Rob was nodding his head.
‘A snowball fight? The pub?’
He shook his head.
‘Something else?’
Rob’s grin told her all she needed to know.
Back in the flat, both showered and still wrapped in towels and bathrobes, they fell on the very late breakfast that Alys had cooked. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and a pot of tea. As Rob pushed his plate away he glanced at the window.
‘It’s snowing again,’ he remarked.
‘Oh no.’ Alys twisted in her chair to look. ‘Does that mean we have to go back to the barns?’
‘No,’ Rob said, reaching across the table to take her hand and pulling her gently to her feet. ‘It means we can spend the rest of the day in bed.’
Chapter Eight
Alys had been so busy in the run-up to Christmas, and even in the normally quiet January period, that it was only in rare moments that her thoughts had returned to Alice. She’d gone over and over the few scraps of concrete information that she had, trying to tease out anything she might have missed. But closure still eluded her. She was no nearer knowing whether Alice had indeed set the mill on fire and if so, why? Nor who was the father of Alice’s baby. She’d found it all so frustrating that it was always much easier to set it aside and bury herself in the demands of the two businesses.
Julie, though, hadn’t forgotten, and in mid-February, while Moira took a well-earned holiday and Alys moved back to Northwaite for a couple of weeks to mind The Celestial Cake Café, she dropped in for coffee and to reveal some news.
‘Check your email tonight,’ she said. ‘Tina’s sending you something. She wouldn’t tell me what it was but she’s made an important discovery.’ Julie’s cheeks were flushed pink either from excitement or from the wind, Alys couldn’t be sure.
‘She didn’t even give you a clue?’ Alys immediately wanted to go back to Moira’s and retrieve her laptop, but she was working alone in the café that day.
‘No, we’re just going to have to be patient.’ Julie finished her coffee and got up to go. ‘Don’t forget to let me know, though. Oh, and come for lunch one Sunday with Rob. Derek and I have barely seen him of late.’ She raised her eyebrows as she looked at Alys.
Alys blushed to the roots of her hair. She and Rob had spent a lot of time together since New Year and he’d stayed over quite a few times while she’d been in Northwaite. No doubt someone in the village had passed comment to Julie. She’d have to tell him to go and visit his mum – she wouldn’t like her to feel neglected.
‘I’ll take one of those back for Derek,’ Julie pointed to an iced gingerbread heart. ‘Actually, make that two. I’m not expecting any red roses today – might as well buy my own Valentine’s gift.’
Alys felt guilty again, remembering the gift-wrapped box that Rob had given her that morning. She’d lifted the lid to discover a selection of white-chocolate cows, with grey-painted faces and grey markings, as well as pink-and-white daisy chocolates.
‘I thought it combined things we both love,’ said Rob, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘And you’d said how you were sick of the sight of hearts, because of the café.’
‘Wherever did you get them?’ Alys exclaimed. ‘They’re wonderful – I’ve never seen anything like them.’ She was already thinking what a good addition they would make to the Nortonstall café, where she was planning to introduce a range of gifts.
‘Anything for me?’ Rob asked, expectantly.
‘Oh!’ Alys gasped. Her face was a picture. ‘I completely forgot. I was so focused on the cafés …’ her voice trailed away.
‘That you forgot to get anything for me,’ Rob helpfully finished off. He shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘I won’t forget this.’
‘Here, have a cow,’ Alys thrust the box towards him. ‘I’ll bring you something back this evening from the café, I promise.’
Rob grinned. ‘Don’t worry, you can make it up to me another time. But I’m staying over at the farm tonight, remember? Moira’s due back.’
‘Of course!’ Alys struck her forehead. ‘How could I have forgotten? There’s just too much going on.’
‘You work too hard,’ Rob said, kissing her on the forehead as he prepared to leave. ‘Flo, Dee and Sandy are really good. You can leave them in charge more often than you do.’
Alys smiled ruefully. ‘I’m a bit of a control freak, I’m afraid. Ring any bells?’
She pulled herself back to the present as she packed the gingerbread hearts into a box, protecting them with pink tissue before handing them over to Julie. ‘There you go. And we’ll be there for lunch, this week or, if not, next. I’ll let you know.’ And she waved Julie goodbye as more customers arrived, intent on getting in out of the winter’s chill and finding a seat by the wood burner.
It was nearly 7 p.m. that evening before Alys finally settled at the kitchen table in Moira’s cottage and flipped open her laptop. She went straight to her inbox and there it was – tucked in amongst the usual notifications of flight bargains, book deals, and general spam – an email from Tina. She clicked on it, rapidly scanning the text.
Alys sat back, trying to take in the news. Tina had, indeed, solved one of the mysteries. She’d found Elisabeth’s birth certificate, dated 1895 as expected. However, she hadn’t been registered as Elisabeth Bancroft, but as Elisabeth Weatherall. So those little scraps of paper, those notes secreted in Alice’s embroidered bag, weren’t the only tokens she’d had to remind her of a love affair with Richard – she’d had his child. And he’d honoured it, which as Tina pointed out in her email, was unusual, given that not only was he from a very different class to Alice, but he had a fiancée at that point, too. Tina had managed to trace some of the family in the 1911 census, searching by house rather than by family name. She’d found Sarah, plus Annie, Beatrice and Elisabeth all living at Lane End Cottage, under the name ‘Bancraft’. It looked as though somewhere along the line the name hadn’t been transcribed properly, which explained their failure to find it during their first search. Tina suggested that Sarah had probably taken Elisabeth into the family under the Bancroft family name, presumably to avoid any further trouble after Alice’s death. The surname Bancroft had then stuck until she got married.
One of the attachments was a copy of Elisabeth’s birth certificate. Alys opened up the document and scanned the neat handwriting. Alice Bancroft was named as Elisabeth’s mother, Richard Weatherall, whose occupation was listed as ‘teacher’, was the father. Also, it was Richard who had registered the birth, which Tina pointed out as worthy of note – he wasn’t trying to shirk responsibility. In that era, it was quite usual for the father’s name to be left blank, if the parents weren’t married.
Alys gazed at the screen for a long time, trying to marshal her thoughts. It was good news, but it also raised other questions. Why would Richard be prepared to acknowledge the baby as his, when he was about to get married to someone else? Had he been going to call off his wedding? How different might all their lives have been if tragedy hadn’t struck? If the fire had never happened, if Richard hadn’t died, and if Alice hadn’t been thrown into prison and perished there. Would they have lived happily ever after? Would Alys herself ever have been born if Elisabeth had been brought up in a different way, in a different place? Alys frowned, and chewed her lip in concentration. But Richard had got married, so he must have turned his back on Alice and Elisabeth for some reason?
Alys’s reverie was disturbed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. She looked up from the screen, her mind still caught up with the past, finding it an effort to drag herself back into everyday life. Moira was back, struggling to get her suitcase across the threshold. She quickly shut the door behind her against the February chill.
‘Look at you – you look great!’ Alys exclaimed. Moira’s tan was in startling contrast to the pallid winter faces that Alys was used to seeing on a daily basis. She was glowing and relaxed. Shrugging off her coat, she gathe
red up the bundle of mail that Alys had saved for her and joined her at the table.
‘Well, tell all! Was it lovely? Where did you go? What did you do? Shall I make you some tea? I’ve made cardamom shortbread too, an Indian flavour in honour of your holiday. I’m rather pleased with the way they’ve turned out. I think I’ll start making them for the cafés.’
Moira laughed. ‘So many questions! Yes, I’d love tea, and a shortbread. And it’s so lovely and cosy in here.’ She looked around, feeling the appreciation of returning home after a trip. ‘I can’t believe how chilly it is outside. Yes, India was wonderful. It’s changed so much since I was there last, of course. But we saw so many beautiful things – palaces, forts, temples, sunsets. We crammed so much into the first week, I can’t tell you how glad I was to reach Goa and to be able to just relax by the sea. Such beautiful beaches –’ Moira looked wistful. ‘It really wasn’t long enough.’
‘Well, that gives you the perfect excuse to go back again. Did you take lots of photos?’
‘Loads! I won’t bore you with mine though. Tom’s got a good camera – I’ll wait and show you the ones he took.’
Alys, curious to know how the relationship had fared on holiday, took this as her cue. She set Moira’s tea down in front of her.
‘How did it go? Did you two get on all right?’
She was startled to see Moira’s tan actually deepen – she was blushing!
‘Yes, very well,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘Actually, Tom asked me to marry him and I said yes!’
Alys was temporarily lost for words, then gathered herself. ‘That’s such wonderful news! I’m so pleased! When? Where? Have you told anyone else?’
Moira laughed. ‘I can’t quite believe it myself. It’s very new news – it only happened yesterday, on our last evening.’
‘Oh,’ Alys interrupted. ‘I can picture it now. A candlelit dinner on the beach under the stars, Tom on his knees in the sand –’
Moira was laughing so much that Alys was worried she might choke. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but it was nothing like that. We were stuck at the airport for five hours between flights and it just kind of came up in conversation.’
Alys frowned. ‘That’s not very romantic.’
‘Well, that sums us both up quite well,’ said Moira. ‘But it was Valentine’s Day. Does that count as romantic?’
Alys was puzzled. ‘You said it was yesterday? How could it have been Valentine’s Day?’
‘The time difference, remember? I think it was something like 1 a.m. there. Anyway, enough of me – how are things here? How’s the business?’ Moira gestured at the computer. ‘And what are you doing here in front of a screen on Valentine’s Day evening?’
‘It’s all fine here.’ Alys ignored the last question, and she proceeded to fill in Moira on how well the businesses had done in the run up to Valentine’s Day. ‘I have to say, I’ve had quite enough of heart-shaped cakes and biscuits. Thank goodness for our regulars here in Northwaite. Most of them wanted their tea and cakes as normal: “without any of that romantic nonsense, thank you very much!”’
‘Hark at you,’ Moira laughed. ‘Accusing me of being unromantic when you’re just as bad yourself.’
‘That’s manufactured romance,’ Alys protested. ‘To make a profit. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain.’
‘Hmmm.’ Moira had been leafing through her mail. ‘You won’t be wanting this, then?’ And she held out an envelope to Alys. Quite clearly a card, it had a hand-written address and no stamp. ‘Personal delivery, by the look of it.’
It was Alys’s turn to blush. Rob must have slipped the card in among the pile of mail that morning. She ripped open the envelope. To her relief, it wasn’t yet another red heart – instead, it featured a cartoon and a rather risqué message that made her snort with laughter as she read it. In time-honoured fashion, there was no signature, just a question mark.
Her relationship with Rob was still very new: she felt protective of it and so before Moira could start to quiz her about how it was going, she turned to the computer screen. ‘I’ve got news too. You know how keen I’ve been to find out more about Alice and what happened to her? Well, with a bit of help from some friends, I’ve made a bit of a discovery.’ Alys quickly outlined what she knew to Moira.
Moira listened intently, but Alys could see she was struggling a bit.
‘Hang on, I didn’t know you were doing any of this? And you lost me somewhere, with the bit about some notes in a bag?’
Patiently, Alys started to explain again, but Moira stopped her, yawning. ‘It’s no good. It must be the jet-lag. My brain’s turned to cotton wool. Let’s do this tomorrow. I’ll probably be wide awake around 4 a.m. if you want to have a go then?’
Alys laughed. ‘No thanks! But I need to update Julie, and Rob, too. They’ve both helped me a lot. Why don’t we all get together tomorrow evening, early?’
Moira, suddenly overcome by exhaustion, could only nod and head for bed. Alys, meanwhile, pottered around a bit longer, her head too full of thoughts to contemplate sleep just yet. Today’s revelations had prompted the germ of another idea about Alice and she needed to mull it over. It was close to midnight before she finally headed up the stairs. As she put the card on her chest of drawers, she smiled again at the message. Over the past few months, work had become pretty much all consuming. Maybe it was time to make space for other things in her life now?
Chapter Nine
There was quite a crowd around the pub table. Alys, Moira, Tom, Julie, Rob – even Rob’s father Derek had come along to hear what Alys had to say. They’d spent the last hour hearing about Moira and Tom’s holiday, and exclaiming over news of the marriage proposal. If they were secretly thankful that Tom preferred a traditional camera to a digital one, so that his 250-plus holiday photos were still safely on rolls of film waiting to be developed, no one was saying.
During a lull in the conversation, as they gazed into the log fire and contemplated the snow that was starting to settle outside, carried on an icy wind that whistled around the pub, Julie leant forward, unable to contain her impatience.
‘Come on then, Alys. What have you – or rather, you and Tina – found out? I’m dying to know.’
Once again, Alys launched into the explanation that she’d tried to give Moira the night before. This time, for Tom’s sake, she started at the very beginning, with her discovery in the churchyard of the gravestone that turned out to belong to her great-great-grandmother; how it had made her determined to discover more about her unlucky ancestor; how Julie, Rob and ultimately Tina had helped her to uncover more of the truth and, finally, what she now knew about her great-grandmother Elisabeth’s parentage.
Julie could scarcely contain herself until Alys stopped speaking. ‘Thank goodness! I’m so pleased you’ve found a father for Elisabeth.’ She paused. ‘Although it’s a terrible shame that he died so tragically.’
‘That’s not all, though. I’ve been doing some thinking about the mill fire.’ Alys outlined her deductions. ‘The newspaper report on the fire had suggested that Alice had a grudge against Williams, but why? What was her supposed motive for burning down the mill? Albert, who had been there during the fire, blamed himself for Alice’s death. He’d referred to Williams in disparaging terms in his journal, and raised a beautiful memorial to Alice. So, it seemed as though whatever Albert knew, he didn’t believe Alice to be responsible for the fire and the tragedy. Was Alice just in the wrong place at the wrong time, allowing Williams to frame her for some reason? Or was there something more sinister in all of it?’
Alys’s audience looked at her expectantly, waiting for her final revelation.
‘I remembered that Albert had said something about holding to account those who had failed Alice. I wondered what he’d meant by it at the time. The name Williams didn’t mean anything to me the first time I read his journal, but I went back to it after I read the newspaper report about the mill fire and again last night when I discovered t
hat Richard was Elisabeth’s father. Albert was the nightwatchman at the mill, but it wasn’t clear to me why Williams would have been there on the night of the fire. I found a reference to Albert paying a visit to Williams after his return to Northwaite, when it seems harsh words were exchanged. Then there was a reference to a newspaper report from 1914 that stated Williams’s body had been found in the river in Nortonstall, close to the Packhorse Arms. He’d been drinking heavily and had fallen in. It seemed no one attended the funeral. So, I took a look at the last page of Albert’s journal again.’
Alys paused to take a sip of her drink while her audience looked on impatiently.
‘Something about Alice had been written there, but I could barely make it out the first time I read it. This time, knowing what I now know, it looked to me as though it said: “With Williams gone, I have avenged Alice and will tell Ella so.”’
Alys went on to explain that, with the best will in the world, there was no way now of knowing the complete truth of what had happened. Well over a hundred years had passed and no one was alive who could shed any light on it. The most likely explanation appeared to be that somehow Williams was responsible for Alice being blamed for what happened, while there was a strong possibility that he had started the fire himself. She had learnt enough to be convinced that Alice wasn’t an arsonist, or a murderess, and she took some comfort from the fact that Elisabeth appeared to have been loved by both her parents. Although Alice’s life had been tragic, Elisabeth had been brought up by the Bancroft family and had thrived. ‘If she hadn’t,’ Alys explained, ‘Moira wouldn’t be here today, and I wouldn’t be either.’ She experienced a sense of relief now that she had reached her conclusion. It felt as though she had finally set Alice free.
There was a pause when Alys had finished what she had to say, as everyone digested the story. Rob spoke up first, getting to his feet. ‘I propose a toast. To Alys and her detective work – and to her great-great-grandmother Alice, too. They’ve both been responsible for transforming the area, in quite different ways, and they’ve made their own mark on history. Without them, our lives would be very different today.’ He raised his glass and the rest of the party, smiling and nodding in agreement, echoed his action.
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