‘Why didn’t you speak of this at the time, Ursly? Why did you allow Matthew Sutcliffe to be tried and sentenced -transported – for a crime you knew he didn’t commit?’
The old woman had been pounding ceaselessly with the pestle, but now she stopped and peered across at Emma.
‘I didn’t know it were not him done it, not then. Not till Rosie were a’dying, giving birth to Seth nine month later, did she tell me what they’d seen. And by then ’twere too late. Matthew Sutcliffe had long sin’ set sail in a convict ship. And what could I ha’ done, against t’word and power o’ Mr Randolph Hardaker? Who would’ve believed the likes o’ me? If I’d durst open my mouth, happen I’d have found myself straight in stir. Johnny had gone off, and I knowed he’d mak’ certain he weren’t never found. My poor Rosie were dead, and I had her babby to care for.’
Emma lowered her eyes, bleakly accepting the logic of this. If Uncle Randolph was indeed as ruthless and cunning as Ursly insisted, he could easily have found a way of silencing any ill-educated poor woman who dared make trouble for him.
‘Are you not still afraid of my uncle?’ Emma said chokily.
‘Not for myseln, I’m not. But I’m feared for Seth. He sent t’lad home as a warning to me not to talk out o’ turn. He put that silver snuff box in Seth’s bed deliberate. I know him, dearie. And if I mak’ trouble for him, he can have Seth punished for the theft. But I can trust thee, can’t I, Miss Emma? Tha’ll not let owt bad happen to my Seth, promise me tha won’t!’
Emma had to drag her mind to what Ursly was asking. ‘Seth, no, he’ll be all right. He’s in no danger. But Ursly, I don’t understand – why should Uncle Randolph want to ensure your silence when he can’t possibly be aware that you know the truth of what happened that night?’
‘No dearie, it ain’t that at all! Happen he’d never have let me stay breathing if he thought I knowed ’twere him that killed his brother.’
‘Not that? Then what else, Ursly?’
‘Nay lass, don’t ask!’
‘But I do ask! I must know. I insist that you tell me.’
Ursly stared back at Emma, screwing up her nearsighted eyes. Then, shrugging, she began to pound again with the pestle.
‘Tha can insist as much as tha likes, dearie, but I’ll never tell ‘ee that. Never! I swear on my love for that poor dead child lying there that never will tha drag it from me.’
Chapter Eighteen
A light collation of cold meats was served at Bracklegarth Hall in the early afternoon, but no one had much appetite and few words were exchanged across the table. When Chloe rose to leave Emma hastily made to follow her, afraid to be left alone with her uncle; afraid she might rashly fling at him the accusation that he had killed her father. First, it was imperative to talk to Matthew. Until that was done, she must somehow force herself to behave in a normal manner.
‘One moment, Emma. I’d like a word with you.’
She halted where she was, unable to turn round and face him. Randolph came up behind her and the touch of his hands upon her shoulders made Emma shrink away.
‘Your distress is understandable,’ he said softly. ‘I too feel our tragic loss more than I can say, even though we have long been prepared for it. But life must go on. Remember, my dear, you and I still have one another, and without Cathy we shall be closer than ever.’
This time, Emma’s involuntary flinch was too marked for Randolph to disregard. He wondered again how much the girl knew. That she knew something he was certain. Doubtless she held him to blame for precipitating Cathy’s death by dismissing Seth, but he thought there was more to it than that. And whatever she had learned in the past hours could only have come from Ursly. All these years he had suffered misgivings about that confounded gypsy woman who had been his wife’s close companion and confidante. What might not Henrietta have conjectured and passed on to her? What had Ursly herself pieced together? Those squinting black eyes seemed to penetrate where no ordinary vision could, and for all her lack of learning her mind was uncannily perceptive. And now it looked as if he’d been right to mistrust her; as if the old woman knew far more than he had ever feared. When that infernal pedlar had seen him at the mill on the night of Hugh’s death, he had not been alone. His claim was that he had been fornicating in one of the wool skips with Rosie, Ursly’s daughter. Did that trollop tell her mother what she had witnessed? Happen she did. Almost for certain she did.
Yet in his mind Randolph still hesitated. If this was so, why had Ursly remained silent all these years? Was it to safeguard the old cottage she lived in on his bounty and the pension he’d thought it prudent to pay her? But if she placed a value on these paltry things, would she risk losing them now by telling Emma what she knew? It might still turn out that his chance meeting with the pedlar on a dark, deserted road had been the stroke of luck it seemed at the time. Made stupid by drink, the fool had boasted of the rich reward he would gain by revealing what he knew. It had been so easy to step in and double the sum Sutcliffe was going to pay him; to agree to bring it within the hour to a quiet spot on the moor road. But instead of the hundred pounds in gold, he had armed himself with a stout wooden club. It was all over in a couple of minutes, and without a breath of suspicion directed against Randolph Hardaker. That ought to have been enough. Perhaps he was imagining things. He must not act in haste.
Emma lowered her eyes and stood irresolutely, hoping to make her escape.
Randolph said steadily, ‘You look right done in, lass. Come to my study and we’ll take a glass of port wine together.’
She looked up and he thought he saw fear flicker in her eyes. ‘No, Uncle, I —’
‘I insist. It’ll do us both good.’
Though Emma sought desperately for a plausible excuse, she could find none. But she was saved by the butler’s entrance. Hoad informed his master that some neighbours had called to offer their condolences; would he be good enough to join Miss Hardaker in the drawing room?
‘Please, uncle, I don’t want to see them,’ she said, grasping her chance.
‘As you wish, lass. I’ll not be too long, and then we’ll have our little chat.’
As Emma went upstairs her footsteps led her automatically to her cousin’s room, but on the threshold she stopped in dismay. It was a dead Cathy who lay there upon the bed. Only now did the full reality of her loss strike through, and she was shaken by a rush of tears.
Uncle Randolph had been the first to arrive at Ursly’s cottage, bringing the wagonette to bear Cathy’s body home. He had been swiftly followed by Bernard, and Emma was thankful she could go home in Bernard’s gig. The news of Cathy’s death had spread quickly, for Jane and Blanche were already commiserating with Chloe when they arrived. If anyone noticed Emma’s nervousness and agitation it was attributed to the morning’s tragedy and her personal grief.
The pendulum clock on the landing chimed and, with a start, Emma realised it was half-past three. What was she thinking of dithering here? This past half-hour Matthew would have been waiting at their rendezvous in the grove of silver birches; could she reach him before he gave her up and went away? Not on foot, Emma realised; but if she hurried there might still be a chance on horseback.
The stable yard was deserted. Not wasting time looking for Joseph, she saddled Kirstie herself and in scarcely three minutes was heading along the valley road at a fast trot, which became in the last couple of hundred yards a full gallop.
She was too late. Dismounting quickly, she slipped in among the trees searching for Matthew, calling his name. But there was no answer. Bitterly disappointed she returned to the road, taking a last look round. High up among the fir trees that dotted the valley slopes she glimpsed a movement, a man on horseback. Emma waved frantically with her white handkerchief, but Matthew didn’t once glance back as he crested the rise. Briefly he was silhouetted against the cloud-massed sky before vanishing from Emma’s sight. Without pausing to consider she set her mare to follow him, urging Kirstie up the steep incline with all
speed. Even so, it was ten minutes before Emma reached the spot where Matthew had disappeared, but to find no sign of him. She headed at once for the dark bulk of Black Scar Rocks, deciding to ascend the crags and thereby gain a wider prospect. Kirstie needed no guiding up the rock-strewn path that twisted between the huge gritstone boulders, its peaty surface muffling the sound of her hooves. At the foot of the Abraham Stone Emma slipped from the saddle and hastened to the summit by the stairway of natural steps.
The fierceness of the wind whipping at her flimsy skirts took Emma by surprise. It was cold up here, but no matter. She would stay only long enough to ascertain Matthew’s whereabouts. Standing on the flat-topped boulder with her back to the precipice, she scanned the barren acres of moorland. Apart from grazing sheep, and a red grouse that skimmed above the heather uttering its raucous cry, there was no movement anywhere. If Matthew was for the moment concealed from view in one of the small ravines, he must soon reappear. Emma remained at her vantage point, waiting hopefully. The minutes went by and still there was no sign of him. The late September sun’s pale warmth was torn away by the pitiless wind, which rushed past her face in an icy stream. There was no hope, she thought despondently, she must give up and go home, and find some other way of getting in touch with Matthew.
She stood hesitating a moment longer. Then something caught her attention, not a movement but a sound – a faint jingle of saddlery. Emma turned her head against the wind to hear better, and there it was again. So while she had been gazing out far across the open moor Matthew had been near at hand all the time, screened from her sight by the tumbled mass of Black Scar Rocks. She moved a few steps to look down over the edge of the Abraham Stone and show herself. But below her there was just her own mare, placidly chewing at a tuft of benty grass. She called to him, as loudly as she could into the teeth of the wind.
‘Matthew! I’m up here, on the Abraham Stone.’
There was only silence and she called again, fearful now that her imagination had tricked her; that the sound of Matthew’s approach had been conjured up out of her desperate longing for his presence.
‘Matthew!’ she shouted despairingly. ‘Do hurry, there’s so much I have to tell you.’
She was starting down the stone stairway when the horseman emerged from behind a shoulder of rock – not Matthew, but Randolph Hardaker. His glance took in the situation, measured it, then with a wave, he swung down from the saddle and began to climb the step-stones.
A silent scream rose in Emma’s throat and she shrank back from him, her legs rigid with fear. As he gained the top, fastidiously dusting the knees of his dark trousers, she summoned all her courage in an effort to appear calm and unafraid.
‘Uncle Randolph! How did you know I was here?’
‘There’s no mystery about it, lass. After our visitors had left I looked for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Then I chanced to notice you from the window, heading for the moor on Kirstie. It seemed prudent – in view of your extreme distress – to follow at a little distance to ensure that you came to no harm.’ He regarded her challengingly, his dark eyes narrow beneath his heavy brows. ‘It transpires that you were hoping to meet Sutcliffe, but as you see he is not here. So instead you had better confide to me the things you were planning to tell him.’
Standing before her he seemed immensely tall and menacing, and as Emma cowered from him the naked terror in her eyes was final confirmation to Randolph that she must know all.
‘What did the old woman tell you, lass?’ He spoke encouragingly, but when she did not answer he became impatient. ‘Come now, it is too late for pretence, Emma, too late for both of us. These things you’ve been hearing about me, you surely cannot find it in your heart to blame me?’
Emma’s anger and bitterness broke through her fear of him.
‘You think I do not blame you for killing my father? You think I do not blame you for allowing an innocent man to pay the price of your crime? If you honestly believe that, you must be insane.’
He studied her face, weighing her words in his mind.
‘So Ursly did not tell you everything she knew! I wonder why? If she’d told you this final thing, the beginning and end of it all, you would have understood and forgiven me.’ After a pause, he added softly, ‘You’re mistaken in thinking that I killed your father, Emma.’
‘But you did, you did!’ she cried. ‘And that pedlar, Johnny Gone-tomorrow, you killed him too!’
‘So you’ve guessed about that. But I had to do it, Emma, don’t you see? I couldn’t be expected to spare a worthless ruffian like him, knowing that every day he lived would be a constant threat to me – even if I purchased his silence temporarily. It was no moment for qualms; his death was the price of my peace of mind. How confoundedly unfair to have him appear on the scene when I’d thought everything had blown over long ago, and no harm done —’
‘No harm done!’ she screamed at him. ‘When Matthew Sutcliffe was forced to endure all those years of brutal treatment in Australia! When you robbed my mother of a husband, and me of a father!’
‘Sutcliffe has done very well for himself out of it, you can’t deny that. He’s made himself a fortune, and come back playing the gentleman. Not that I blame the fellow. What’s money for, after all? And when it comes to you and your mother, Emma, let me tell you that neither of you lost anything of value when my brother Hugh died. He was no true Hardaker, he was weak and ineffectual, dominated by his twin sister. Even the much-vaunted condensing engine he claimed the credit for wasn’t his invention at all. But this I think you know already – it can only have been you who removed that draft of the patent specification bearing Arnold Sutcliffe’s name.’
‘You knew it was in that book?’
‘Of course I knew, I put it there myself. I found it in your mother’s deed box.’
‘But – but how?’ she faltered. ‘Matthew established that it couldn’t have been you who broke the deed box open,’
His brows knit together in a frown. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about! I went through the deed box when you first came to live at Bracklegarth Hall in order to remove anything which might possibly incriminate me, and I came across the specification. Though it didn’t affect me one way or the other I hid it away in one of Hugh’s books, thinking that some day it might come in useful, if only to prove that Matthew Sutcliffe indeed had a strong motive for killing Hugh, in the unlikely event of the question ever being raised again.’
Emma stared at him, choked by her feeling of disgust. This man she had so respected, regarded with such gratitude and affection – he was vicious, without principle and unspeakably evil. Was he intending to kill her, too, she wondered with a rush of panic? What was to prevent him, he who had killed so mercilessly before? And up here on Black Scar Rocks it would be only too easy – an unfortunate accident! Or perhaps he might suggest that poor Emma’s mind was deranged by the loss of her young cousin, and she had deliberately flung herself over the edge.
Glancing around her, Emma frantically sought a way of escape. But she knew it was impossible. Randolph made a movement towards her, his hand outstretched in what seemed like a gesture of appeal. Instinctively Emma stepped back from him, and he froze into stillness.
‘Don’t! Don’t go any nearer that edge, for God’s sake, or you’ll fall. Emma, you mustn’t be afraid of me.’
She flicked a look over her shoulder and found she was very near the scarp’s sheer drop. Where she was standing seemed dizzyingly high, towering above the heather-clad moor; and an infinity away from Bythorpe with its crowded houses and people. She returned her gaze to Randolph and saw that he had remained motionless, watchful, as if afraid that the smallest movement on his part might drive her to a disastrous fall. Yet what could he want of her, if not her death?
‘Why did you quarrel with my father?’ she said wretchedly. ‘Why did you kill him?’
‘You’ve got it quite wrong —’ Randolph broke off, then began again. ‘You cannot think that I in
tended to kill Hugh, it was an accident. He raised his hand against me, and I’ll allow no man to do that.’
‘Are you pretending that he meant to attack you?’
‘He was crazed with anger. Hugh was very conscious of his shortcomings, and was always trying to impress people with his cleverness. Against my better judgment Hugh persuaded me to experiment with a new type of power loom, but it gave unending trouble with broken wefts, involving costly delays in our production of broadcloth. That night Hugh was desperately trying to make it work efficiently to prove that he’d been right all along and I’d been wrong. I was returning home from the village when I saw a light at the mill, and I guessed it was Hugh putting in some work on the sly. So I went in to confront him, to point out that he wasn’t deceiving me, that the cursed machine was useless, and it was the last time I was going to pay heed to his advice.’ Randolph passed a hand across his brow. ‘One thing led to another, and the situation got out of control. But I never meant to kill him, Emma, that I swear. It was an accident.’
‘He was still alive when you went off and left him lying there,’ she said with loathing. ‘If you’d called in Uncle Paget at once, his life might have been saved.’
‘I didn’t realise that at the time. Hugh looked dead to me. To be honest, I suppose I panicked. I got out of the mill as fast as I could and just wandered around aimlessly, wondering what I was going to do. I was passing High Banks when I saw a light in Paget’s study, and an idea flashed into my mind. If Dr Paget Eade stated that I’d been with him at the time of Hugh’s death it would ensure no awkward questions were asked. I didn’t ring the doorbell but tapped on the window pane, and Paget himself let me in. Fortunately, both Jane and the servant had already gone to bed, so they were in no position to say at what time I’d arrived.’
The Other Cathy Page 21