Bitter Inheritance

by Ann Cliff

  ‘String him up by his heels until he squeals?’ the dark lad suggested helpfully.

  ‘Slice him up and pop him in the pot?’ The other young man waved a knife.

  Marcus looked round, but nobody was smiling. Outside the rain beat down harder than ever. His wet coat was beginning to steam in the heat from the fire. These two were not professional poachers, Marcus decided as he looked again at the young men. And the old man looked and sounded just like an academic. He was too old for poaching, in any case.

  ‘I’m looking for poachers,’ Marcu said conversationally.

  ‘Aha!’ The one with the knife flourished it like a cutlass and then laughed. ‘I know you, Mr Radford. You won’t remember me, or Tim here. We come from Foxholes Farm up the back yonder. We’re Barkers, Tim and Sam. Anybody who poaches game in this wood will catch it from us!’

  ‘I remember two little lads at Foxholes. My word, haven’t you grown!’ Marcus felt he needed to get the upper hand.

  The old man came forward. ‘Mr Radford. Well, well. My name’s Vernon.’

  ‘He’s Professor Vernon, you might have heard of him.’ Tim Barker seemed proud of his friend.

  ‘Not the medical Professor Vernon? I have indeed.’ Marcus was impressed, having heard of the professor from his friend Harry, who’d studied medicine at Leeds. ‘I believe you have saved a lot of lives, sir.’ Harry had studied under this man, who had the reputation of a tyrant but was revered for his kindness to the poor and his immense knowledge of the heart and blood circulation.

  The old man coughed and looked away. ‘Long time ago. I’m retired, more or less. Would you like to stay and eat? The boys have made a good rabbit stew and we were just about to taste it. Take your coat off Radford, it will dry out by the fire.’ The professor was rather more gracious now that he had accepted a reason for the visit.

  Sitting at the table, Marcus looked round the room. Although from the outside the cottage had looked decayed, almost derelict, inside it was clean and neat. There was a clinical orderliness about the rows of bottled plums on the shelves and the kitchen table was scrubbed to whiteness. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling.

  ‘Very good stew, thank you!’ Marcus found that he was hungry. The stew contained potatoes, carrots and peas, and large chunks of meat in a thick gravy.

  Tim passed him a hunk of bread. ‘Sourdough, the professor makes it – just like the pioneers in America. You keep some of the dough and add it to the next batch.’

  Marcus looked at the young men. ‘I suppose this is your land, Barkers’ land. But why is this place so well hidden? I’ve never spotted the path before and I come this way fairly often.’ Marcus was still trying to work out what they were all doing there, in the middle of a wood.

  ‘This cottage and the few acres round it belong to the professor.’ Tim looked up briefly. ‘He’s our neighbour – been here for a long time.’ There was a silence, while Sam handed round mugs of strong black tea.

  ‘I’ve been using this place as a sort of retreat since I was a young man. Very private, to get away from the stresses of my work.’ The professor looked into the fire. ‘And the Barkers are good to me. They supply food and keep an eye on the place when I’m not here. These lads are very helpful, although you wouldn’t think it from their appearance.’

  Marcus looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And so you’ve kept it hidden, all these years?’

  ‘I have, and I’d be grateful if you would keep quiet about it!’ There was a gleam in the old man’s eye.

  The Barker boys went off as soon as the rain stopped and Marcus stood up to leave at the same time, remembering his duties at Greystones. Valuable time had already been lost. But as the lads went out Marcus also remembered that the professor said he’d been coming here for a long time. Could he know something about the murder? He hesitated, wondering what to say.

  ‘They’re good lads, the young Barkers.’ The professor watched them go off, smiling. ‘But their mother doesn’t approve of me, which is why they like to come here. Rebellious youth!’ He stood for a moment, looking undecided.

  Marcus made for the door and the Professor appeared to make up his mind. ‘Can you spare a few more minutes, Radford? I feel we should have a talk.’ He looked suddenly very old and rather frail. He sat down in a chair near the fire and looked into the fire in silence for a while. He seemed to be struggling as if not knowing how to begin.

  Marcus too kept silent, waiting for what came next. When nothing more was said, he ventured a question. ‘Would you be able to help to clear up an old mystery, connected with this wood?’

  The professor swung round to face him. ‘I knew it would happen, some time or other. You’re a Radford. You want to know what happened to your grandfather, it would be. Yes, I know something about it. I haven’t long to go now, and I’ve been thinking that the truth should be told.’

  Marcus sat very still. ‘What is the truth, Professor?’

  The deep voice dropped lower. ‘I killed him.’ There was silence, except for the drip of the rain from the roof.

  After a while, the old man seemed to pull himself together. ‘My defence is that I did not intend to kill him. I conducted experiments in those days, for the good of mankind you might say. Yes, some of my discoveries have saved lives, as you remarked earlier. Radford died … I couldn’t save him. But I learned from him.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me how it came about? I am desperately interested, Professor. There’s a lot at stake, for me.’ Marcus found he was leaning forward.

  Vernon leaned back in his chair, considering. ‘It must be fifty years ago. I was quite young. But how does it affect you, now?’

  It was time to tell the truth. ‘Billy Radford’s companion, Samuel Mason, survived. You’ll know that. And he was blamed for the disappearance of his friend. The two families were bitterly divided. And,’ Marcus plunged on, ‘I want to marry a Mason.’

  ‘Ah. The toils of love.’ The professor looked amused.

  How could he be so detached? ‘Well, whatever happened, why did you not come forward and admit it? How could you live with the guilt?’ Marcus kept his voice level.

  ‘I don’t believe in guilt. I’m a pagan, you see. Pagans believe in life!’ The old voice had a ring to it. ‘In trying to preserve life in others, I caused the death of young Radford. In a way he helped me to help others. But he had a defective heart … congenital. How’s your heart, young man?’

  Almost broken, thought Marcus wryly. ‘Normal, I believe. But how do you know?’

  ‘I performed a post-mortem examination, of course. Found great restriction of the heart, which was why my treatment killed him.’

  ‘But you didn’t report the death – evidently it was accidental – and free Mason from blame!’ Marcus felt revulsion. This man was inhuman.

  ‘The pagan way. My life, my survival. It was of course most irregular to experiment on people like that. To confess would probably have ruined my career, but it wouldn’t bring the man back to life. So I made sure that Mason could remember nothing. He was heavily drugged for three days, you see.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I took off for a while, put some distance between me and Foxholes. I put the body down a mineshaft on Pateley moor, there are plenty round there as you’ll know, and went off on Radford’s horse to Liverpool. It was the long vacation. And nobody knew I’d been here.’ He looked at Marcus. ‘I owe you a horse, young man.’

  Marcus let out a long sigh. ‘You have freed us from the old quarrel, Professor.’ His analytical mind took over. ‘Would you like to tell me precisely what happened?’

  The other man stood up stiffly and put another piece of wood on the fire. ‘I think we need a cup of coffee, after all this. Well, I was working at the time with two drugs that could be grown here, in the wood. Aconite and foxglove, to give them their common names.’

  ‘But aconite’s monkhood, isn’t it? A deadly poison?’

  ‘Of course. Many useful medicines are also pois
ons, Radford.’ The professor paused with the kettle in his hand. ‘Both drugs affect the heart, which was my specialization, you see. Foxglove is also the antidote to aconite, but it’s slow to act. Oh, it’s been known for centuries, but I felt there was more to be learned and I grew the plants here. I tried them on animals, with varied results. And then I decided to experiment on people … and I met the two young men as they rode through the wood. It was near to the summer solstice, I recall.’

  Again, Marcus caught the gleam of fire in the old man’s eyes. He was trying to imagine the scene: Mason and Radford, on their way to buy sheep, met this man in the wood. Why would they agree to take his potions? But then, he’d just eaten the rabbit stew! He could easily have been poisoned, himself.

  ‘It was a warm day and I’d made some nettle beer. I invited them into the cottage. And to be honest, I then asked them if they would take part in an experiment, which I described as harmless.’ The professor shook his head. ‘Radford might still be alive, if he’d had a normal heart. How was I to know that I’d picked the wrong man?’

  My grandfather, dying here from poison, thought Marcus … he’d wanted the truth, but it was ugly.

  ‘And so,’ the professor continued, ‘I decided to change my outlook. The death affected me, shocked me. I made up my mind that Radford’s memory would be honoured by my career. Instead of going for fame and fortune, I decided to be a true pagan, truly life affirming. I worked for nothing if patients couldn’t pay. And I put my utmost into research, worked with the top men in the field. We’ve moved a long way in the last fifty years.’ He gestured at the kettle, but Marcus shook his head.

  ‘You haven’t described what actually happened.’

  The professor looked at him. ‘You wouldn’t understand the medical terms. But simply, I dosed them with aconite and observed the effects and then gave them foxglove, which among other things makes the patient see the world coloured blue.’

  Here was the proof Marcus had been looking for. The newspaper report had mentioned that Mason said, ‘everything was blue’. He had been recovering from the dose … after missing three days. ‘So my grandfather was badly affected?’

  ‘He went into a coma. I was horrified by what I’d done. No guilt, I have no time for guilt. But I am pleased that you came here, Radford. It’s too late to vindicate Mason; I believe he died some years ago. But it is important for you to know the truth.’ The professor leaned back wearily.

  Marcus wondered how many other people had unwittingly died in the name of science. And he felt a deep gratitude for the knowledge that Radford and Mason had both been victims. There was no need after all for a feud between the families. Mason had suffered for the rest of his life for a crime he did not commit, but reproaches were useless now and the less said, the better. He sighed and stood up; it was time to go back to the normal world.

  ‘You can go now Radford, I wish to sleep. And you can tell your family what you have learned, on condition that it goes no further. And the Mason lady, of course.’

  Marcus picked up his coat and went outside, glad to be in the fresh air. After the storm the sky had a clean, swept look and the wet leaves of the wood glistened in the sun. Odin was still tied to his tree, none the worse and fairly dry. He seemed to be as glad as Marcus was to creep back to the track and then to go swiftly out of the wood and back into the everyday farming world again.

  Marcus didn’t know what to think. The professor’s story had cleared Samuel Mason from blame, putting at rest the nagging feeling that he and Sally would always have that shadow between them. But there were many problems left. The fair young man, for one, he’d probably got himself engaged to Sally by now. And the fact that she was so devoted to her farm that she’d probably never want to leave it.

  As he rode up to Greystones Marcus wondered how his father would take the news. But for the next week he was not able to share the secret with anyone, although he thought about it a great deal. He was tied up with work, first at Greystones and then at his base in Colsterdale and was not able to see Oliver. Surely, he thought, Father won’t want to carry on the feud after this? The Masons are not homicidal liars after all. Samuel, with his life blighted, was almost as much of a victim as poor Billy. There was of course still the old boy’s reluctance to meet Sally. But even so, as the days went by and he was able to digest the strange story, Marcus found himself feeling more hopeful. If only Sally were still free!

  One day his friend Harry came up to see him and Marcus questioned him about what poisonous plants may be grown in cottage gardens and their possible effect on the heart.

  ‘Many an old herb woman could tell you, my boy. But who d’you want to poison?’ Harry laughed.

  Marcus said hurriedly that it was an academic interest, some detective story he’d read. And he led the conversation round to aconite and foxglove, and what he heard confirmed the professor’s statements.

  ‘You’ve got foxgloves growing wild round here beside every stone wall! Can’t avoid ’em! I believe the gypsies use them to make a potion to liven up their parties, but I wouldn’t fancy it myself.’

  ‘And is it used in medicine?’

  ‘As digitalin, yes. It’s very useful. Increases muscle activity, contracts arteries, raises blood pressure. It was scientifically established long before my time of course. That prof I used to quote to you was involved in the later research.’

  Marcus decided not to mention the fact that he’d met the prof himself. ‘I wonder whether the foxglove plant would poison sheep? We sometimes have mysterious deaths, when there’s not much grass about.’

  The two friends enjoyed a walk over the moor and a good dinner and Marcus began to feel more normal than he’d felt all summer. He went whistling into the kitchen one day and Jeanie remarked on it. ‘Got our spirits back again, have we? That’s the way, Mr Marcus! No good being old and grumpy before your time!’

  ‘Who says I’ve been grumpy?’ Marcus demanded irritably, and then laughed. ‘Well, we’ve been busy ever since winter, haven’t we? And it will soon be winter again!’

  That was the core feeling on the High Side, the reason that few people were light-hearted. Winter always came again; the brief summer was full of toil before another winter. But sometimes in autumn there were golden days when the pressure eased a little and folks could enjoy the fairs and shows, and find a little joy in life, after all. There was plenty of good food, fruits and vegetables in the gardens. Marcus believed that a good diet affected people’s spirits considerably. But then, so did a little hope for the future.

  The chance to move things along came quite soon, when Marcus was asked to visit his father at the end of the week. He would stay at Nidd overnight and have another talk to Oliver.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sally Mason and Emma Wakefield attended Simon’s funeral in their best black, travelling by train to Bradford, apprehensive about meeting his parents again. Sally wished passionately that she had sent for them earlier. She knew what it was like when someone you loved died without saying goodbye, and they had arrived too late.

  It was a relief to find that although they were sad, the Drury family had been prepared for this. ‘In one way, I feel guilty, because we gave you the responsibility,’ Mrs Drury said to Sally. ‘But we did it for Simon, of course. He wanted to feel more independent but then, he couldn’t travel, or live on his own. Your farm was the best solution and he was happy. That’s what matters.’

  Sally was surprised at the depth of her grieving for Simon. He’d only been at the farm for a few months after all, but he was a part of their lives, and the house seemed empty without him. Whenever she saw a beautiful tree or a typical country scene, Sally found herself thinking of Simon and how he would have enjoyed the late summer days. For a while, Sally almost lost her enthusiasm for the farm but with an effort, she decided to do something different. This year, they would compete in the Kirkby Agricultural Show.

  ‘It’s about time Badger’s Gill showed some stock again!’ George chided
her one day, when he delivered a load of turnips for winter feed. ‘Your pa was always keen, sometimes he won a prize. And your ma used to do well with the butter, remember. Is there ’owt worthwhile in that cowshed of yours?’

  Sally was sure that George was just trying to cheer her up, but she went in with him to where Joe was tying up the cows for evening milking.

  ‘Aye, of course we have some good home bred stuff. That there cow,’ Joe indicated Primrose with a nod of his head, ‘she’s a real winner. It’s just my opinion, of course. And she’s that quiet, I could walk her to Kirkby for the show. Let’s have a go, miss. Enter her for any class you like.’ Joe was as loyal to Badger’s Gill as if he’d worked there all his life.

  Primrose was a Shorthorn, a roan cow with a sunny disposition and a huge appetite. When Emma heard the talk about the show, she asked to see this potentially prize-winning animal. ‘What’s so special about Primrose?’ she asked, standing at a respectful distance. Emma was still not sure about cows, Sally noticed.

  ‘Just look at her from the side, she’s a perfect wedge shape!’ Emma could see the potential now that Joe pointed it out. Primrose had horns with an outward, even curve; she had smooth, silky skin with a dappled effect of white and brown. Her head was small which she carried proudly and she had large, clear eyes.

  ‘A picture of a cow,’ was George’s verdict. ‘But then, we don’t know what she’ll be up against.’

  ‘She’ll need teaching to walk round on a halter. I’ll do that,’ Joe offered promptly. ‘I’ll make a new halter for the lass.’

  Sally was surprised how the prospect of the show brightened them up, made them keen to succeed. Competition must be good for you, she decided. But she wasn’t too hopeful; there were many experienced breeders in the large parish of Kirkby. And then there were a few landowners who could afford to buy the best cattle in the county and proceed to take the credit.