Scarborough Fair (Scarborough Fair series Book 1)

by Margarita Morris

  A few minutes later the men reappeared, this time without the boxes. For an agonising five minutes they leaned against the side of the car, smoking cigarettes and gazing up at the house. From her position at the side of the window Rose felt sure they were looking straight at her. She didn’t dare move. But then they tossed their cigarette stubs onto the ground, stamped on them, climbed into the vehicle and drove away with a screech of tyres.

  “They’ve gone.” Rose let out a long breath. She’d been holding herself so tense that her stomach muscles hurt. “Have they been here before?”

  Zoe shook her head. “Not as far as I know, but I’m not here all the time. If they make a regular habit of turning up I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live.”

  “What do you think is in the boxes?” asked Rose.

  Zoe stood up with a grin on her face. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  ~~~

  George Hartright sat at his desk, sketchbook in front of him, a pencil hanging uselessly between his thumb and forefinger. Ever since Alice’s disappearance, he had been unable to draw even the simplest of sketches. He turned the pages of the book, looking at the likenesses he’d drawn of her, as Titania, as Ophelia. As Portia.

  He was back at the boarding house, having returned there after they had reported Alice missing to the police. His landlady had gladly taken him back in and had done her best to soothe his rattled nerves with large helpings of hot stew and steaming cups of tea. None of it did any good.

  There was a knock at the door. He recognised his landlady’s delicate rat-a-tat-tat.

  “Yes?”

  She opened the door and stood on the threshold, a letter in her hand. “Sorry to disturb you Mr Hartright, but a boy just delivered this. He didn’t say who it was from.”

  George took the letter from her. The paper was thick and of high quality. His pulse quickened at the thought that it might have something to do with Alice. “Thank you,” he said, retreating into the privacy of his room.

  “Would you like me to fetch you anything?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, thank you.” She liked looking after him, enjoyed bringing him things to eat from the pantry, and he was sorry to disappoint her but he wanted her to leave so he could read the letter in peace.

  The landlady gave him a worried look, then backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. He listened to her footsteps on the creaky stairs and waited until he heard the parlour door close shut.

  Although he had been so eager to read the letter whilst she was standing there, now that he was alone he hesitated. What if the letter contained bad news? Was it better not to know? He stood by the window, gazing out over the rooftops at the masts of the boats docked in the harbour. All these years he had been coming to Scarborough to paint the coastline and never before had he met anyone like Alice. She had brought light and life into his world. She understood what he was trying to achieve with his painting and she had a thirst for knowledge that he had never witnessed in a woman before. On their walk around the ruins of Whitby Abbey she had confided in him about her engagement to Sir Henry Blackwood, saying it had all been planned for her when she was too young to know any better, but as she had grown up she had seen what sort of a man Henry was and she dreaded being tied to him for the rest of her life. It was that confession that had prompted George to buy her the jet necklace.

  George looked down at the unopened letter. It bore a coat of arms: a griffin, the mythical creature famous for guarding treasure. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the folded piece of paper inside. His hands trembled as he read.

  The letter was from Sir Henry Blackwood. It did not take George long to digest its contents, and he knew in his heart of hearts he had anticipated something like this. Dreaded it. The letter was a formal challenge to a duel, tomorrow evening. Henry proposed a spot in the forest west of Scarborough, half a mile from Low Road and, as the offended party, Henry had decided they would fight with pistols. Henry was staying at the Grand Hotel and would wait to hear that George accepted the challenge, assuming, of course, that he was a man of honour.

  The swine!

  George flung the letter aside and started to pace the room. Now he had no doubt that Henry was responsible for Alice’s disappearance. He should report him to the authorities immediately. He should tell Inspector Booth that Henry was staying at the Grand Hotel. He should…he stopped pacing. What good would it do to accuse a man like Henry Blackwood? Alice had told him that Henry had friends in high places. Men like that always managed to wriggle their way out of difficult situations. And besides, Henry was Alice’s official fiancé. By the codes of decency and honour, George was in the wrong for having stolen another man’s bride. He picked the letter up off the floor and dusted it down. If he wanted to win Alice fair and square then he would have to face Henry Blackwood. The fisherman, Walter, was a resourceful fellow. Maybe he could be persuaded to act as his second. George was not entirely familiar with the rules of duelling, never having found himself in this situation before, but he knew that both participants were required to bring along a supporter to ensure the fight was a fair one.

  George tore a piece of paper from his sketch pad, picked up a pen and hastily wrote a response which he folded and sealed in an envelope. Then he pulled on his jacket and went out, determined to deliver his response to the Grand Hotel himself.

  ~~~

  “I didn’t mean…” Rose gave up. Saying she didn’t want to go into the basement would just make her sound like a wimp and besides, Zoe was already halfway down the corridor, Lucky trotting at her heels. Rose followed, reluctant. When she’d said, “What do you think is in the boxes?” she’d just been thinking out loud. She hadn’t actually intended that they go and look. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Whatever those guys were storing in this deserted building, it had to mean trouble.

  Zoe clearly already knew the way to the basement, navigating her way through the building as if she’d lived here all her life. Rose followed her back to the passageway by the former kitchens and laundry room. Zoe opened a door onto a descending stairway. Lucky poked his nose around the door, whined and sat down on his haunches. He’s scared, thought Rose. That’s not a good sign.

  Zoe started to walk down the steps.

  “Is it safe down there?” asked Rose.

  “It’s fine. There’s enough light to see. There are some windows just above ground level.”

  Despite his earlier reluctance, Lucky started to follow his mistress down the steps. Not wanting to be left behind on her own, Rose went too, treading carefully on the worn stone steps.

  It was cold and damp in the basement. The sun failed to penetrate the dirt-covered windows but, as Zoe had said, there was enough light to see by. Broken tables and chairs, old beds and mildewed mattresses were piled up around the edge of the room. Was this where Zoe had found the mattress she was sleeping on? On top of the mattresses was a tangle of leather straps and buckles. Restraints for dealing with patients? Rose turned away. This whole place gave her the creeps.

  Pipes, thick with dust, ran around the walls at head height and up through holes in the ceiling. This must have been a state-of-the-art heating and hot water system when it was installed but now it looked ancient and defunct. In one corner was a huge, cylindrical metal tank covered in handles, levers and dials. It gave off a lingering smell of oil and Rose guessed it was the boiler. It was so old it looked like it had been salvaged from the Titanic.

  Lucky ran around, sniffing in every corner and growling. “There are rats down here,” said Zoe as if it was no big deal.

  Super, thought Rose.

  The boxes that the men had brought inside were standing on a dusty old table, along with about a dozen others. No attempt had been made to hide them. They probably didn’t expect anyone to come down here, thought Rose. Well, no sane person would.

  “Have you seen these before?” asked Rose.

  “Nope,” said Zoe. “But as I said, I’m not here eve
ry minute of the day.”

  Zoe tore at the tape sealing one of the boxes and lifted the flap. She reached inside and pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with white powder.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Rose.

  “Depends what you’re thinking,” said Zoe, tossing the bag back inside the box. “My guess is cocaine.”

  “No way!” Rose reached into her pocket for her mobile phone. “We have to call the police.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Zoe suddenly turned on her, her eyes blazing. “Put that away.” She pointed at Rose’s phone.

  “Why?” It was the old, prickly Zoe back again and Rose didn’t like it.

  Zoe looked at Rose as if she was stupid. “Because if you call the cops they’ll start crawling all over this place and they’ll find me and put me back into care. I’m not going back into a children’s home. Ever!”

  “But this is serious.” Rose pointed at the boxes. “People die taking this stuff. It shouldn’t be on the streets.”

  “It’s not on the streets is it? It’s here in this basement. Look, I’m sorry but this stuff isn’t my problem.” She kicked the nearest box. “Don’t you think I’ve got enough problems of my own?”

  Rose felt her resolve starting to wane. She didn’t want to make life harder for Zoe than it already was. “But you can’t stay here forever,” she said in the end. “It’s not safe.”

  Zoe shrugged. “It’s safer here than it was at home.”

  “But you won’t be safe now if those men keep coming back. Look, I didn’t have time to tell you earlier, but I’ve seen those two before. They’re criminals and they’re armed. You don’t want to get in their way.”

  Zoe stamped her foot and turned away from Rose. Having failed to catch any rats, Lucky trotted over and pressed his nose into Zoe’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rose. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Forget about it. But please don’t call the police. Not just yet anyway. I need a bit of time to work out what I’m going to do.”

  “Sure,” said Rose. “I understand. I should probably get going, before Mum sends out a search party. Look, why don’t you come…” She didn’t finish what she was going to say. They’d both heard it: the rumble of an engine and the crunch of tyres on the stony ground outside. Lucky let out a deep-throated growl. Zoe jumped onto one of the broken bedsteads and peered out of a grimy window. “They’re back.”

  “We need to get out of here,” said Rose.

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Is there another way out?”

  “No, there’s only one door to the basement.”

  The car doors slammed shut.

  “They’re coming this way,” said Zoe. “And this time there are three of them. We have to hide.” She grabbed hold of Rose’s arm and Lucky’s collar.

  “Where?” Rose looked around frantically for a hiding place.

  “Behind the boiler.”

  There was no chance to call the police now even if Rose had wanted to. As she squeezed into the filthy space between the boiler and the wall she just had time to tap out a hasty text to Dan. @ asylum. Help.

  ~~~

  Henry was a crack shot with a pistol. He’d learnt to shoot as a child on his father’s estate in the Cumbrian countryside, practising on pheasants who were too slow or stupid to move out of the way, baby rabbits who were too bewildered by the bright lights he shone in their eyes and young deer when they wandered too far away from the herd. Living in London he regretted the lack of opportunities to practise what he regarded as this gentlemanly skill. But the fact that Alice preferred another man to himself had wounded Henry’s pride and there was only one way that Henry knew to restore his high sense of self-regard.

  It hadn’t been difficult for a man of Henry’s stature to discover the whereabouts of a lowly painter. Hotel porters, inn keepers and common people always kowtowed to his superior bearing and told him what he wanted to know. Henry had found a boy willing to deliver the letter for a ha’penny.

  He was sitting now in the lounge of the Grand Hotel, sipping a whisky, when the Hotel porter brought him a letter on a silver platter. He allowed himself to finish his whisky before opening the envelope. It was as he had hoped. The painter had been fool enough to accept his challenge of a duel. Well, George Hartright was as good as dead. Henry ordered himself another whisky and settled back in his armchair, lighting his pipe.

  ~~~

  Dan carried the bags to the car whilst his dad hobbled alongside on a pair of crutches. Fiona was waiting for them by her Volkswagen Golf which she had parked illegally in a disabled bay in front of the hospital. Mind you, thought Dan, if anyone needed the advantage of disabled parking right now it was his dad. Ryan was wearing a neck brace because of his whiplash injury and his right leg was in plaster from the ankle to the knee, having sustained a serious fracture to the tibia. He had spent the last couple of days learning how to manoeuvre himself around with the crutches, practising in the hospital corridor under the close supervision of the policeman on duty, as if he might suddenly throw the crutches away and make a run for it. Dan didn’t think his dad would be running anywhere for a long time, if ever.

  Dr Wilson had said that Ryan was well enough to go home, although he’d have to take it steady and not expect to be able to do too much. He was still suffering from severe concussion and would need lots of rest. As Ryan lowered himself awkwardly into the car his trouser leg rose up and Dan caught sight of the electronic tag around his left ankle. Ryan might be free to leave the hospital but he was not a free man. Until his trial came to court Ryan would be under house arrest, not a prospect that Dan viewed with delight.

  Dan put the crutches and the bags into the boot of the car and climbed into the back. As his mother reversed out of the parking space his phone beeped. A text. He had no idea who it might be from. He’d been incommunicado for so long he thought Rose would have given up on him by now. She’d probably gone back to London, to her real friends. Her boyfriend. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the messages icon.

  Rose. So she was still in Scarborough and hadn’t forgotten about him. His heart leapt with joy. He tapped the message.

  @asylum. Help.

  At first he didn’t understand, had to re-read the message. And then he got it. Shit! She was at the asylum and she was in danger. But why had she gone to the asylum on her own? What on earth had happened to her? He couldn’t think of any reason she might have for going back there. She hadn’t exactly enjoyed their first visit and he didn’t blame her. But she was there now and she was calling for his help. What if she’d gone there and encountered Max and his cronies?

  Fiona pulled onto the main road heading back into town. It was five o’clock, the middle of rush hour and the traffic was crawling down the hill. The traffic was jammed up at the roundabout outside Peasholm Park. Dan bit his lip and thought about what to do. If he got out of the car now it would take him fifteen minutes to walk to the asylum, less if he ran. He was about to ask his mum to stop the car and let him out when Ryan spoke.

  “You know, I really appreciate you both standing by me through all this.”

  “That’s what families do,” said Fiona. “We stick together. Isn’t that right Dan?” She caught his eye in the rear view mirror and Dan grunted in agreement.

  Dan sank back into his seat. He’d have to help his mum get his dad into the house. Also, if he disappeared now, his parents would want to know where he was going and he didn’t want to say anything about the abandoned asylum. He’d have to sit tight for now and try and get away as soon as he could.

  He texted back, Be there soon, but how soon was another matter.

  ~~~

  It was filthy behind the boiler, the narrow space between the cylinder and the wall thick with years of accumulated cobwebs. The cloying smell of oil made it hard to breathe. Not that Rose dared to breathe too deeply in case the men heard her. She took short gulps of air through her mou
th and tried not to think about the mess on the floor which was almost certainly rat droppings. Next to her, Zoe was like a statue. Lucky sat on their feet, his tail tickling Rose’s bare legs. If the men were going to come into the basement, she just hoped they would leave quickly. She didn’t know how long she could stand there without sneezing from the dust or getting cramp in her foot from Lucky’s weight.

  Rose had a very restricted view of the basement. She could see part of the staircase but nothing of the room itself. Zoe could probably see a little of the room but not the stairs. She squashed herself closer to Zoe, worried that she might be visible to anyone walking down the steps.

  There were footsteps overhead; the rising intonation of a Geordie accent. Lucky pricked his ears and a growl started to rise from deep within his throat.

  “Shhh, quiet boy.” Zoe stroked the dog’s head. Lucky fell silent.

  The door was kicked open and Rose’s breath caught in her throat, her heart thumping against her ribcage. The blood sounded so loud in her ears she thought it must be audible across the whole basement. Zoe kept her hand on Lucky’s head and fortunately the dog was quiet as a lamb.

  Out of the corner of her eye Rose glimpsed three figures descending the steps. The first two were the guys who had dropped the boxes off earlier, the Geordies. The third was slower and heavier and the heels of his boots made a sharp clicking sound on the stone steps. Rose risked turning her head a fraction and recognised the man she and Dan had seen in the camper van at the fairground; the one with the name MAX tattooed on his knuckles.

  The men walked over to the boxes. The boiler blocked Rose’s view of them, but their voices sounded alarmingly close.

  “Is this the last of the batch?” asked a deep voice. It wasn’t a Geordie accent, so it had to be Max talking.

  “Aye, boss, that’s the lot,” said one of the Geordies. Rose thought it was the tall one with the tattoo.

  “Ryan’s gone and screwed it all up for us, man.” That had to be the other Geordie, the short fat one. “We’ll need to get this shit out of here before he tells the police everything.”