The Other Cathy

by Nancy Buckingham

  She gasped in amazement. ‘You knew? In that case, why did you not make use of it at your trial? Surely he was someone who had a motive for attacking papa?’

  ‘I’m afraid your brilliant theory gets us nowhere,’ he said in a disappointed voice. “The possibility of Holroyd being responsible occurred to me at once, but it was discovered that the man had died of the smallpox in Huddersfield a few weeks previously.’

  Unfairly, Emma’s first feeling was of angry humiliation. He seemed to be willfully spurning the help which she had swallowed her pride to offer him.

  Matthew, closely watching her face, could see the intensity of her emotion, and he reproached himself for his harshness.

  ‘I am sorry to be obliged to dismiss your idea out of hand,’ he said. ‘But I am nonetheless grateful to you, Miss Hardaker – Emma. The very fact that you sent me that note touches me deeply, for it means you’re no longer convinced that I was the person to blame for your father’s death. It must mean that you believe in my innocence.’

  ‘I do not know what to believe,’ she faltered, her cheeks warm. ‘How can I be sure of anything? But if indeed you are innocent, as you claim, then you have a right to be exonerated and have your good name restored to you. It would be the least that could be done after all you have suffered.’

  ‘Then I am content that you should keep an open mind about me until my innocence is established. As it will be!’

  ‘But how?’ she asked unhappily. ‘After so many years, how can you hope to prove anything?’

  ‘I shall succeed, never fear! As it happens, I have made a discovery myself that might be fruitful. Indeed, I am convinced it will. Yesterday I was talking to your aunt —’

  ‘Do you mean Aunt Chloe, or Aunt Jane?’

  ‘Neither. I mean Blanche.’

  ‘I see!’

  It was as if, Matthew thought, she had taken a hasty step back from him, putting a gulf between them. What had she guessed about Blanche and himself? He wanted Emma on his side, not against him, so he must tread warily. His mind skirted round the truth.

  ‘I happened to be passing her house and decided to call. Your aunt kindly offered me tea, and while we were chatting we fell to talking about the past. She spoke of her husband, and chanced to mention something about his odd behaviour on the night your father died, which gave me cause to ponder. I questioned her – I am certain she was unaware of the direction of my thoughts – and yet another startling fact came to light.’

  ‘I – I don’t understand.’ This talk of his calling on Blanche, following so swiftly upon Emma’s feeling that Matthew had rejected her, made it difficult to grasp the meaning of his words. He and Blanche – what had been between them, what was there now? The thought of them having a special relationship, of whatever kind, was like a lance in her heart. ‘Are you saying there was some connection between Uncle William’s behaviour and my father’s death? What was it that Aunt Blanche inadvertently revealed?’

  ‘It was late, she said, not long before midnight. Blanche was walking in the garden of their home.’ He paused fractionally, aware that this sounded highly improbable. ‘She almost collided with her husband returning home, as she thought, from an evening’s gambling. He was too preoccupied to be aware of her presence, which she attributed to the effect of liquor, and she managed to slip past him into the house unnoticed.’

  ‘But why should she want to?’ asked Emma, still bewildered.

  It was proving more difficult than Matthew had expected. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘she was afraid he might turn violent.’

  They had been strolling down the village street as they talked. Emma was glad that at this sleepy hour of a warm summer afternoon there were not many people to take note of them, only a few women carrying wicker shopping baskets and a young soldier on crutches. Old Sarah, the dairywoman, came clattering along with her huge milk churn on wheels, and gave Emma a smiling nod as she passed. Outside the butcher’s the screech of a knife grinder’s wheel was shattering the quiet until, mercifully, the man broke off to exchange a joke with the butcher’s apprentice who was whitening the step with donkey stone.

  ‘The next day,’ Matthew continued when he could be heard again, ‘Blanche discovered that her husband had arrived home minus his greatcoat. What is more, it was never found again. Now does it not seem strange to you that he had failed to notice the lack of an overcoat on such a freezing cold night?’

  Emma perceived the direction of Matthew’s reasoning, and a feeling of cold dismay took hold of her. She could not believe it, she refused to believe it – not Uncle William, not a member of her own family.

  ‘Go on,’ she said shakily. ‘Tell me everything you have discovered.’

  ‘It seems that William Hardaker was a heavy gambler, and he owed money everywhere, especially to your father. But the time had come when your father refused to pay any more of his brother’s debts, and the situation was desperate. It’s my belief that William went to see Hugh at the mill that evening, knowing he was there adjusting one of the looms, in order to plead with him. And I believe they quarrelled – a quarrel that culminated in violence.’

  Emma came to an abrupt halt on the narrow sidewalk. She felt slightly faint, and had to brace herself.

  ‘But this is all supposition,’ she protested. ‘There is no direct evidence.’

  ‘It was supposition which convicted me,’ he reminded her grimly. ‘Someone killed your father, and the facts recounted to me by Blanche point overwhelmingly to it being her husband. Just consider, he arrived home soon after the time established for your father’s death in a distracted state of mind, which Blanche, understandably, attributed to the effects of drink. But could not his strange mood be explained as that of a man who had just committed a terrible deed?’

  ‘It is conceivable. But Aunt Blanche’s belief that he was intoxicated is equally plausible, and far more likely. As to his missing greatcoat about which you have made such a point, what are you suggesting that this indicates?’

  He studied her, considering. Was she strong enough to face having the details of her father’s death discussed objectively, here in the street? Yes, surely, for despite her obvious bewilderment and consternation, her back was still erect, her shoulders squared, and her head held high. With such poise went strength of mind, and she would not be a girl to break down easily.

  ‘Remember, your father was done to death violently, bloodily, stabbed at repeatedly with the pointed end of a shuttle. Therefore it is unlikely that his attacker would have escaped without getting a certain amount of blood on his outer clothing. I suspect, I am convinced, that William Hardaker removed his bloodstained overcoat and concealed it somewhere before returning to his home.’ Matthew’s jaw went taut. ‘I am hoping that, by trying to see into the mind of a man who is frantic to rid himself of the tell-tale evidence of a dreadful crime, I can track down the hiding place he used. It would appear that he left the Brackle Valley Mill and arrived home within an hour of your father’s death. Therefore the hiding place has to be somewhere near at hand. And if luck is on my side there might even still be sufficient remains of that coat to turn my theory into a certainty. To prove that William Hardaker killed his brother. But if I cannot do so by that means, then I must find another way.’

  They were standing outside the linen draper’s, and in one of the small square windows Emma could see her face reflected. It looked unusually pale. She felt her lower lip trembling and knew that tears were very near.

  ‘All this – it all stems from what Aunt Blanche told you,’ she stammered huskily. ‘Perhaps it is not true, perhaps she was inventing it.’

  He looked incredulous. ‘But why should she do that? Why should she wish to incriminate her late husband, and bring shame upon herself and her children? No, you may depend upon it that Blanche was unaware of the significance of what she was telling me.’

  A heavily laden dray came lurching down the cobbled street, so overhung with bales of raw wool that they were obliged to s
tep back a pace to give it room. When the great cart had rumbled past there was silence between them. Emma felt a pressing need to escape from Matthew Sutcliffe. She wanted to be alone to consider what he had told her coolly and calmly, without the disturbing effect of his presence, and free from his insidiously persuasive arguments.

  ‘There is something I need to purchase in here,’ she improvised hastily. ‘Some sewing thread. So I will say goodbye to you now, Mr Sutcliffe.’

  ‘May I not wait? Then I can walk with you to Bracklegarth Hall.’

  She shook her head decidedly. ‘We have already spent more than enough time in each other’s company. Any longer, and it would certainly be cause for comment.’

  * * *

  Emma arrived home feeling as exhausted as if she had walked all the way up to Black Scar Rocks and back, instead of merely into Bythorpe. She was still unable to refute Matthew Sutcliffe’s theory. But there must be a flaw in it somewhere, there must be! It was unbearable to think that her Uncle William could have committed a dreadful act of violence against his own brother. Yet if what Matthew suggested was true, and could be proved true, then it meant that Matthew himself was innocent. Emma sighed deeply, not knowing what she wanted to believe. She hoped to get to her room unnoticed but was given no opportunity. The moment she entered the house, Chloe came hurrying into the hall to confront her.

  ‘So there you are at last! Where have you been all this time? You told me you were merely going to the library.’

  Wearily, Emma said, ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Chloe, but does it matter?’

  ‘It matters a great deal! If you had been here, you could have assisted Cathy through one of the worst attacks she has ever experienced. The child was racked with coughing, it was terrible to see, and Bernard says she must be kept very quiet. Over and over again she called for you, but you were not here.’ Bitterness was added to Chloe’s reproof. ‘I did what I could, but you know how she always looks to you to be her comforter.’

  ‘Oh, poor Cathy! How is she now? Who is with her?’

  ‘She is calmer, from sheer exhaustion. I have put Nelly to sit with her. Cathy made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want me? I’ll go up at once.’

  The voice of reason, telling Emma she was in no way at fault and could hardly be within instant call at every hour of the day and night, was silenced by remorse. If she had not lingered so long with Matthew she might have been in time to spare Cathy that awful feeling of desertion. Indeed, she thought guiltily, the sole purpose of her visit to the library this afternoon, instead of staying in with Cathy as usual, had been contrived to make a respectable pretext for her meeting with Matthew.

  She sped upstairs untying the ribbons of her hat, which she dropped with her cloak on a carved oak chest by Cathy’s door, and hurried into the room. Her cousin’s face as she lay upon the pillows was pathetically white and drawn, but oddly peaceful. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be sleeping. Nelly rose from a chair beside the bed, and whispered in an awed voice, ‘Oh, ‘twas dreadful, miss! T’poor soul was took that bad!’

  Emma nodded her dismay. ‘You may go now, Nelly. I will remain with her.’

  ‘Will tha be wanting some tea brought up, miss?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Just now, thought Emma, she couldn’t have taken anything. All she wanted was to see Cathy well again and try to make reparation for her neglect. She experienced a sense almost of shame for her own abounding health, while her poor little cousin’s hold on life grew feebler with each passing day. As she gently took Cathy’s thin hand in hers, the girl stirred.

  ‘Nelly, is that you?’

  ‘No, dearest! It is I, Emma.’

  The eyelids fluttered open. ‘Are you alone, Nelly? Where’s Heathcliff?’

  Emma stiffened with shock. Cathy’s voice sounded so normal that it was an effort to realise she wasn’t in a state of rational consciousness at all. Studying her closely, Emma saw that her eyes were glazed, as though she was seeing through her to something beyond. She wondered apprehensively whether, as Cathy’s nurse, the proper course was to humour her fancies, or to attempt to rouse her.

  Cathy began to mutter but Emma could make no sense of what she heard. Then an entire sentence suddenly came out quite clearly.

  ‘Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?’

  It was, Emma recognised, a direct quotation from the book which had become Cathy’s obsession, and she noticed that all three volumes of Wuthering Heights were there on the table beside the bed. Emma took up the first volume and riffled through the pages. Yes, here it was, Catherine was talking to the servant woman, Nelly Dean, telling her of the love she felt for Heathcliff, and likening it to the eternal rocks. She had read the passage aloud to Cathy a dozen times. And here was the midnight storm that followed Heathcliff’s disappearance, so violent that it brought a great tree crashing through the roof like a thunderbolt, like a judgment from heaven. Emma read on swiftly.

  The room was very quiet. Cathy’s muttering had almost subsided, and Emma’s thoughts flowed on through Miss Bronte’s passionate story. Heathcliff’s return ... a wealthy man now, determined upon vengeance against those who had wronged him. Where had Heathcliff been and how had he made his fortune, she wondered. That was never explained in the book. Did it derive, like Matthew’s, from gold ... were gold discoveries being made at that period, in Australia or America or some other far away land? She checked herself abruptly. She was as foolish as Cathy, to be so caught up in the tale that she could regard it as real, instead of a work of imaginative fiction.

  While Cathy drifted into a doze Emma’s thoughts returned to her conversation with Matthew Sutcliffe, and his shocking suggestion that it was Uncle William who had killed her father. Surely it could not be him—yet Matthew’s deductions were so convincing. It came to her suddenly, almost with a sense of surprise, that she still had no more than Matthew’s own word that he was innocent. Since their second encounter on the moor, her hatred and distrust of him just seemed to have melted away. Yet British justice had condemned him! Matthew was asking her to believe that her father had been killed by his own brother, his own flesh and blood. Why should she listen to his ideas on this count, when he was so devious, she suspected, about his relationship with Blanche? I happened to be passing her house, and decided to call. That didn’t have the ring of truth. So was Matthew Sutcliffe a man whose word she dare trust?

  Cathy stirred under the bedcovers, and murmured, ‘Emma, do you believe what he says?’

  Emma jumped, then she realised that the words, though fitting her own thoughts so aptly, must be a part of Cathy’s wandering dream. But she had called her Emma, not Nelly, and the pale blue eyes, wide open, were no longer staring blankly. Now they held a question.

  ‘Why are you looking so surprised? I was only asking if you believe what Bernard says about me getting better all the time.’

  Emma’s features broke into a smile. Nothing would have induced her to betray Bernard’s comforting professional lie.

  ‘He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, dearest. You have to expect an occasional setback, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. That is what Bernard told me.’

  Emma rose and adjusted the position of the draught screen a little, then leaned across the bed and smoothed Cathy’s pillows. She said, ‘What were you dreaming about, dearest? I heard you talking in your sleep, and wondered whether I should wake you up.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘I couldn’t quite make it out. Can’t you remember your dream?’

  Emma was wondering if Cathy would speak about Seth or Heathcliff, and how best to talk her out of her strange fantasies where fact and fiction had merged. But she was given no opportunity, for Cathy’s face took on a cunning, secretive expression.

  ‘No, I can’t remember anything, Emma. I don’t think I was really dreaming at all.’

  Chapter Nine

  It took longer than ever for Cathy to get over her latest attack and ga
ther what feeble strength remained to her. For five days Emma scarcely left her bedside, but at last there was a small sign of improvement. Cathy could sit up, and was able to take solid food again instead of occasional spoonfuls of beef tea or egg whipped in wine. She was painfully thin.

  In the early evening Emma heard the sound of a carriage outside, and going to the window she saw Seth bringing the dog cart round to the front.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Seth, with the dog cart. I expect your papa is going out.’ She went to the door. ‘I won’t be a moment, Cathy. I want to catch him before he leaves. There is something I have to ask him.’

  As she sped down the stairs, skirts flying, she saw Hoad waiting at the front door with his master’s gloves and cane. Randolph, wearing a new black alpaca frock coat, emerged from his study. He paused a moment at the hall stand to adjust the tilt of his top hat.

  ‘Uncle, may I have a word with you, please?’ Emma said breathlessly.

  He glanced round at her, amused. ‘Your aunt would tell you it isn’t ladylike to run about the house like that. But you’re still nobbut a little lass really, eh?’ Randolph’s eyes were warm with fondness. ‘What is it you want, then? I’m just on my way out, as you can see.’

  ‘Could you tell me where to find the key to mama’s deed box? I wanted to go through the papers, but when I went to look just now I found it was locked.’

  Randolph stared at her in astonishment, his thick brows drawn together in a single straight line.

  ‘A queer thing to want to do, is that! There’ll be nowt to interest you, lass. Old legal documents and suchlike, that’s all.’

  ‘I realise that, uncle, but it seems a good idea for me to go through them – to see if there’s anything I should know about. When mama died I was too upset to do more than just glance inside and the box went straight up to the attic here, where it has been ever since.’

  ‘Aye, best place for it, too! It’s all old stuff, past and done with. Leave it be, that’s my advice.’