The air was very still; in the quiet of that autumn morning, it would have been possible to hear a bird singing a mile away. Was it my imagination, I wondered, or did I hear the sound of a motor coming from the direction of Goathlands? For a moment my heart missed a beat as I thought that my absence might have been noticed already. But no, that was not possible, for it was not yet nine o’clock. The first person to realize that I was missing would surely be the nurse, and she did not come on duty until nine. It was then that I remembered seeing Kittiwake by the big barn. Perhaps, even at this very moment, Roger was taking the flying machine up into the air. If he was, I wished him well. In spite of everything, in spite of my fear of him, I could not find it in my nature to wish him ill.
There was no point in standing there thinking of what might have been. I turned the mare south and started off down the hill and toward the main road, now about five miles distant.
One had to take care crossing this part of the moor, as the surface was very broken and abounded with stones and rocks, some of which were as large as small boulders.
Again, I heard the sound of a motor, and this time there could be no doubt about it. I looked back over my shoulder. There, its silver wings glinting in the sunlight, coming high over the top of the hill I was descending, was Kittiwake. A lump came to my throat as I looked at this strange and beautiful machine and thought of Roger, whom I would never see again. I could just make out the black-coated, helmeted figure sitting in the cockpit as the machine banked away past me in a gentle arc.
As the mare picked her way through the stones and rocks, I watched the flying machine with the hunched figure sitting at the controls as it winged away from me. I wondered whether he had noticed me and if he had, what emotion had stirred within him.
When Kittiwake was about half a mile past me, it turned a half circle. I supposed that he was now returning to Goathlands. He was flying in my direction and seemed to be getting lower all the time. Nearer and nearer he came, until I could see the masked face through the whirling disc of the propeller. I felt the mare shiver beneath me; she had seen the flying machine, and I could feel that she was worried. Suddenly, I realized to my horror that the machine was flying straight at me. Closer and closer it came. I was frozen with terror. Just as it seemed that it was inevitable that it should fly right into me, it zoomed upwards, clearing me by no more than a few feet.
The mare reared and bucked, which was hardly surprising. I had to fight to bring her under control. I had no wish to be thrown onto the rocks over which we were passing.
I glanced over my shoulder. The machine was making another turn. It swung away to the right and then round in a half circle and straight toward us again. This was not a game; he was trying to kill me. Like a hunted animal, I searched around for a way of escape. If only I could reach the forest. But that was over a mile away.
The machine was upon us again. As it roared over my head, I could almost have touched it. The mare shied violently, and suddenly she bolted. Now I was in real trouble. I pulled on her head with all my strength, but it was no use. She had taken the bit between her teeth and was rushing over the rough, dangerous ground in a blind panic.
‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ I screamed aloud.
ZOOOOOOOM. The flying machine with that devil at the controls tore across in front of us. The mare swerved violently. I lost a stirrup. I was now clinging on for dear life. The reins had gone and I was clutching frantically at the animal’s mane, but now she was heading straight for the forest. If only I could stay on. If only she did not turn. In her panic she was stumbling at every other step, but she was still heading toward the trees.
I could not see the flying machine, but in a moment I heard the roar of its engine. It was behind me. Now I was urging the mare on. The trees were getting closer and closer. The noise of the machine was getting louder and louder. Suddenly it was on top of us, the wheels seemed to be inches above my head, and then he was past and there was a shattering explosion.
In a split second the mare stopped and I was thrown out of the saddle.
I scrambled to my feet, not caring about my cuts and bruises. There in front of me was a blazing inferno that had only seconds before been a man and a machine. So intent had he been on his fiendish purpose that he must not have seen the tall trees just ahead, and he had flown straight into them.
I staggered over the stones toward the wreckage, for what purpose I know not. Any possibility of rescue was out of the question. I think I was aware of the beat of galloping hooves as I scrambled toward the little stream beyond which lay the blazing mass that held all that was left of my tormentor.
I stood at the edge of the stream, sobbing aloud, the tears streaming down my cheeks.
‘Oh, Roger, Roger,’ I cried. ‘Didn’t you know that I loved you? Didn’t you know that I would gladly have given you all that a woman has to offer? Oh, my love, oh, my darling, why did it have to be you, why did it have to be you? Oh, Roger, I loved you so very very much.’
‘Would you mind saying that again?’
I knew that it couldn’t be. I knew that I was mad and that my imagination was playing me tricks and that soon they would shut me away with other poor demented souls to eke out my fantasy existence.
‘I said, would you mind repeating that?’
A wave of hope welled up within me, and yet I hardly dared to turn, fearful lest the illusion should vanish. Slowly I forced my body round. I looked, I saw. It was he.
‘Roger,’ I whispered.
He stepped very close to me and placed his hands on my shoulders.
‘Emma, Emma my beloved, thank God you’re safe.’
He gazed deep into my tear-filled eyes. ‘Did you mean it? Can it really be true? Look at me and tell me that it is true’
I looked into his blue-grey eyes, now all serious with hope and longing. I knew that it was true; I knew that even if it had been him at the controls of that machine, it would still be true. I knew that whatever he was, whatever he did, he was my man and I would willingly follow him to the ends of the earth.
‘Roger,’ I said. ‘Look at me and you will know that it is true. No woman can look upon a man as I look upon you now without love.’
In that instant, I was in his arms and sobbing my heart out.
‘Don’t cry, my darling. Everything is all right now. Look, the fire is almost out. It’s finished, it’s over. I’m going to take you home.’
I looked over to the wreckage. There Ormerod and Arthur were beating out the last of the flames. My mare and three other horses were drinking peacefully from the stream. Roger led me to the mare and lifted me into the saddle. He mounted his horse and together we turned our mounts north and headed toward Goathlands.
Chapter Nineteen
It is January in the year nineteen hundred and twenty. My husband and I are in London, and at this moment we are standing in the entrance lobby of Brown’s Hotel in Dover Street, having arrived from Yorkshire last night. More than ten years have now passed since that terrible day when I stood watching the fire raging on the edge of Pickering Forest.
It was Henry, of course, who died that day. Poor Henry who was so much a product of his generation. Born into a comfortable, wealthy home where he had never had the desire nor the urging to do anything with his life, confident that the family coffers were a bottomless pit and that the British Empire would stand and protect him forever.
It had been Henry all the time. Over the years I have often wondered what my cousin felt toward me. I like to feel that it was not hatred, but that in his selfish, indolent mind he had merely regarded me as a means to an end.
We had discovered, though it took many months for all of the facts to come to light, that he was so deeply in debt that, unless he was to spend the rest of his days being hounded by creditors, it was absolutely necessary for him to get his hands onto my share of my grandfather’s fortune.
That he was a gambler and had lost money was known to most people, but the massive extent of his de
bts was beyond anyone’s imagination. The incident which I had observed that Sunday outside the church had been one of many. A small matter of ten pounds owed to a local bookmaker. So desperate were his finances that he was incapable of raising even that comparatively small sum.
I found out that Uncle Joshua had long since stopped helping him out of his monetary difficulties, and it appeared that he had then started borrowing from moneylenders on the strength of his expected inheritance.
When I arrived at Goathlands, his entire expectation had been mortgaged up to the hilt, and the sum was growing daily larger as the exorbitant interest charges mounted up. His one hope of getting himself out of the mess he was in was to gain control of my share of our grandfather’s fortune.
According to grandfather’s will, should either of us die or become incapable of administering our inheritance, the whole sum was to pass to the other. Henry had two choices: either he could drive me insane or he could kill me.
I suppose, and this can only be conjecture, that his first intention was to drive me mad. However, I committed a near fatal error when, that night, I decided to take him into my confidence regarding my intention to escape from Goathlands. The one thing he could not allow to happen was for me to leave Goathlands, so that I would no longer be in his power. He must have been desperate. I still shudder when I think back and remember how he sat there in my sitting room, sympathizing with me, helping me to plan my escape, and all the time plotting my doom.
Poor Henry. During our ride back to the house after the crash, Roger told me that Ormerod had seen Kittiwake take off. Ormerod had asked Roger whether Mr. Henry knew how to handle the machine. Roger, Ormerod, and Arthur had immediately ridden off, following the flight of Kittiwake without any knowledge of my plight. They had feared that Henry might damage the machine and possibly injure himself. I could imagine their horror as they got to the top of Levisham Moor and saw the machine swooping down upon me. The first time it happened, they thought, as I did myself, that Henry was just being stupid and showing off. But when it happened twice more, Roger recognized that I was in deadly danger and spurred his horse in my direction, yelling to the others to try and keep Kittiwake in sight as he did so.
If only Henry had come to me, if only he had told me the desperate trouble he was in. I would have helped him; I could have done no less. But he did not and as a result died horribly.
The hall porter comes over to my husband and says something to him in a low voice. My husband is turning to me.
‘The taxicab is here.’
Now he leads me out of the hotel, and there is the commissionaire holding open the door of the taxi. My husband helps me in, and now he is sitting down beside me.
We were married the following spring at the little church in Goathland Village. The Reverend Cox performed the ceremony, and dear Ormerod gave me away. It was too much to ask Uncle Josh to do. He had been in a state of near collapse in those months following the crash. Shortly after our wedding, he died. His end was merciful ‒ he went to bed one night and never woke up. Uncle Joshua had never recovered from the shock of finding out about his son. We had all tried to keep as much as possible from him, but what we did not tell him I am sure he guessed. The tragedy seemed to kill all of his great spirit. He never tried to interest himself in anything else during the few short months that remained him. Even when Roger started to construct a second Kittiwake, he could raise no enthusiasm in Uncle Josh. His attitude toward me was one of constant self-reproach. I think he felt responsible for all the troubles which I had had.
The taxicab is turning out of Dover Street and into the rush of traffic that is Piccadilly. As the cab swings to the right, I am fingering the brooch at my throat. As always, when I touch it my hand steals into that of my husband.
The brooch is made of white gold and has two rubies for eyes; it is in the form of a seal. Whenever I touch it I remind myself never again to make a judgement at first sight.
That day at Robin Hood’s Bay, Roger brought his coble round from Whitby, and as he beached the craft, he noticed the young seal on the rocks quite near him. As there was no sign of either myself or Ormerod on the beach, he walked toward the animal, wondering how close he would get before it slid into the sea. He thought how strange it was when the creature did not move, and his interest became more intense the nearer he got to the seal. When he got within touching distance and the seal still did not move, he finally saw the reason. The seal had been most horribly mauled, probably by a shark. The poor creature was in agony, and as Roger had no gun with him, he did the only other thing possible to end the beast’s suffering. The massive blow I saw him strike was not the act of cruelty which it appeared to be, but an act of mercy. My jumping to conclusions on that occasion was to teach me a lesson I would never forget.
We are driving past the Ritz Hotel, beyond which lies Green Park. At the end of Piccadilly I can see Hyde Park Corner and St. George’s Hospital. It is strange to think that Doctor Susan Harrison is probably even now within those grey walls.
I never got to know Doctor Harrison. I don’t suppose we exchanged a couple of hundred words in all the time we were at Goathlands together. Three times only did I see her show any sort of emotion. The first was on the occasion when she ordered me out of Uncle Joshua’s room. The second was when she heard about Henry and she expressed her sorrow at having added, innocently though it was, to my sufferings. The last occasion was when Uncle Joshua died. She wept. I often wondered if, in her own strange way, she had been in love with my uncle. Certainly the care and devotion which she lavished on him during his last few days, the sleepless nights which she spent by his bedside, went far beyond the call of duty. It may have been that that cold exterior was merely a facade and behind it lay a passionate desire to relieve suffering wherever it might be found.
Uncle Joshua showed his gratitude by leaving her a substantial sum in his will, which she used to set up a medical research project.
She left Goathlands a few days after my uncle’s death, and I have never seen her again. However, I have always known where she is, for every Christmas we exchange cards.
I look up at the hospital as we swing left into Constitution Hill and wonder if she is still wearing her black dress and my aunt’s cameo brooch.
My husband is pulling out his watch and glancing at it anxiously. I give his hand a little squeeze. There is no need to worry, we are in plenty of time, but I know that he must be nervous so I smile at him and try to give him a little confidence.
‘The children will be so proud of you today,’ I whisper.
He smiles back at me. I see that he is still uneasy and I laugh quietly to myself.
Within the first three and a half years of our marriage, we were blessed with two beautiful children. The first was a boy, Justin, who is now eight, and next came our daughter, Deborah. Debby is nearly seven and dotes on her brother, following him around everywhere and watching him with wide-eyed wonder whatever he might be doing.
I think that Justin is going to be a carpenter. A few days ago he presented us with a table he made from odd scraps of wood. Only three of the legs would touch the ground at the same time, but nevertheless we had to have our tea from it, at Deborah’s insistence.
We left Goathlands yesterday, and this is the first time in the children’s short lives that I have been separated from them for more than a few hours. I feared that they might worry but, oh dear me no, they looked forward with conspiratorial relish to the prospect of being alone with Aunt Letty for a few days.
Dear Letty. I find it difficult even now to realize that the nervous waif whom I met on my first morning at Goathlands turned into a tower of strength within a fortnight.
Shortly after Uncle Joshua’s death, she married her Arthur, and I did not see much of her for the next few years. We gave her a cottage and about thirty acres as a wedding present, and she seemed to be settling down there very happily. Then came the war. Arthur, like so many of the young men of his generation, enlisted immed
iately.
It was a morning in the spring of nineteen fifteen that I returned to my sitting room, where I found Letty weeping quietly. She did not speak but handed me a buff piece of paper. I did not even need to read it, for I knew what it contained.
The War Office regrets to inform you that …
Letty came back into the house. We persuaded her to sell her little farm and invest the money. I am not sure what would be the correct term to describe her present position in the house. I don’t believe in nannies for the children, but Letty is more than a nanny to Justin and Debby. We have never had a housekeeper, but Letty is more than a housekeeper. I suppose that she is just Letty.
We are swinging around Victoria Memorial at the bottom of Constitution Hill and pausing at the gates of Buckingham Palace while our driver gives a word of explanation to the policeman on duty there. My poor husband is tight-lipped and gripping my hand fiercely. I think he must imagine that they are going to chop his head off.
Ormerod has retired to his little cottage, where he holds daily court to our children, telling them all the secrets of moor and woodland, sea and shore. I am sure that our youngsters are much more knowledgeable about nature than either of us ever were. Should we ever be bold enough to venture an opinion, we are almost certain to be answered with …
‘But Uncle Ormerod says …’
Funny thing, to this day I still don’t know his first name. I sometimes wonder if he has one.
We are through the big central arch and into the inner courtyard. A footman, magnificent in purple, opens the door of the taxi. We alight and are ushered into a large anteroom in which are a number of other people, mostly serving men in their uniforms.
Roger tried very hard to get into one or another of the fighting services, but his knowledge of flying machines was such that his country would not allow him to go to war. He spent those four terrible years researching and building aeroplanes. His impressive record in this field is, in fact, the reason for our presence here today.
Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery Page 18
