The Shade of Hettie Daynes

by Robert Swindells

‘Miss, the new . . . stuff. The workmen.’

  ‘Very good, Lucy. Well done.’ The Head extended her smile to include the whole assembly. ‘This morning, workmen will come to our school with diggers and trucks and all sorts of exciting, noisy things. They’ll be here all week I expect, rattling the windows and reversing all over the place, installing a lovely safe area for us to play on.’ She adjusted her expression to grave. ‘When they’ve gone, taking their machines and their mess with them, our playground will be the safest place in Wilton. But while they’re here, it will not. It will be dirty and dangerous.’ She lifted her gaze to the back of the hall, where the teachers were sitting. ‘Why all this couldn’t be done during the holidays I don’t know, but still.’

  The teachers murmured, nodded.

  Miss Gadd continued. ‘This means that today, and for the rest of this week, playtimes will be indoors. Where will playtimes be, Bethan Midgley?’

  ‘Miss, indoors.’ Why pick on me, thought Bethan.

  ‘That is correct.’ The Head looked fierce. ‘I don’t want to catch anyone outside, unless a class is out with its teacher. Have I made myself perfectly plain?’

  Alison whispered in Bethan’s ear. ‘She just is perfectly plain.’ Bethan stifled a giggle. Alison wasn’t her favourite person just now. If she was smart enough to make cracks about the Head, why hadn’t she the wit to ask who was on the other end of the phone?

  SEVENTY-ONE

  FIRST PERIOD, MATHS with Trigger, whose name was actually Mr Rogers. He was on the far side of the room, helping a group working with pyramids. Rob and Harry had Carl’s diary folded inside the geometry text they were supposed to be studying.

  ‘Listen to this,’ hissed Rob. ‘October nineteenth: Desperation. We’re to meet at the mill at nine p.m. tomorrow when, God willing, all will be resolved.’

  ‘Crikey!’ gasped Harry.

  Trigger glanced across. ‘I’m glad you’re finding the properties of cones so thrilling, Midgley, but do try to express your excitement in a less exuberant manner, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry.

  ‘And this,’ murmured Rob, as Trigger returned to his pyramids. ‘October twentieth: It is done. I do most fervently wish it had not proved necessary, but she drove me to it.’

  ‘He killed her, didn’t he?’ whispered Harry. ‘Carl’s great grandad or whatever killed Mum’s auntie.’

  ‘Sssh!’ Rob looked at Trigger, who hadn’t heard. ‘There’s more, mate: Soon the rising waters will conceal my crime, but will prove insufficient to the cleansing of my soul, upon which the Lord have mercy.’

  ‘Wow.’ Harry shook his head. ‘So the skeleton is Hettie Daynes. I’ll have to show Mum this diary, I don’t know what she’ll do.’ He looked at Rob. ‘You can’t get a dead guy tried for murder, can you?’

  Rob pulled a face. ‘No, but think what it’ll do to our mighty councillor if it gets out – no wonder Carl’s practically messing himself.’

  Trigger straightened up. ‘Tell you what, you two. Why don’t the rest of us take a little break while you demonstrate your absorbing discovery for us on the board?’

  SEVENTY-TWO

  ‘NEWSROOM, FOX SPEAKING.’

  ‘It’s Christa Midgley, Mr Fox. I’ve been going over and over what you told me yesterday. If what you suspect is true – if my great, great aunt was murdered, and if somebody’s known this all along, ought they not to be exposed? I mean, I know whatever happened was too long ago for the police to get involved, but can’t you put something in the paper – a piece by Steve Wood, perhaps?’

  The reporter shook his head, though she couldn’t see. ‘I can understand your frustration, Ms Midgley – your anger, I suppose I should say – but as I pointed out yesterday, there’s no hard evidence. The fact that I suspect a certain family doesn’t mean they’re guilty.’ He sighed. ‘I daren’t expose the Echo to legal action for defamation. That’s why Steve and I are still investigating.’

  ‘What about my ancestor’s remains?’ asked Christa. ‘I want to arrange a proper burial for them, but I don’t want to remove evidence which might be important later.’

  ‘No,’ said Fox. ‘I think we need the bones to lie where they were found, Ms Midgley. For now anyway.’

  ‘But what if somebody else stumbles across them – the workmen, for instance?’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely. Steve tells me they’re under a cairn, one of several at the site, and the work is to the western end of the reservoir. There’s a slight risk, I suppose, but it’s one we’ll have to take.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘There’s one thing you can do, Ms Midgley.’

  ‘Oh – what’s that?’

  ‘See that the kids stay away. Some stickybeak notices them poking about, he’ll wonder what the big attraction is.’

  ‘They won’t be poking about,’ promised Christa. ‘They’ll be lucky if they set foot on a pavement outside school hours.’

  ‘Glad you’re not my mum,’ chuckled Fox. ‘I’ll keep you posted. ’Bye.’

  SEVENTY-THREE

  MONDAY TEA TIME. Christa preparing the meal, Bethan helping. Harry came through the door.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘What is it, Harry?’

  ‘Something to show you.’

  ‘I’m rinsing rice, love, hands’re wet, can it wait?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘You’ll want to see this.’ He dumped his pack on the floor, rooted through it. ‘Look.’

  Christa looked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Old diary.’

  ‘Old diary that can’t wait.’ She looked at him. ‘Who wrote it – Hitler?’

  ‘Stanton Farley Hopwood.’

  His mother frowned. ‘Hopwood – is he one of the . . .?’

  ‘It’s 1885. Rob says it’s Carl’s great grandad.’

  Christa nodded. ‘Sounds about right. So how do you come to have it, and why would I be interested?’

  Harry looked at his mother. ‘I think you better sit down, Mum, while I read you something.’

  ‘Harry,’ sighed Christa. ‘I’ve just got in from work, I’m trying to cook, I haven’t time to sit down and be read to.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ interrupted Bethan. ‘I’ll see to the rice.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Christa pulled out a chair, sat down, looked at her son. Harry opened the diary and read:

  ‘October thirteenth: . . . H threatening to tell her mother unless I name the day. Silly little fool surely can’t imagine Father’s plans for me include marriage to one of his hands.’

  He looked up. Christa’s lower lip was caught between her teeth. She didn’t say anything. ‘There’s other stuff,’ he said, ‘but I’ll cut to October nineteenth. It says:

  ‘Desperation. We’re to meet at the mill at nine p.m. tomorrow when, God willing, all will be resolved.’

  ‘At the mill,’ murmured Christa, staring at her hands on the table.’ She looked up. ‘Is there more?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Yes, Mum. The next day he writes:

  ‘It is done. I do . . . bla, bla, bla . . . but she drove me to it. Soon the rising waters will conceal my crime . . .’

  He broke off, looked at his mother. ‘It goes on, but . . .’

  Christa nodded. Her cheeks had paled, her hands were fists on the table. ‘That’s enough, Harry. Thank you.’ Her voice was husky, almost a whisper. ‘You didn’t tell me how you come to have the diary.’

  ‘Carl brought it to school, Mum. He left it in the boys’ lavatories by accident and Rob found it. He thought you should see it.’

  His mother nodded. ‘Yes, well.’ She stood up, gazed through the twilight window. ‘Obvious who H was, I think.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better phone Fox at the Echo. Hope he’s not gone home.’

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  MONDAY, SEVEN P.M. As the Rover crunched off down the drive, Carl trailed along the corridor to the conservatory, where his mother was trimming palms.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Carl
?’

  ‘I’ve done something. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but I don’t know what to do.’

  Felicity sighed, dropped the secateurs into her pinny pocket. ‘Why don’t we sit down, Carl, and you can tell me all about it?’ She led him to where a glass-topped table stood between a pair of wicker armchairs, letting a handful of shrivelled leaves fall into a bin in passing.

  ‘Now,’ she said when they were seated, ‘tell me what you’ve done that’s so terrible.’

  Carl shook his head. ‘It’s not funny, Mum. I don’t even want to tell you, but I have to ’cause I daren’t tell Dad. He’d kill me.’

  His mother arched her brow. ‘Not kill, darling, surely?’

  ‘Yes, kill. I’ve dropped the family in it, and you know what he’s like about the family.’

  His mother sighed. ‘Well, come along – tell me about it. I’m sure it’s not nearly as awful as you imagine.’ She looked at him. ‘Things always get sorted out you know, in the end.’

  Carl snorted. ‘Not this, Mum.’

  He told how he’d trespassed in the office. Rooted through the archive. Found his great grandfather’s diary. Forced its lock. Read the faded entries. ‘That bit about hands, Mum – you said it sounded Victorian – it’s in the diary. And there’s more.’

  His mother listened silently as he outlined the later, terrible entries. When he told her he’d lost the diary at school her cheeks paled. And when he’d finished they sat tense and unhappy under the palms, waiting for Dad to come home.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  ‘NEWSROOM.’

  ‘May I speak to Mr Fox? My name’s Midgley.’

  ‘Hang on. Stan – lady for you. Name of Midgley.’

  ‘Hi, Ms Midgley. How can I help you?’

  ‘You talked about the need for evidence, Mr Fox. Hard evidence. I have it for you.’

  ‘You have? Uh . . . in what form, Ms Midgley?’

  ‘It’s a diary. I know now that the bones at the old mill belong to Hettie Daynes, and that she was murdered. I also know who killed her, and why.’

  ‘Wow! Seems you’ve beaten me and Steve to it, Ms Midgley. Can I come round straight away, take a look at the diary?’

  ‘Of course, that’s why I rang. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Bethan’s eyes shone. ‘I’ll do the kettle, Mum.’

  ‘And I’ll plate up some choccy bikkies,’ volunteered Harry. He grinned. ‘I can’t wait to see Councillor Hopwood’s face when he looks at this week’s Echo.’

  Their mother shook her head. ‘This isn’t a celebration, you know. Reginald Hopwood’s grandfather ruined an ignorant young girl, then destroyed her like an unwanted dog. We’re looking at real-life tragedy, not a TV soap.’

  Fox must have broken several records and a couple of laws, driving up from Rawton. He accepted tea from Bethan, a biscuit from Harry and the diary from Christa.

  ‘Stanton Farley Hopwood,’ he mused. ‘The councillor’s grandfather. Sat in the council chamber for years – a churchgoer, a pillar of the community, a fornicator and a murderer. Nobody knew. Unless . . .’

  Christa looked at him. ‘Unless . . .?’

  ‘Well.’ Fox shrugged. ‘I suspect the family knew, else why has my pal Reginald been so keen to keep everybody away from the reservoir since the water level dropped?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘and why did Carl say get on the wrong side of a Hopwood and you’ll find yourself in deep water? Or is that a coincidence, Mr Fox?’

  SEVENTY-SIX

  TEN AT NIGHT. The Rover screeched to a stop outside the Hattersleys’ home. Rob had just gone up to bed. His parents were watching the news. Reginald Hopwood hurried up the path, banged on the front door.

  ‘Who the heck’s that, this time of night?’ Mr Hattersley hoisted himself out of the easy chair, grumbled his way to the door.

  Rob looked out of an upstairs window and recognized the councillor. ‘Oh-oh,’ he murmured, ‘bet I know what he’s after.’ He headed for the stairs.

  Mr Hattersley opened the door. ‘Yes, what can . . .?’

  ‘My name’s Councillor Hopwood. Is your son in?’

  ‘Y . . . yes, he’s gone to bed. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes, something’s wrong.’ Hopwood’s eyes stared, his shiny face was purple. ‘Your son stole something belonging to my son. This morning. At school. I want it back.’

  Rob’s father shook his head. ‘I don’t think my lad . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, Dad.’ Rob joined his father in the doorway, looked Hopwood in the eye. ‘Yes, Councillor, I took your granddad’s diary. Read bits of it as well – the interesting bits.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t wonder you want it back.’

  ‘You’ll give it back this instant, or I’ll call the police.’

  Rob shook his head. ‘Not a good career move, Councillor. Anyway, it’s not here. I passed it to the family of the murdered girl.’

  ‘Rob?’ His father plucked at Rob’s sleeve. ‘What’s all this about? What murdered girl – it’s like something on the telly.’

  ‘Family – what family?’ roared Hopwood, trying to barge his way past the pair, who stood firm. ‘There is no family. She was nothing but a—’ He broke off.

  Rob finished the sentence for him. ‘Nothing but a hand.’

  Mrs Hattersley appeared between husband and son. ‘What’s all this shouting?’ she cried. ‘You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ soothed Rob. ‘The councillor’s just leaving.’ He looked at the apoplectic Hopwood. ‘The family’s seen the diary, and the skeleton at the mill. She was nothing but a mill girl, but they—’

  ‘Skeleton?’ croaked Hopwood. He swayed, grabbed the lintel to keep from falling. ‘There’s a—’ He pointed a shaking finger at Rob. ‘You . . . I’ll settle you later, boy, you can depend on it. Not now though . . . matters to attend to. Priorities.’ He turned, lurched towards the Rover.

  Mrs Hattersley called after him, ‘I really don’t think you should drive, Mr Hopwood.’

  The councillor swung round, pointed at her. ‘Shut your stupid mouth, woman.’

  They stood on the step and watched him roar away.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  ‘IS IT MRS Midgley?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘Rob – Harry’s mate. Listen. Councillor Hopwood’s been here, after the diary. I told him the murdered girl’s family has it. He went ape-shape and drove off. I didn’t give him your name, but Carl might’ve mentioned Harry. I thought I’d better warn you.’

  ‘Did you mention the bones to him, Rob?’

  ‘Yes I did. I said the family’s seen the diary and the skeleton. He nearly passed out.’

  ‘Think carefully, Rob – did he say anything?’

  ‘Not really. He mumbled something about stuff to do – priorities.’

  ‘I’m going to hang up, Rob – I think he might have gone to the reservoir.’

  ‘The res – why, Mrs Midgley?’

  ‘To dispose of the evidence of course. He failed to recover the diary, but without the bones the diary’s just words. I’m off now – bye.’

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHRISTA RAPPED ON her son’s door. ‘Harry – are you in bed yet?’ It was ten o’clock.

  ‘Just going, Mum.’

  ‘Go downstairs, grab a bin bag, we’re off out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it, Harry.’ She hurried to Bethan’s room. ‘Bethan, wake up sweetheart, listen.’

  ‘Whu . . .?’

  ‘Harry and I are off to the reservoir. We won’t be long. I want you to drop the latch behind us. Don’t leave the house, don’t let anybody in. All right?’

  ‘Suppose so, but why’re you . . .?’

  ‘I’ll explain later, love.’

  Harry was in the kitchen, ramming a black bag in his pocket. ‘What is it, Mum – you finally flipped or what?’

  Christa grabbed a jacket, shrugged into it. ‘Hopwood,’ she gasped, ‘after
the bones. My poor aunt suffered enough, at the time and since. He’ll not rob her of a decent burial.’ She strode to the foot of the stairs. ‘You coming down, sweetheart?’

  Bethan appeared at the top, looking bleary. Christa smiled. ‘Good girl. Lock up straight away, won’t you?’

  When Bethan reached the kitchen, they’d gone. She dropped the latch and stood barefoot on the tiles, knuckling her eyes.

  Then she padded across to the phone.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  HE STOOD, SHOES full of ooze, in the yard of Hopwood Mill. The moon was a smudge in a veil of cloud. The mist made everything look the same. He’d pulled a thick, rotten branch out of the mud. With this he slashed at the mist, turning and turning, half-blind with tears. ‘My name’s Councillor Hopwood,’ he choked. ‘Matters to attend to, get away, get away.’

  He’d searched everywhere. Wall bottoms, heaps of broken stones. No bones. When one thing goes wrong everything does – he’d left a powerful torch in the Rover. Now he was hearing voices.

  Voices. He crouched in shadow by a bit of wall, breathing hard, staring at haze. It was after ten on a chill November night, who’d come here? Busybodies, that’s who. Folk with nothing better to do, like that scruff with the magazines. He grasped the branch and held his breath.

  ‘It’s this way, Mum – come on.’

  ‘Wait, Harry, he’ll be here somewhere, don’t get too far ahead.’

  ‘There’s nobody, Mum, listen – dead quiet.’

  Harry reached the first wall and cried out. A figure loomed, shadow out of shadow. He flung up his arms to ward off a blow but the shape barged past him, Neanderthal, brandishing a club, shambling towards his mother.

  ‘Mum, watch out!’ He ran after the thing but it reached Christa, flung a thick arm round her neck, raised its club.

  ‘Stop!’ Hopwood bared his teeth at the boy. Harry stopped dead, gazing into the eyes of a madman.

  ‘L-let her go,’ he cried. ‘The police are on their way.’

  The councillor laughed. ‘No they’re not.’ He flexed his arm, constricting the woman’s throat. She gagged. ‘Show me where the bones are, or I’ll throttle this slag like the nobody she is.’