by Joan Aiken
Bounding along the corridor, he cleared the back stairs in a couple of leaps and entered his schoolroom.
Mr. Oakapple had arrived already and stood at the window, with his back to the dull room, staring out. Beyond him, a greenish-white frosty sweep of landscape went smoothly up to meet the luminous pale early-morning sky.
"Right: to work then," said Mr. Oakapple, turning with a sigh when he heard the click of the door.
"I—I'm sorry I'm late, sir. Mrs. Gourd wanted me—"
The tutor accepted Lucas's excuse with a nod and gestured him toward the desk. "Simple and compound interest. Followed by quadratic equations. Then principle parts of Latin verbs."
"Oh, but sir—"
"Well?"
"You did say you'd tell me about Anna-Marie."
After the words had left him, Lucas had a sudden feeling of—what was it, a kind of guilt? As if he were stealing a mean march on the child, whom he did not even like, by employing her as a pretext to get off lessons for half an hour. But why should he feel guilty? He had been as friendly to her as he could. It was she who had been rude and hostile. Anyway there was no reason why he should not ask about her history; what harm could that do?
"Oh, very well. Sir Randolph didn't seem to have any objection to my telling you the history of how he came to own the factory; in fact he was surprised you didn't know it already," Mr. Oakapple conceded. (In fact, Sir Randolph, gray-faced and red-eyed after a long night spent drinking brandy, had growled, "Tell the boy what you please, and the two of you can spend the day at Jericho for all I care!")
"How did he come to own it, then?"
Lucas did not quite see how the history of the factory could be connected with that of Anna-Marie, but anything was preferable to a morning of compound interest and Latin principle parts.
"Can't we go into the park while you tell me?" he suggested with a flash of inspiration, as Mr. Oakapple turned regretfully from the view. "Just for a few minutes? It's such a fine morning. And there aren't many."
This was true. For two hundred and fifty days out of three hundred and sixty-five, according to local lore, cloud or fog hung low over Blastburn, Grimside, Midnight Park, and Grydale Moor. And during his year of residence there, Lucas had seen no reason to doubt the theory. Today was a rare and beautiful change.
"As you wish!" Surprised but not unwilling, the tutor put on his hat while Lucas quickly found a jacket, and the two of them went out into air like iced nectar. They walked over the crisp grass, leaving a trail of black footprints behind them as they crossed the gentle saucer of land which encircled Midnight Court. From the top of the ridge they could look west, back at the house whose gables were just beginning to catch the first rays of the rising sun, or east, into the smoke-filled valley where the city of Blastburn lay wrapped in the foggy reek from its chimneys.
Lucas had asked no questions while they walked, content to enjoy the clear morning, sniff the keen air, feel the frosted grass crunch under his feet, and make the most of this unusual respite from lessons. He felt, too, an unaccustomed sympathy toward Mr. Oakapple—unspoken but somehow comfortable.
When they stood at the park's highest point, the tutor began of his own accord: "As you probably know, some twenty years ago, when your guardian was younger, he belonged to an extremely dashing and notorious sporting club known as the Devil's Roustabouts."
The tutor's measured manner held neither admiration or disapproval.
"What sort of things did they do?"
Lucas had not known this; indeed, he had never heard of the Devil's Roustabouts.
"Oh—they used to give very wild parties, wager large sums of money on anything from horse races to whether the king would take coffee or tea with his breakfast next day, and they fought duels on the slightest provocation."
Lucas longed to ask Mr. Oakapple if it was true that he, too, had fought a duel, but did not like to interrupt.
"One of your guardian's greatest friends at that time was a very much younger man, Denzil Murgatroyd, whose father, Sir Quincy, was the owner of this house, not to mention a great deal of land on which coal had been found and mined, making him one of the richest men in England.
"Denzil Murgatroyd had not been trained for any profession, but was considered very brilliant, even as a lad; while still at college he constructed a scientific instrument for measuring the depth of potholes; he had discovered several new stars, had a beautiful singing voice, and had composed an opera which was performed before the king. Also, he had devised the carpet-manufacturing process which brought Sir Quincy Murgatroyd's mill to the forefront of the industry and greatly enlarged the family fortune."
"What happened then?"
"Denzil Murgatroyd was only twenty when he left college. He met your guardian—who, as I have said, was a much older man, about forty then—made fast friends with him, abandoned all his scientific pursuits, and led a life devoted to sport, betting, gambling, and doing his best to shock all the more respectable part of society. The two friends were inseparable, outvying each other in their wild escapades. It was your guardian who smuggled an alligator into the House of Lords; Denzil Murgatroyd had himself flown up on a kite to the cross at the top of St Paul's, and attached a small carpet there; Sir Randolph introduced ten Glasgow sailors into the Court of St. James's as the Bey of Tunis and his suite, and had them entertained at the palace for a week before the imposture was discovered, for no one could understand a word they said; Denzil hired a gang of workmen to remove the Monument to the Fire of London from its place and lay it across the Derby racecourse just before the race was due to be run; however I will not weary you with further tales of their goings-on. Besides, it might put ideas into your head."
Lucas would very much have liked to hear more, but the tutor sounded so disapproving that he did not suggest it and asked instead, "What happened about the factory?"
"Denzil's father, old Sir Quincy, violently objected to his son's friendship with your guardian, and to his association with the Devil's Roustabouts. He wanted Denzil to live at home and pay attention to the family business. Several times he threatened to disinherit Denzil if he did not break off the connection." Mr. Oakapple sighed.
"But he didn't?" Lucas inquired.
"No. Young Denzil was, in fact, very fond of his father, but he was a wayward, reckless, spirited youth who could not bear to be coerced. After some months, though, he did promise to give up his membership of the club, since he was in love with a beautiful young lady, Miss Eleanora Featherstonehuff, and she refused to become engaged to him unless he did so. But he had made arrangements to attend one last meeting of the society."
"And so?"
"Denzil went to the meeting. It was held on midsummer night, in the ruins of Bellemont Priory, not far from here."
"What happened?"
"It was a very fancy affair. All twenty members of the Devils Roustabouts turned up for it; immense quantities of wine, champagne, and brandy were consumed; they had a whole orchestra playing, and dancing—and so forth." Mr. Oakapple's tone of disapproval deepened.
"I wonder what sort of food they ate?" Lucas said dreamily.
"They had a fire and roasted an ox, among other things. One of the delicacies provided was a particular kind of ginger pie, made in the village of Clutterby-le-Scroop. This pie, when taken together with wine or spirits, greatly intensifies the effect of the alcohol. The pie prepared for the party measured twenty feet across and had been specially baked in a grain hopper. All the club members had large helpings of it. They became extremely drunk."
"And?"
"A good many of them had been making fun of Denzil Murgatroyd, twitting him with the fact that he had been forced to promise to leave the club. Goaded by their taunts, and particularly by those of Sir Randolph Grimsby, he entered into a last wild wager."
"What was it?"
"Sir Randolph had been particularly free with his mockery all through the evening. And when the pie was served, he called out, 'Hey, young Denny, hey, Stargazer! Sinc
e you're so fond of your old man, don't you want to trot home and take him a helping of Clutterby Pie? It wouldn't take you very long!' At this young Denzil, who had drunk much more than was sensible, became enraged beyond bearing and shouted back, 'If I did so, I'll wager I could do it faster than you could!' 'Done!' shouted Sir Randolph. And so the bet was on."
"What did they do?"
"There are two roads from Bellemont to Midnight Park; you can go through Canby Moorside or through Mucky-under-Edge—both ways are exactly the same distance. Sir Randolph was to ride by Canby, and Denzil by Mucky: each was to carry a piece of the pie weighing a measured ten pounds, to enter Midnight Court, ascend to Sir Quincy's bedroom, leave the pie on his bedside table, and return to the gathering at the Priory. The first to return was the winner."
"What was the amount of the bet?"
"Denzil had suggested a thousand pounds, but Sir Randolph, cool as a cucumber, called out, 'Pooh! Why deal in trifles? I'll wager all that I have.' Several club members privately shrugged their shoulders at this, since it was generally known that Sir Randolph hardly had two brass farthings to rub together at the time; however Denzil, who was hardly better off since he lived on an allowance from his father which he had always spent even before it came in, shouted, 'As you wish!' So they mounted their horses and rode off in different directions."
"Who got back first?"
"Nobody had reckoned on seeing either of them again within about an hour and a half. So there was general amazement when Sir Randolph returned, his Arab mare fresh, hardly sweating, in less than sixty-five minutes; another forty minutes elapsed before Denzil galloped back, his horse heaving, badly winded, and frothing at the mouth. It was later learned that his father had woken up when he entered the bedroom and there had been a violent, angry scene from which Denzil had stormed out and ridden away at top speed, but too late to win his wager. In any case, he had found Sir Randolph's piece of pie already there on the bedside table when he arrived."
"What happened then?"
"Sir Randolph was waiting in the center of the circle, in the moonlit Priory ruins, when Denzil rode in on his exhausted, gasping horse. Sir Randolph looked the pair over calmly and said, 'You need to get a better nag, Denny.' Denzil jumped down, flung over the reins, and said, 'Take him, he's yours.' He stripped off his clothes, threw them over, too, and borrowed a shirt and a pair of breeches from one of the musicians; they were all rigged out in fancy dress as spooks and specters, so they had their daytime clothes with them."
"Good heavens," said Lucas, imagining the scene: the moonlit ruins; the fire, the circle of half-drunk, mocking men, the two in the center, the audience of ghosts. "Then what did Denzil do?"
"He walked off into the dark. The party went on for a while longer, but it broke up fairly soon. The musicians were paid off. Local people collected the remains of the food next day. And next day also it was heard that Sir Quincy had died in his bed of a seizure not five minutes after his son had left him—of rage, it was thought. So Sir Randolph, through his lawyers, sent a formal message to the effect that, since Denzil had inherited the estate the minute his father died, the house and the land, like his horse and clothes, were forfeit to the winner of the wager."
"My goodness. The whole estate? That would mean the Mill, too, everything?"
"The Mill, the house, the land, the coal mines, everything. It was said by many people, fairly openly, that Sir Randolph must have found some means of cheating. But it could not be proved. He had been seen to ride through Canby, and back again; the pie was there, in Sir Quincy's room."
"Did Denzil say he had cheated?"
"He said nothing at all. Sir Randolph, getting wind of what people were saying, became very angry; said he'd not be called a cheat without getting satisfaction, and challenged Sir Denzil, as he had become on his father's death, to a duel. But Sir Denzil refused."
"Refused a duel? Wasn't that rather a cowardly thing to do?"
"In those days it was thought shocking, yes. They had met in Midnight Park for Sir Denzil to hand over the title deeds of the estate. Sir Randolph accused Denzil of having spread slanderous stories, and challenged him. But he replied, 'My dear Grimsby, I have not said you cheated. For all I care, you borrowed the Devil's mare; I think it quite probable. I am not interested in how you achieved your end. And I have no intention of fighting you; the cause is not worth five minutes of my time. Here is your slice of Clutterby Pie; I hope you enjoy it.' Sir Denzil then walked away, said good-bye to his mother, Lady Murgatroyd, got into a borrowed carriage, went to Dover, and from there to France. The fishing boat in which he crossed was wrecked in a storm, and he was thought to have been drowned, but this was a false rumor as it turned out. A message was recently received, simply addressed to Murgatroyd House, Blastburn, England, to say that he had been living in France, but had died, and his little daughter was left destitute."
"I wonder how he lived?"
"Taught music, I believe. And English," said Mr. Oakapple, shrugging. "Apparently he died in very reduced circumstances. But enough money was collected to send his child to England, where it was thought she might have relatives."
Questions were struggling together in Lucas's mind like sheep at a gate. "Then Anna-Marie—is she the daughter of the beautiful young lady—Miss Eleanor Thingummy?"
"Featherstonehuff? No, she called off the engagement as soon as she heard of the wager, and of Sir Quincy's death. I believe that in the end Sir Denzil married a French girl, who died when the child was born. But that cannot have been until many years later."
"And Sir Randolph came to live at Midnight Court?"
"He came to live at Midnight Court. Many of the old servants left. A few stayed. But in society the suggestion that he had somehow managed to win the estate by underhand means became more and more widely circulated. Sir Randolph was invited nowhere; people began cutting him in the streets of London. Neighbors refused to meet him. It soured his nature as you have seen. He shut himself up here, took in a partner to manage the Mill—your father—and spent his days in playing solitaire and drinking brandy. For twenty years he has hardly set foot outside the park."
No wonder he isn't very pleased to have little Anna-Marie Murgatroyd in the place, Lucas thought. Even suppose he did not cheat in the wager, he must feel fairly mean at living in the place that would have come to her.
"Perhaps he was ashamed of the way he won Midnight Court," Lucas said, half to himself.
"Oh, wagers of that kind were perfectly respectable then," Mr. Oakapple assured him. "Larger fortunes changed hands over the card table every day."
A new thought occurred to Lucas. "Mr. Oakapple—how do you come to know so much about it? The Roustabouts' party—you told the story almost as if you had been there."
"I was there." Mr. Oakapple brought his pale eyes back from the horizon and turned them on Lucas. "I was a fiddler. When I was quite young—five or six—my parents found I had a great gift for violin playing, so I was sent to a choir school in York where there was very good tuition; my father was the rector in Sutton Grimsdale. We were very hard up; by the time I was nine or ten I was earning quite a bit of extra cash playing my fiddle at balls and parties. So I was at Bellemont on the night of the party."
"You know all about it." Lucas wished he had the courage to ask about the accident—or duel—that had brought an end to Mr. Oakapple's playing, and whether that too had any connection with the story of Denzil Murgatroyd. But a set, bleak expression had come over the tutor's face as he remembered those old times, and Lucas knew that he did not have the courage.
"I wonder if Anna-Marie knows all this?"
"Very likely not," Mr. Oakapple said indifferently. "On the whole, if she does not, it would be best for her to continue in ignorance."
"Yes, it might," Lucas began, thinking that Anna-Marie would not be one to take matters calmly if she believed that somebody had deprived her of her rightful property by unfair means. Then he broke off, "Look, isn't that her?"
&n
bsp; They looked back toward the house.
By daylight Midnight Court was visible as a big, light-gray mass, built of Grimshead Moor stone, which neither storm nor rain could darken; the fiercest gale only bleached its pale smooth surface so that, from a distance, the house appeared to be covered by the same frosty coating that whitened the park. But the roof looked ruinous, with many tiles awry, and most of the windows gaped black and broken.
Now from this large pale mass a small black object emerged, and came slowly toward them.
"Poor child—it will be strange for her here," Mr. Oakapple muttered, and started toward her, with Lucas following him more slowly. But they had not gone more than half the distance between them and the black-clad Anna-Marie when the figure of Mrs. Gourd appeared, red-faced and flustered, in the doorway from which the child had issued, and came hurrying after her.
They heard the housekeeper's voice calling: "Miss! Miss! Come back here directly! You are not to go off by yourself!" Anna-Marie ignored the summons and walked on determinedly.
"Miss! You are to come back here at once."
Then Mrs. Gourd perceived Mr. Oakapple and Lucas. Her face cleared. "Oh, Mr. Oakapple! I was just searching for you when this little madam wandered off. You are wanted in master's study. The gentleman from the tax office is here again, and Sir Randolph isn't himself. He won't answer the gentleman's questions, and he threw an inkpot. Could you come?"
"Oh—very well." Mr. Oakapple showed no relish for the interview. He muttered what sounded like a bad word under his breath, and then turned to Lucas. "You may be excused lessons for the rest of the morning. You had—you had best show Anna-Marie over the place and find something to amuse her."
"Aye, that's a good notion." The housekeeper plainly approved of this proposal which would relieve her of her difficult charge. "You'll keep a good eye on her, won't you, Mester Lucas? Such a mardy little one!" Lucas heard her say to the tutor in an undertone as they turned back toward the house. "There is no doing anything with her. Willful! And obstinate! Let alone she doosn't speak a word o' the King's English."