She told herself it had nothing to do with being frightened by what had happened, but because her dado was not there to comfort her.
Zillah was a light sleeper and that night she was wakened by the sound of a dog barking at the farmhouse, a short distance away across the field. The dog, a working collie, was kept shut in an outhouse at night and often barked when it was disturbed by a passing fox or badger – but tonight its barking was different. The sound carried an urgency that was reserved for the occasional prowling itinerant paying a nocturnal visit to the remote farm in the hope of finding something of value left lying around.
The two miners who had threatened Zillah earlier in the day had unsettled her and having been woken she could not immediately get back to sleep – which was why she heard a noise some minutes later that was much closer to the wagon. It sounded as though someone had slipped and stumbled on a patch of damp and muddy ground close to the spring.
Sitting up in her narrow bed she felt a thrill of excitement. Perhaps it was Dado returning home at last! But then there was another sound, this time from a different place as someone walked into the line where her washing had been hanging and she knew her dado would never have done that.
This sound was followed by hoarse whispering and she realized there was more than one man outside. She suspected it was probably the miners who had called on her earlier in the day. She suddenly remembered that the window on the far side of the small wagon was open!
Hurriedly throwing back the blanket that covered her, she reached the window just as one of the unseen men outside stood on a spoke of the wheel that was below and to one side of the open window and reached out to the window sill.
Releasing the window catch Zillow slammed it shut, trapping the man’s fingers and causing him to lose his footing on the wheel.
Judging from the response to his cry of pain Zillah realized that there were at least two other men outside with him and she released the window momentarily, allowing the injured man to pull his fingers free before she closed and fastened the window once more.
‘She’s broken my fingers!’
The injured man’s cry brought no sympathy from his companions, one of whom growled, ‘You’re lucky, she threatened to chop Jim’s fingers off with a cleaver when we were up here earlier today.’
The comment confirmed to Zillah that the two miners had returned as they had promised, and had brought company with them. Groping her way across the dark interior of the wagon she located the meat cleaver and lifted it from its hook.
She felt safer with it in her hand and called out to the men, ‘I’ve got the cleaver here and if any of you try to break in I’ll use it and you’ll lose more than your fingers.’
‘Then we won’t try to come in….’ The voice was that of one of her earlier visitors. ‘Instead, we’ll let you come out to us – and you will. We’ll use some of the wood you’ve got stacked out here to light a fire under your wagon. We’ll have you one way or another, girl … raw or roasted.’
One of his companions began to chuckle but the sound was cut off by a woman’s voice. ‘Oh no you won’t! You’ll get on your way – and you’ll go running ’less you want your families to come here on my farm to take away what’s left of you. I’ve got a two-barrelled scattergun that I’ve used to get rid of all the other vermin I’ve had around here.’
‘There’s no need for such talk, missus. We’re just having a bit of fun with a gypsy girl, that’s all.’
‘Just fun, is it? Well, you move away from that door and I’ll pass this gun up to her and let her choose how best she’s going to join in this fun you’re talking about.’
Zillah could see nothing of what was going on outside the wagon but she could hear the conversation and there was a three-quarter moon that was bright enough for the indomitable woman farmer to see the three miners. When the one who had been talking took a step towards her she pulled one of the two triggers of the scattergun.
The noise of the shot was almost matched by the shrieks of pain from the man who had precipitated the firing of the formidable weapon. It had been fired into the ground between the woman and the nearest miner but there was a large flat stone here, placed in situ by Jed Smith who used it on which to chop wood. Pellets from the gun had struck the stone and ricocheted into the miner’s legs and lower body.
His shrieks were lost on his companions who were already fleeing from the scene when Mrs Hocking shouted to the remaining wounded miner, ‘I have a second barrel here and you’ll have the full benefit of it if you haven’t caught up with the others by the time I pull the trigger….’
Forgetting his suffering the miner did not remain on the scene to argue with her. Hobbling painfully after the others he was soon lost.
Calling out in the darkness, Mrs Hocking called out, ‘Are you all right, Zillah?’
‘Yes, thanks to you.’ Zillah opened the top half of the wagon door. ‘How did you know they were here?’
‘The dog woke me up with his barking and I knew there was something wrong. He’s a damned nuisance sometimes, but he lets me know if there’s anyone around who shouldn’t be. Now, the men who were here will be too busy licking their wounds to bother you again I’ve no doubt, but just in case one of ’em has more guts than the others, I don’t think you should stay here. You’d best come to the farmhouse and spend the rest of the night there. We’ll think what we’re going to do about you, come morning.’
Chapter 17
THE POLICE WERE no closer to finding a more likely suspect or learning the whereabouts of baby Albert when Tom returned to North Hill, sent by Amos to find out whether Jowan Hodge had returned to the village.
There was still no sign of him and Tom decided to travel on to Slippery Hill to check whether Zillah had received any news from her father. When he reached the gypsy wagon he was taken aback to discover the site tidied up and the gypsy horse harnessed. It would appear Zillah was on the move.
An exchange of greetings between the two horses alerted Zillah to Tom’s arrival and she came to the door of the wagon. Tom thought she looked tired and drawn, as though she had slept very little during the night.
‘What’s happening, Zillah, are you moving off somewhere? Have you heard something from your father?’
‘No … have you learned anything?’
‘I’m afraid not. All police stations in Cornwall have been notified that he’s missing, and to make certain the information isn’t ignored we’ve added that it’s Superintendent Hawke who wants news of him … but where are you going, and why? I thought you wanted to stay here until he either returned or you had news of him?’
‘That’s what I intended, but news seems to have got around that I’m here on my own. A couple of miners came around yesterday suggesting I might like company. I sent them packing, but last night they returned – and they’d been drinking. Fortunately they made so much noise that Mrs Hocking, the owner of the farm we’re on, heard them and came down here with a shot-gun. One barrel from that sent them all running, but she insisted I went back to the farmhouse with her for the night. By then it was so late anyway that I had very little sleep and came back here at dawn and got ready to move off.’
Aware that Mrs Hocking could get into trouble, Zillah said nothing about the shot that had been fired wounding the drunken miner, but Tom was far too concerned about Zillah to question whether the gun had been fired at anyone. ‘It’s what I was afraid could happen, Zillah. Do you have any idea who the men were?’
‘No, only that they were miners.’
‘But where are you going now, back to the camp where you and your father were before you moved here?’
‘I wouldn’t be welcome there. I’ll go to my grandma’s farm, up on the moor. When Dado comes back Mrs Hocking says she’ll tell him what’s happened and where I am. She’s been very kind to me and I’m grateful to her for what she did last night. I’ve settled up here and she’s said I needn’t worry about leaving a bit of a mess. She has someone in to help her on the farm an
d says she’s paying him too much for doing too little, so it will give him something to do to earn his wages.’
Zillah was making an attempt to be jocular but she appeared desperately tired and could almost have been crying. Tom guessed that as well as worrying about her missing father and the upsetting incident with the drunken miners, all her problems would have crowded in on her during the hours of darkness when she was alone and at her most vulnerable.
Anxious to do something – anything – in attempt to take her mind off her situation, Tom asked, ‘Can I help in some way?’
Giving him a weary but quizzical look, Zillah said, ‘I think everything’s done, all I need to do now is hitch the horse to the wagon and get on my way.’
‘Have you eaten this morning?’ Tom had noticed smoke trickling from the chimney of the wagon’s stove, but there was no smell of cooking.
‘I’ve been too busy – and didn’t feel like eating anyway.’
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ve had a hard ride from Bodmin, and an unsuccessful visit to North Hill. I see the stove inside the wagon is lit, if I hitch up and tie my own horse behind the wagon, we can get you moving while you make a pot of tea for us both.’
Once again she looked at him uncertainly, ‘Why? Why should you want to be so helpful to me?’
‘Because we both have something to gain from it. I fancy a cup of tea – and you look as though you have need of one.’
Tom held his breath, waiting for an angry response from her.
Instead, and quite unexpectedly, she said quietly, ‘All right. The horse’s name is Delengro, which means “kicker” and it wasn’t given that name for nothing, so you’ve been warned.’
In truth, she was grateful to have someone around to help and make decisions for her.
The gypsy horse was aware it was about to be put to work and was an unwilling participant in their plans. However, by refusing to allow the animal to turn away from him and kick its way out of gainful employment, Tom eventually succeeded in backing it between the shafts of the wagon and hitching it up in readiness for the journey to the moorland farm of Zillah’s grandmother.
Frustrating the aspirations of the fractious horse had taken a long while. By the time the task was completed Zillah had made and poured the tea. As they stood beside the wagon, drinking, she asked, ‘Are you any closer to finding who killed Kerensa Morgan and took away the baby?’
‘We are not as near as I would like to be just yet,’ Tom replied, honestly, ‘but we are coming closer. I can’t say more than that right now because we’re waiting for more information to come in, but neither Superintendent Hawke nor I will rest until we’ve found the person responsible and have some news of your father.’
Satisfied he had been able to dispel at least some of the deep unhappiness engendered by the lonely night hours, Tom tipped the grouts in his cup to the ground and nodded towards the horse which was stamping its hoofs and shaking the harness impatiently. ‘Shall we get moving now before Delengro thinks up some form of mischief?’
Zillah had the reins for the first part of the journey, but passed them to Tom once they left Slippery Hill behind. Guided by her they took a different route to the one he usually used when crossing the moor. Zillah explained that although slightly longer it was easier travelling for the wagon. It also avoided villages, hamlets and, in particular, the mining communities where they would receive unwelcome attention.
The deviation suited Tom and once on the high moor, having travelled for some three hours he readily agreed to Zillah’s suggestion that they should stop to rest the horse. She added that while it grazed she would cook something for them to eat as she was feeling hungry now.
Aware that it was a sign she was returning to something close to normality, Tom agreed and was impressed by the speed with which Zillah had an outside fire going. She soon produced a meal comprised of ham – which she said came from a pig bred by her grandmother – new, unpeeled boiled potatoes and green vegetables which Tom was unable to identify.
When he queried them, Zillah explained it was a mixture of wild plants, the only one she felt he would know being dandelion, adding, ‘If you don’t like them I’ll take them off your plate….’
‘No, I’m enjoying them, I didn’t know what it is, that’s all. The whole meal is delicious … just right. You’re a very good cook, Zillah.’
Trying not to show the pleasure she felt at his compliment, Zillah said, ‘It’s just an ordinary meal, but I’ve never before cooked for anyone but Dado and me.’
Her sudden change of expression told Tom that mention of her father had reminded her of the present circumstances and he said hurriedly, ‘The rest of the world doesn’t know what it’s missing by not tasting your cooking, Zillah, I can’t remember when I enjoyed a meal more.’
This was quite true. There was something magical about eating a meal prepared by Zillah over an open fire and surrounded by the empty beauty of the moor.
‘I think your wife might be upset to hear you say that,’ she said, unexpectedly. Shifting a blackened kettle of erupting, spitting water to one side of the greedy wood fire, she avoided looking at him while awaiting his response to her remark.
For a moment Tom was taken aback, but then he said, ‘There is no wife to be upset, Zillah, I’ve never married.’
She looked at him now and, satisfied he was not lying, asked, ‘Is there any particular reason why?’
It was the second occasion in recent weeks his marital status had been queried although the two women who had posed the question could hardly have been farther apart, either in breeding, or their mode of life.
‘My work has always had a lot to do with it. I was a Royal Marine from the age of thirteen, serving around the world, and then I became a policeman in London before coming to Cornwall which means I’ve never been left with time to get to know anyone well enough to think of marriage.’
Even as he was speaking the thought of Flora, the ex-Laneglos housekeeper sprang to mind, but it somehow lacked the clarity and sense of loss such memories had once evoked.
‘What about you, Zillah, I thought gypsy girls usually married when they were scarcely more than children?’
‘Most do, but because my mother was a gorgio I’m not recognized as a true Romany. Not that it’s ever troubled me as far as marriage is concerned because I’ve never met a Romany man I felt I wanted to marry. When a true Romany woman marries she’s expected to devote her whole being to her husband and have no real life of her own. That’s never appealed to me, there is far too much I enjoy doing on my own.’
From their first meeting Tom had been aware that Zillah was very much a free spirit and he said, ‘Well, you’re not likely to meet many men up here on the moor on your grandmother’s farm, so you’ll be able to devote as much time as you like to your drawing.’
‘I intend to – and I’m certainly not looking for a man, especially while Dado is still missing.’
In spite of all Tom’s efforts the conversation had once again returned to the disappearance of her father and he said, hurriedly, ‘Of course. I’m sorry, Zillah, I should have thought before I spoke. You have enough to worry about right now.’
‘You have no need to apologize to me … for anything. No one could have been kinder, although I still don’t understand why. Constables are landowners’ men … and landowners hate Romanies.’
‘I don’t know a great deal about landowners, Zillah, there weren’t too many of them in the part of London where I worked – but there were gipsies and I found them no worse than anyone else who lived there. In fact, many of them settled and proved themselves good, law-abiding people.’ ‘That still doesn’t explain why you’ve been particularly kind to me. Look what you’re doing today, for instance. Why, Tom?’
He had told her his Christian name when he had introduced himself on their first meeting, but it was the first time she had used it and the fact gave him a moment of pleasure.
‘I think I answered that question once befo
re, Zillah. As I said then, I see it as part of what I’m being paid to do and, as I also said, it comes so much easier when it’s being done for someone who is as attractive as you.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve said you’re attracted to me, yet you’ve never tried to do anything about the way you feel. I think most men would.’
Coming from any other woman her words might have been construed as an invitation, but Tom believed Zillah to be guileless in such matters and he replied accordingly.
‘I’m no different to any other man, Zillah, but I’m very aware you’re concerned about your father and wouldn’t try to take advantage of you because of that. Besides, if I did make advances towards you and you rebuffed me it would make things very difficult between us. I don’t want that to happen.’
Giving him a straightforward look, Zillah said, ‘Thank you for the first reason, Tom, it’s what I’ve come to expect of you. As for the second…? Well, let’s wait and see what happens, shall we? Now, I think we ought to be moving again. You still have to go on to Bodmin after we’ve reached the farm.’
Their conversation had brought about an indefinable change in their relationship and both were aware of it. It created an initial awkwardness between them, but they were easier in their talk together by the time Gassick Farm, the home of Zillah’s grandmother was reached.
Tom left the farm, warmed by a kiss with which Zillah had brushed his cheek when he was about to depart, but then he put his horse into a lively trot in order to arrive at the Bodmin police headquarters before Amos finished work for the day.
Although the two men were close friends, in Amos’s capacity as a senior officer of the Cornwall Constabulary, he might not approve of the manner in which one of his sergeants had spent the day.
Much to Tom’s relief, Amos hardly listened to his explanation of how he had spent the day. Brushing it aside impatiently, he waved a letter at him, saying excitedly, ‘Read this, Tom, it’s a letter from Verity. She’s kept her promise about helping us. Someone from her stepfather’s force has been to Laverstock, the village in Wiltshire where Alfie Kittow’s letters came from. His wife is there … and she has a baby with her! What’s more, the constable who found her has made a few discreet enquiries and learned that when she first arrived in the village she was desperate to find a wet-nurse, claiming her own milk had suddenly dried up. It’s far more likely, as old Bessie Harris claimed, that she was never pregnant in the first place and that the baby is not hers! This could be the break we’ve been waiting for, Tom.’
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