by Ann Pilling
Molly Bover never told lies. “Prill, dear,” she began slowly. “Of course I didn’t know. But you see. . . well, the Edge family. . . you don’t need to tell me what they’re like, do you? Poor George did throw their horse on the bonfire, and old William was theirs, you know, to do what they liked with. He was ready for the knacker’s yard, dear. Ask anyone.”
“Yes, but to do that,” Prill sobbed. “They’d obviously been there all night. . . it was a kind of party in there, they were all drinking. Why do things like that at night, if you’re not ashamed of them?”
“I’m not defending them, Prill,” Molly said quietly. “I’ve lived in this village for nearly fifty years, and I know what they’re like. Winnie tried to get them to borrow the Saltersly head, but they wouldn’t have it. They said it would bring bad luck or something. Oh, I don’t know. . .” she finished lamely.
“You see, dear,” she tried again, taking Prill’s cold hand in her own. “Real country people can’t afford to be too sentimental. Now I know it’s grisly, and one of their more awful customs, but it does go right back. It isn’t the first horse’s head to be boiled down behind that shop, dear, and I wish you’d not seen it. But think of that calf Jimmy Bostock delivered the other day. Awful things happen, you know, and when you live with them, day in day out, you get a bit hard.”
“What calf?” Prill said.
Molly Bover could have kicked herself. She opened her mouth, then shut it again abruptly, and felt in her pocket for a bottle of pills. “Now look, Prill, I’m giving you half of one of these. I’m having one too. It’s only half-past five and we need a bit more sleep. When we get up we can have a nice leisurely breakfast. Nothing much on today, thank goodness. And we’ll fix up your riding lessons, first thing.”
There was a silence. Molly obviously wasn’t going to tell her about the calf. “All right,” she said blankly. Anything to get out of Stang. She wanted nothing more to do with this village and its barbaric play. She wouldn’t help with the costumes, watch rehearsals, or anything.
Oliver had been listening on the other side of the door. As Prill went up the stairs, he slid out of the shadows and into the kitchen. “What calf?” he said, pulling up a stool and inspecting the contents of the teapot. “What was wrong with it?”
“Oliver,” Molly said wearily. “I was just going back to bed. Have a cup of tea by all means, but I’m off.”
“What calf though?”
“Well, it arrived a couple of days ago, one of Jack Edge’s. It was. . . rather deformed.”
“How?”
She took a deep breath. Prill had been calmed down with sweet tea and half a sleeping pill, for the moment anyway. But this cousin of hers, with his penetrating little voice, and cold, all-seeing stare, was a more complicated kettle of fish. She couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes.
“Well, if you must know, Oliver, the poor thing had two heads – well, the beginnings of a second. They had to kill it. Dreadful really, but it does happen, more often with lambs though. There’s something like this every spring.”
She expected Oliver to lose his colour, if not faint, but he looked perfectly calm as he stirred his tea. “Anne Boleyn had six fingers on one hand,” he said thoughtfully. “My father told me that. And. . . and some babies are born with hair all over their faces. That’s the same thing really.”
“Yes, Oliver,” Molly said helplessly, tightening the cord of her dressing gown. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She went up to bed feeling completely at a loss. This infuriating child really was a gold mine of useless information.
CHAPTER TEN
Prill didn’t go riding that day. Molly was picking up the phone to ring the stables when Brenda Massey flung the kitchen door open. “Have you seen Posie?” she burst out. She’d been crying; her eyes were puffy and her frizzy blonde hair was in a wild tangle round her face.
“No,” Molly said, peering about, as if the child might be hiding somewhere. “We were up rather late, I’m afraid. We’ve only just finished breakfast.”
“She was in the playroom; we got up at six today, George had to go to Newcastle, he’s filming. She had her breakfast with us, then refused to go back to bed. Sam needed feeding so I went upstairs again, and I nodded off in the chair. When I came down again, she’d gone. She’s just not there, Molly.”
“Sit down a minute. Now where’s Sam?”
“At home, with Mrs Cotton. She comes in to clean on Thursdays. He’s all right, he’s asleep anyway. Molly, where is she?”
“Have you phoned George?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. She’ll turn up in a few minutes.”
“Molly, I’ve looked.”
“Listen, dear, the three children are getting dressed, they’re sensible. I’ll send them round the village. Let’s be systematic. There’s no point in having alarums and excursions when she’s probably shut in somewhere, or playing in someone’s house. You’ve looked in all the cupboards and things at home, have you?”
“Well, of course I have,” Brenda shrieked, and the tears rolled down her face.
“Sorry. Silly question. Now was she still in her pyjamas?”
“No, she got dressed when George did. And – and her anorak’s missing, and the buggy. She likes pushing it round the village.”
“Well then, I expect that’s what she’s doing, dear. What colour’s this anorak?”
“Red.”
“Marvellous. That’s easily spotted, anyway. Now you go back to Sam, and I’ll get the kids organized.”
“Will your Rose help?” sniffed Brenda, dabbing her eyes. Molly Bover always made her feel better, she was so big, and cheerful, and calm. Her panic subsided a little as she got up from the table.
“I expect so,” Molly said vaguely, but she didn’t call her into the kitchen. Rose Salt was missing. She’d not done the breakfast, or taken the dogs out. Jessie was lying peacefully by the fire with the two other poodles nuzzling up to her like young piglets. They all looked quite happy together, for once.
Molly slung her tattered cape round her shoulders rather irritably. Rose would choose this moment to go off on one of her secret little jaunts; she didn’t do it very often these days. Why pick this morning? She’d give her a good talking to when she came in, though heaven only knew when that might be.
After three hours the police were called in. Everyone in the village turned out to hunt for Posie Massey; old wardrobes were emptied, sheds unlocked and searched, allotments combed. There was a terrible moment when someone prised open an old fridge on the local dump. But there was no sign inside of the little red anorak, or the buggy, just a vile smell.
George was making a TV film in Newcastle. The team were on location, shooting at a castle somewhere up the coast. By midday they still hadn’t contacted him. “They’ll get hold of him, dear,” Molly said placidly, patting Brenda’s hand. They were in the Masseys’ kitchen, drinking yet another cup of tea. “In a way it might be better if they don’t. She’ll turn up soon, and he’ll come home wondering what all the fuss was about.”
But she was worried now. Rose Salt still hadn’t come back, and Molly had been forced to tell the police she was missing. The young officer who jotted the details down didn’t seem very interested; he had dozens of addresses to check, and besides, he knew all about Rose. He’d been brought up in the next village. There was no rhyme or reason to what that daft girl did, but she wasn’t up to kidnapping a child and going into hiding.
Colin, Oliver and Prill ended up on an old bench outside the village pub, looking dumbly at the squad of police cars. They were tired out after wandering all over Stang Heath with Molly, going to various friends and neighbours, and meeting with the same unhelpful stares.
“What do you think can have happened, Oll?” Colin muttered. He didn’t dare ask Prill. She was sitting white-faced and silent, thinking about her little sister. Alison could have been in that fridge, or face down in one of the salt pits, or a greenish, swollen lump drifting gentl
y down the old canal. There was so much water round Stang. They were talking of bringing frogmen in, if the child wasn’t found.
Oliver had been trotting after Molly with his notebook. Before answering Colin’s question he checked down a list carefully. “Well, they’re looking in Big Meadow at the moment,” he said very precisely. “They’ve got six officers up there, going over every inch of ground. If she’s not there – her body, I mean – I should think they’d start dragging.”
Colin wished he’d not asked. Oliver had this uncanny knack of spelling out everyone’s worst fears. And he could be so unfeeling. He pronounced “body” as if it was a sack of potatoes. Prill suddenly got up from the bench and walked away. “I’m going back to Elphins,” she said grimly. “It’s pointless, just sitting here.”
The Edges had got to know that Rose Salt was missing, and Jack came up to tackle Molly about it. Through the closed kitchen door the children listened to a violent argument. “Find Rose Salt,” he was bellowing, “and you’ll find the child. She’s a nutcase, I’ve always said so.” Then they heard Molly. “There’s the door, Jack. Go through it, will you. The police know all about Rose, I told them myself.” Her voice was quite savage, and she slammed the door so hard it shook the house. She wasn’t always sweet and kind.
The family had come out in force to help in the search, but they were no real use to anyone. The officer in charge of the dump told Sid and Violet to clear off in the end. They seemed to find the grisly hunt for clues rather entertaining, and Sid kept digging up treasures on the smelly rubbish heaps. “Look a’ this, Vi,” and part of an old pram was chucked over, then some piping. “Copper, that is. We could take it to the rag man in Ranswick.”
Wherever the Edges gathered there was knowing talk of Rose Salt. “Find Rose Salt and you’ll find the child,” rang in Colin’s ears as he watched Sid’s father storm down the village street. They were like parrots, all of them, pecking over the coming disaster, and looking forward to a juicy discovery later in the day.
George Massey got home as the last light drained out of the valley, and the flashing police lights splashed the old cottages with eerie blue shadows. It was too dark to search any more, but the hunt would start again at dawn, and more men would be brought in. He spent his evening sitting by the silent telephone, his face like ash, not even bothering to take his coat off. Brenda was asleep upstairs, drugged to death with tranquilizers, and old Mrs Cotton was trying to keep Sam quiet. He bawled so hard she thought the Edges might come round from their shop, and complain.
At eight o’clock Molly remembered that nobody had been up with Miss Brierley’s supper. “Don’t go out, Molly,” Prill pleaded. She didn’t want to be left in that cold, dark house on her own, with Rose missing, and Posie Massey not found, and Jessie now whining miserably over her sore leg, and snapping at the other dogs.
“We’ll go,” Colin said, slipping his coat on and picking up the little casserole of stew. “Come on, Oll, we might hear something. Noises travel further at night.” When they saw anoraks being pulled on, the poodles got excited and began leaping up and barking. “No,” Colin said firmly. “We’re not taking you two, not tonight.”
“Certainly not,” said Oliver, eyeing the silly creatures with great distaste. Why did people have dogs? “Go back to your substitute mother,” he advised coldly.
The walk through Stang was rather unnerving; Molly had given them a big torch, but the darkness was thick and pressed on them as they hurried along, swallowing up the path behind. As they climbed up towards Blake’s End, Colin shone the beam back on the waters of the pit, half hoping they might see something, dreading what it might be. But the sullen water was like black glass, secret and undisturbed, reflecting a moonless night.
Old Miss Brierley was sitting up and quite perky. There was a fire in the grate, and a smell of frying. She asked them to put the casserole in the scullery, for tomorrow, because she’d had a good supper already. Colin wondered if Rose Salt had been in. The cottage was swept and tidy, and the old woman knew all about the missing child.
She liked these nice boys from Molly’s, and she was all set to chat. But listening was difficult, the room was so airless and stuffy, and Oliver didn’t like the sound of her breathing. She was going downhill now. His friend Mr Catchpole had been like this, at the end. Colin obviously didn’t realise how ill the old woman was, but then he didn’t understand about elderly people.
She set off at a gallop but tired almost at once. She mentioned the Edge family, and they pricked their ears up. She was ninety years old so she must have a lot of interesting stories to tell. But she was soon drifting. The effort of talking was clearly too much and she lay back on the pillows, and closed her eyes. It was as if all the words in the world were floating past, like leaves on a river, and she had to pluck them out, one by one. “Water,” she whispered. “When the waters drop, and the city rises, that means evil.”
Colin looked at his cousin. “She means Blake’s Pit,” Oliver said quietly. “Don’t interrupt her.”
“Bad luck,” she murmured. “Only been seen twice in my lifetime. . . Once the day before war broke out, and before that. . . Oh, I forget, duckie.”
“When?” prompted Oliver. But the sharp question was too loud. She jumped, a coal fell down in the fire, and Colin clutched his arm. “You’re frightening her, Oll. Leave her alone. She’s wandering. It can’t be that important.”
But Oliver knew that it was. He waited tensely in the silence, willing the old woman not to fall asleep. Then, after a few minutes of jumbled muttering, she half sat up in bed and said quite clearly, “April 14th, that’s when it was.”
“That was last Friday,” Colin said dumbly. But she repeated distinctly, “April 14th, 1912,” then, “I’m going to sleep now, dearies. Thank Molly for that nice stew.”
On the walk back to Elphins the boys didn’t speak to each other. The heavy silence wrapped itself round them, unbroken by the smallest noise. There were no dogs barking, no lost child screaming in a dark and lonely place, only their own thoughts, wriggling about in their aching brains like little angry snakes.
Oliver was thinking about his notebook. Perhaps he should go back to the library and see if he could find out more about Blake’s Pit. He was more and more convinced that the Edges were the real clue to all that was happening. If only people didn’t get old and worn out, Miss Brierley might be able to help him. But she was dying. “April 14th 1912” – what did it mean? Oliver was good on dates, but he didn’t associate that one with anything.
Then he remembered another April day. He’d gone up to Stang churchyard that morning, and watched two police officers poking about in the long grass. “Eliza, Jane and Thomas Massey, infants, tragically lost on the night of 21st April 1853.” According to the church guidebook they were the children of a wealthy farmer, and they’d been mysteriously drowned in Blake’s Pit. Their bodies hadn’t been found till months afterwards. “21st April” – the date on the mouldering gravestone burned in his memory. It was tomorrow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Before they got up next day the police had been and gone again. A squad car was parked by the Green, with an officer inside, talking into a radio, but the search had been shifted to the other villages, and they were dragging the canal. The Masseys’ house was shut up and silent, with the curtains pulled across, as if someone had died. A young policeman stood by the front door, but nobody was allowed in.
Molly insisted on taking Prill to the stables, and Oliver went with them, for the car ride. He wanted to quiz her about the Edges, though he’d decided she didn’t like him very much and might not tell him anything. Still, he could try. It was better than taking those awful dogs out again.
Colin walked them up to Winnie Webster’s. She’d know what had happened on April 14th 1912, her general knowledge was fantastic, according to Molly. The village kids called her Brain of Britain. He found her in her greenhouse, potting seedlings. “Sinking of the Titanic,” she said, the minut
e she heard his question. “Why do you. . . ah, I know. You’ve been talking to Kath Brierley, haven’t you?”
Colin’s mouth fell open. How could Winnie know that? Did people in Stang have a second sight or something? Did this village drive everybody a bit crazy? “Yes, yes I have,” he stammered. “But how do you know?”
“Well,” she said crisply, shaking soil off her gardening gloves. “It was on the Titanic that—no, go inside and look for yourself. I’ll have finished this in a jiffy. Big bookcase, bottom shelf, Volume Twelve of the blue encyclopaedia. Don’t bend it back.”
The book gave a passenger list of all the people who’d drowned when the “unsinkable” ship, Titanic, on its maiden voyage to America, struck an iceberg and sank on the night of April 14th 1912. Among them Colin found a Percy Brierley, described as a Manchester cotton millionaire. “He was an uncle,” Winnie explained, peering over his shoulder. “Kath’s was a poor branch of the family, just tenant farmers, here in Stang. And I suppose she told you how she and her brother Wilf were out on Blake’s Pit that night, larking about in a boat? And how they saw Old Stang, down in the water? And I suppose she told you that she saw it again, in 1939, the day before war was declared?”
“Well, she hinted,” Colin said uncertainly.
“By glimmer of scale and gleam of fin,
Folks have seen them all.”
Molly’s deep, musical voice came back to him in the cluttered room, making Winnie’s snappy remarks sound like the cawing of rooks.
“She’s a very old lady, dear, don’t forget that. And she’s upset about this Massey business. Aren’t we all? Memory plays funny tricks, you know, and people make things fit, to match their theories. Kath Brierley’s always romanced, and I don’t think there’s a shred of truth in what she says. I don’t believe in luck, good or bad. What comes to us in life we bring upon ourselves, dear, through our own efforts. Now then, it’s coffee time. Would you like a cup?”
