Barton served the soup and I sat looking from one to the other as they drank theirs. Dr. Harrison sat bolt upright, taking prim little sips from a half-filled spoon. Henry was, as always, fastidious, correct, and perfectly mannered, waiting until I had dipped my spoon into my soup before he started and dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin about every third mouthful. Roger ate in the same manner that he seemed to do everything else, with boisterous enthusiasm, finishing well ahead of the rest of us.
It occurred to me that I was being somewhat ridiculous. Surely they would notice how I was so intently watching each of them in turn. I had no idea what it was that I expected to find out. It was highly improbable that my enemy would reveal him or herself by the manner in which he handled a soup spoon.
‘When are you planning to take your horse out again?’ Roger was talking to me.
I stiffened and dropped my spoon. Dr. Harrison immediately retrieved it for me.
‘Are you still not feeling well?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, I am perfectly well,’ I replied.
‘Are you quite sure, coz?’ said Henry.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ I replied, realizing how insincere my answer must sound and watching them to see if I could detect satisfaction in any of their expressions. There was only concern.
‘I’m sorry, Roger,’ I continued. ‘You asked me something.’
Of course I knew perfectly well what he had asked, but what was his motive? Why should he be interested in when I was going to ride again? Was it him? Was there more devilment planned for my next ride?
‘I asked you when you intended riding again,’ he said with a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to worry you, but after a nasty fall such as you had, it would be a good idea to get on a horse again as soon as possible. You don’t want to lose your nerve, do you?’
‘He’s quite right, you know,’ said Henry. ‘You mustn’t leave it too long.’
‘I think I would agree with that,’ added Dr. Harrison. ‘But I don’t think you should go too soon either.’
Each remark had been completely in character, even to the accompanying facial expression and tone of voice. It told me nothing.
‘I have not yet decided,’ I replied. ‘But please don’t worry about my nerve; it is by no means the first time I have fallen.’
I certainly had no intention of revealing any plans I might have had, but as it happened I had given the matter no thought, and so my reply was quite truthful.
By this time, Barton had cleared away the soup things and was serving the main course. As he brought a tray of sizzling lamb chops for my inspection and approval, he murmured, ‘Will you be able to see cook tomorrow?’
I nodded; life must go on, and for Uncle Joshua’s sake I could not neglect all of my duties. The conversation had lapsed while Barton served the meal, apart from Henry’s requesting a half-bottle of claret for himself and Roger, Dr. Harrison and I having indicated that we would not be taking wine.
After cutting off a corner of my lamb chop and spearing it with my fork, so that the others could start, I put my knife and fork down and gazed at my meal with a rising feeling of nausea. It was impossible for me to get it out of my mind that I was sitting there in the presence of my tormentor. But who? Who and why? That question kept pounding into my head. If I could only answer the first part of it: who? If I could only stand up there and then and point my finger and say, ‘You are the one. You are the one who cut my girth, it was you who burnt my papers. Now you must tell me why.’ After all, what had I ever done to any of them? What cause was there for anyone here to hate me? In what manner or means could I possibly present a threat? But then, supposing none of this was true, supposing it was an illogical hatred, a threat based on the fantasy of a sick mind? Supposing that this was the truth? Then it was more than just an enemy I had to deal with; it was madness.
I was watching them again; they were eating their meal as if not one of them had a care in the world. How dare they, I thought, while I was sitting there almost sick with fear and apprehension. I had to try and pull myself together. These were foolish thoughts which could not help me in any conceivable way. They were dangerous too. I realized that if I did not control myself they could take possession of me and make me hysterical. Even worse, perhaps I would drive myself mad.
I picked up my fork, still containing the piece of lamb chop I had cut earlier. It was getting cold, and the fat was beginning to congeal. I put it down again with a feeling of disgust.
Roger said, ‘Come on, Emma, eat your dinner. It’s not poisoned, you know.’
I let out a gasp of horror. Poison. Dear God, not that.
‘I say, did I say something to upset you? I’m awfully sorry,’ said Roger.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Please forgive me, I … I don’t think I am very hungry.’
‘Now look here, Miss Waldron,’ said Dr. Harrison. ‘You must eat something. Henry, would you ring for Barton?’
I started to protest.
‘No, Miss Waldron,’ continued Dr. Harrison. ‘Tell Barton what you want, but I am going to insist that you eat. You assured us that it was just a fall and that you are perfectly all right. Now I am speaking as a doctor, and I want you to be sensible and have a little to eat and then go up to your room and go to bed.’
‘She’s quite right, you know,’ said Henry as Barton came in. ‘You’ve got to have something.’
I gave in and asked Barton to bring me an omelette. He was worried that I had not enjoyed my dinner, but I assured him that it was me and not the meal.
They all sat and watched me while I ate, two of them I was sure with genuine concern, but which two? After I had eaten, I left them and went upstairs. There was no point in arguing with Dr. Harrison’s logic even had I disagreed with her, and I knew that she was right. I got to my room, locked myself in, and went to bed. I was not going to take any more chances. Tomorrow I would seriously consider my situation here.
It was with this thought that I fell asleep.
Chapter Eleven
I was awakened by a loud knocking. I got out of bed, slipped into my dressing gown, and went to the locked sitting room door.
‘Who’s there?’ I demanded nervously.
‘It’s me, miss, Letty,’ replied a voice. ‘I’ve brought your tea, miss.’
Good gracious, I thought, it must be eight o’clock. I unlocked the door and let Letty in. I was surprised at how well I must have slept. Whatever else my troubles had done to me, they had not interfered with that.
‘Are you sure that you’re all right, miss?’ asked Letty, putting my tray down.
Poor girl, she must have had a surprise at finding her entrance barred.
‘Yes, Letty,’ I replied. ‘There is nothing wrong. I have just decided to sleep with my door locked; don’t let it worry you.’
‘It doesn’t worry me, miss. I always sleep with my door locked, but I won’t be able to get in in the morning.’
‘You’ll just have to knock as you did this morning, Letty,’ I answered. ‘You can leave the tray there and get my grey tweed out. I shall be going out this morning after I have seen cook, and I may not be back until after lunch.’
I had decided to take the pony and trap and go down to Goathland Village. It was my intention to call on the vicar. I had no special plan in mind, but I wanted desperately to get away from the house for a few hours and give myself time to think. I did not know whether I would say anything to the Reverend Cox about my experiences. In any case, it would be nice to talk to him. He had been vicar of Goathland for as long as I could remember, a big kindly man with a heart as large as his frame. He was regarded by the local tramps as the easiest touch in Yorkshire.
By the time I had finished my tea, Letty had made my bed and neatly laid out my clothes.
‘Shall I help you dress, miss?’ she asked.
‘No thank you, Letty,’ I replied. ‘You can take the tray and go now.’
Letty left me. I dressed s
lowly, and it was after nine when I finally made my way out of my rooms. As soon as I stepped out into the corridor, I felt vulnerable. Inside my own quarters I felt a certain amount of security. I could lock the door, shut the world out, and feel safe from the threat which hung over me. Once outside of those walls, I became a target for my unknown tormentor and a prey to my own imagination.
I walked slowly to the dining room, pausing at every corner to insure that no one was in sight. I saw not a soul until I got to the dining room, where, to my dismay, I found that Roger was still there. I had resolved that I would, from now on, try to avoid any situation which would leave me alone with only one other person, but what could I do now? I got the distinct impression that he had been waiting for me.
Could he be the one? Could this handsome, courageous man have another side to his character? A dark and sinister side? I looked at him; it was hardly credible, but then was it any more credible that it should be either of the others? I stopped involuntarily as I caught sight of him.
‘Hello there,’ he said, brushing his unruly forelock back into place. ‘I’ve saved you some kidneys. Sit down and I’ll get them for you.’
Kidneys. Yes, they all knew that I liked kidneys for breakfast, and was it not Roger who had said something about poison at dinner last night? I made a quick decision.
‘I think I’d rather have sausages if there are any,’ I replied.
‘You’re in luck, there are some left,’ he said. ‘And I think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.’
I did not reply, and I suppose he took my silence as assent. He attended to my needs, just as he had done the previous morning, chattering away all the while. For myself, I hardly spoke at all. He told me that he was going to fly Kittiwake again that day and asked me if I would like to watch. I told him that I had to go down to the village and doubted whether I should be back in time.
‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind my waiting for you, but Sir Joshua was wondering if perhaps you were still not feeling too well. I promised to find out. You didn’t go and see him at all yesterday, did you?’
Poor Uncle Josh. In spite of what had happened, it was cruel of me to forget him.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied. ‘That was wrong of me. I’ll go and see him as soon as I finish breakfast.’
‘Well, it so happens that I have an appointment with him at a quarter to ten. I’ll tell him what you said, and you could go and see him when you return from the village. I can’t delay my appointment if we are going to get Kittiwake into the air today.’
‘All right, I’ll do that,’ I replied. ‘Tell him I would like to come and take tea with him this afternoon, and tell him I am sorry that I didn’t come yesterday.’
‘I’m sure that will please him,’ said Roger. ‘Well, it’s almost a quarter to. I’d better be off, mustn’t keep the old boy waiting.’
I finished breakfast, and as I was leaving the dining room I caught sight of Henry crossing the hall. I stepped back into the room and stood there until he had gone. I did not want to explain my intended movements to anyone. I realized that I had already told Roger where I was going and that that was a mistake. The fewer people who knew in advance where I would be, the better. I went down to the kitchen, as I had promised, and settled a few domestic problems with cook. Then I left the house by the tradesmen’s entrance and headed toward the stables.
When I got there, I found Ormerod in the tack room and asked him to prepare a pony and trap for me. He told me that it would take about twenty minutes, and when I said I would wait for it, he produced the inevitable apple and told me to go and talk to Honey while he got it ready. He made no mention of the cut girth, apart from telling me that my saddle had been repaired, but I noticed that he did not delegate the responsibility for preparing the pony and trap to either of the grooms.
I returned to the stable yard some fifteen minutes later and found Ormerod, having already gotten the pony between the shafts, inspecting every stitch and buckle on the harness. Finally he seemed satisfied and handed the trap over to me. There was a grey pony in the shafts that I had not seen before. Ormerod introduced us; her name was Hazel. I got into the trap and set off down the drive across Howl Moor toward Wheeldale Beck and Goathland Village.
It was a pleasant day, but there was a slight nip in the air from the light easterly breeze which was blowing in from the North Sea some eight miles away. Hazel proved a good carriage pony, staying in an extended trot for the whole journey, picking her feet up well and giving me a very pleasant ride.
One’s relationship with animals is a strange thing. Had Honey been between the shafts, I should have poured out my troubles to him all the way to the village. Hazel and I had, however, only just been introduced, and one does not impart confidences to a comparative stranger. So I sat silently in the trap, brooding over the events which had occurred in what was really an incredibly short period, since my return to Goathlands.
We arrived at the church and I drove up the drive, round behind the graveyard and up to the front door of the vicarage. This was a typical example of the kind of house that the Church of England provides for its pastors. Much too large, much too cold, much too rambling, and much too expensive to maintain on the stipend of a country parson. Mr. Cox answered the door himself and greeted me warmly. He did not seem surprised to see me, but Mr. Cox never seemed surprised at anything. He led me into his sparsely furnished sitting room; there was no fire and it was quite chilly. Mrs. Cox appeared and suggested that we go into the kitchen, it being the warmest room in the house. We would still be able to talk privately there, as it was their cook-general’s day off.
We sat and chatted and drank tea for about an hour. The conversation was general, pleasant and inconsequential. I felt very warmly toward Mr. Cox and I think I would have told him about my frightening experiences over the last few days, but I found the extra presence even of Mrs. Cox somewhat inhibiting. By the time I felt I had to leave, I had talked a lot and said nothing. They came to the front door and said goodbye to me with promises to call soon.
I was feeling better, free of the cloud which hung over me at Goathlands. I drove round to the front of the church, stopped, and went inside. There is something strangely comforting about the atmosphere of an empty church, especially if it is very old, and this one had stood there for about six centuries. It is as if all the prayers which had ever been said there were still around, giving the feeling of goodness, warmth, and calm. I sat in one of the rear pews, the one which, every Sunday, was reserved for the staff from Goathlands. I remember noticing that it was, in fact, Ormerod’s place in which I was sitting.
My prayer was not specific; in fact, I do not remember praying consciously at all. I felt that it was not necessary, for God knew what my troubles were. Even though I had not formulated it in words, He would, in His own way, answer my plea for help.
I do not know how long I stayed there, but when, with some reluctance, I left, I felt hungry. I decided that I would lunch at the inn at Mallyan Spout. I suppose that it was not very ladylike to go there unescorted, but the landlord and his wife were both friends of the family so I was sure that it would be all right.
The inn, an old Tudor coaching house, stood about half a mile out of Goathland Village. When I arrived, I received a most warm welcome from the landlord, who insisted that I take lunch with his wife and himself. The time passed quickly over a lovely meal of mutton pie and talk of the old days. Before I realized it, it was three o’clock.
Remembering that I had promised to take tea with Uncle Josh, I made my apologies to my host and hostess. When we emerged from the inn, it was not a very heartening sight which met our eyes. Less than a hundred yards away, a great bank of cloud which reached right down to the ground was slowly rolling toward us.
In that part of Yorkshire, the fog will sometimes roll in from the sea and cover the whole countryside in an impenetrable blanket of damp grey mist. I knew at once that that was what must have been happening.
As Goathlands stood between Mallyan Spout and the sea, the chances were that the whole journey home would be in fog. My hosts suggested that I stay at the inn, and they would send a rider to tell the people at Goathlands that I should not be returning that day. I thanked them for their kind offer, but felt I had to refuse. I could not bear the thought of letting Uncle Josh down again. There was not, I considered, any real danger from the fog, apart from its being unpleasant. I would have much more chance of getting back to Goathlands than their rider would have of finding it. Hazel, given her head, would, like any other horse, go straight back to her stable. So, feeling quite confident even if I did not relish the trip, I climbed into the trap and we started on our way.
Within a minute we were cocooned in the fog. It was as thick as I can ever remember seeing it. Hazel slowed to a walk and I tied the reins to the bar on the front board of the trap. I attached them loosely so as to leave her head free. She stopped while I was doing this, like the well-schooled animal she was. I tapped her lightly with the whip, and she started off at a trot which soon slowed to a walk when she discovered that she was able to choose her own pace.
The fog was so thick that I could barely see Hazel’s ears. The stillness and silence were so intense that they seemed to have body and form. Hazel stooped quite frequently to crop a mouthful of grass, but whenever I saw her head go down I tapped her with the whip and she moved on.
I found myself straining to catch any sound other than the faint creaking of the harness, Hazel’s breathing, and the slow, steady clop, clop, clop, as her feet hit the ground.
I do not think that I am naturally claustrophobic, but the tiny grey universe in which I found myself enclosed was not the sort of world I would have chosen at any time. Add to that the fact that my nerves were on edge as a result of the recent events at Goathlands, and I suppose that it was natural that I should find tension building up within me. I found myself holding my breath so that I could better use the one sense which was functioning normally in those conditions, and I listened intently for any signal that might indicate danger.
Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery Page 11
