it. My own West Country had such “wastes,” and I loved them. They were unconquerable, or so I thought, and like some of mankind, both forbidding and challenging. How much more glorious it was to me than the soft, crowded countryside I had passed through in the York Mail Coach!

  When I stood on tiptoe, I fancied I could just barely see the rooftops of the Hag’s Head Inn, far away to the north and east. The inn was a haunting place to me, in several senses. I still could not believe that the innocuous gallant of the graveyard the night before had knocked his wife in the head and then set fire to the inn. And I could hardly believe that the dark, rude, handsome justice of the peace, Sir Nicholas Everett, who had so annoyed me yesterday, was still pining with love for the poor victim of that fire. He did not look like a man who pined for anything. More likely, he was a man who hated and punished. I should not like to be brought up before him in his capacity as magistrate of the countryside!

  When I started down the hill that contained the single street of Maidenmoor, I nearly had a change of heart about its severe beauty. Primitive man and the primeval nature were all very well, but I had never seen such a precipitous hill in my life and was baffled at how little the local inhabitants were impeded by that hill. All those black-clad men went clumping down to their work across the valley at the new wool mills in noisy iron pateens. And the women in black shawls were beginning to sit down to their spinning, but they peered out at me through little windowpanes that glittered in the morning light. Each house was a decided step below the one to the north of it, and as I descended the street I felt that I must constantly pause and dig my toes into the cobbles for fear, of sliding the rest of the way.

  There was a public house halfway down the street, the Owl of York. Even at this early hour, scarcely after dawn, it was open, with the taprail plainly in view beyond the long cold-looking passage that led in from the street. Several men and one or two women were there with steaming mugs, and the open doorway smelled of boiling rum. I could not blame them. It probably took hot rum to get them on their way up or down that hill on these brisk mornings. But it was invigorating, and I rather liked it.

  I walked to the bottom of the hill and stood on the ancient stone bridge, watching the trickle of new water make its way through the rushes, carrying the debris of the summer after yesterday’s flashing storm. I thought of how disappointed I had been when we could find nothing suitable at home, and when not enough pupils had been interested in my school with Miss Higsby. Only after Mama complained of our local disinterest in education in an exchange of letters with Mrs. Sedley did we consider faraway Yorkshire. And now I was wondering if, perhaps, it had all been for the best.

  I began to smile at my own perversity. Could it have been that odd, ro
mantic dream last night, which had quite efficiently blurred my memory of Elspeth Sedley’s insulting remarks and the earlier uneasiness over my visit to the Hag’s Head Inn?

  I felt the heathery, mist-scented breeze against my cheeks and turned a little, to breathe it full in the face. Greatly startled, I saw a man standing just under the further arch of the bridge, looking up at me. He was in worn hunting jacket, breeches, and boots, with a years-old sugar-loaf hat cocked jauntily on his sandy air. He had an extremely infectious grin, and although I was shocked at the ease with which a presumed murderer like Patrick Kelleher strolled about the village, I smiled back at him before I remembered.

  “Ay, lass,” he called to me in that lighthearted way of his, “I’ve said it times without number, and I’ll be saying it more. For a warm bit of sheer loveliness, give me the Irish lass.”

  Embarrassed, I looked away, wondering how one answered such extravagant and probably often-repeated compliments. It made me impatient when I found myself the victim of his silly, overbearing charm.

  “It is rather early in the day for such manners, sir,” I said coolly, hoping he would take the red of embarrassment in my face for the mere slap of the brisk, invigorating wind.

  He laughed at me, not in the least rebuffed, and came out from under the bridge, climbing the bank with an amusingly boyish leap onto the road that wound beyond the bridge and over into a further valley, and then a valley after that. And always, as I remembered from my approach to Maidenmoor, it was a mere rusty thread between the wild, blackening heather that everywhere covered the restless heath.

  Hating to appear foolish and at a disadvantage, I had a strong desire that he shouldn’t guess my cowardice. As he came up to me, I reminded him with a most indifferent shrug, “Your pretty manners are all wasted, Master Kelleher. My father and all Cornishmen would tell you there’s nothing Irish to equal the folk of Cornwall.”