by Sarah Ward
Sadler shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. Are you sure you won’t come in?’
‘I’ll step inside out of the rain.’ Clive moved into the porch. ‘I noticed you were off at the beginning of the week but I thought you’d want a bit of privacy first. You must be getting bored by now, though. Fancy sharing a bottle of wine one evening? It’s been a while.’
‘Since my last holiday, I think.’
‘I’m not complaining. There are benefits to not seeing your neighbours too often, even ones as congenial as you, Francis. How about tonight?’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘Would it be all right if I invited a friend too? It’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ Clive glanced at Sadler’s face and laughed. ‘Not female. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to set you up. I saw one of my old partners today for a game. I’d like you to meet him.’
‘There’s not a problem, is there?’
‘I don’t think so but … look, maybe I shouldn’t have asked. It is your holidays.’
‘Not at all. I don’t have any other plans. Will eight-ish be okay?’
‘Perfect. And thanks.’ Clive’s eyes dropped to the book Sadler was holding in his hands. ‘I didn’t realise you were a Brontë fan.’
‘I can’t say I am particularly. I’ve only recently started it.’
He was so badly read these days that his sister, Camilla, constantly teased him about his preference for Netflix binges over high literature.
‘You know there’s a Derbyshire connection with Charlotte Brontë?’
‘Is there? I’m barely beyond the first chapter but I always associate her with Yorkshire.’
‘Well, of course, there’s Haworth and that’s where all the devotees go, but of the three sisters, it was Charlotte who was the best travelled and who had friendships outside the close family circle. You’ll see as you read on a bit.’
‘And she came to Derbyshire?’
‘Her friend, Ellen Nussey, had a brother who was rector of Hathersage and she used parts of the town as inspiration for fictional places in Jane Eyre. Different names, of course, but the buildings from the town are recognisable in the book. It’s worth a visit.’ Clive turned to brave the rain. ‘See you later. I’ll provide the wine. I’ll even light the fire in your honour. And thanks again.’
After his neighbour had retreated, Sadler stood on the doorstep watching the shower as it increased in ferocity and then eased up. Tonight’s problem, if there was one, would be revealed soon enough. However, the pull of the outside was drawing him away from the comfort of his sitting room. He crossed to his bookshelves and took out a guidebook. Hathersage was around a twenty minute drive from Bampton, too far to walk to from his house but as good a place as any to get some fresh air. Sadler put on his walking boots and drove to the town. He parked outside the church, the place that had apparently brought the eldest Brontë sister to Derbyshire, and walked into the graveyard. He was surprised to see a huddle of men in hardhats drinking tea on the path.
‘Sorry, mate, the church is shut,’ one of the men shouted over to him.
‘How long for?’
‘It’ll be a few months yet. We’re improving the lighting.’
‘Damn.’
The workman grinned at him. ‘You couldn’t see anything even if we let you in. All the statues and paintings are covered up. It’s not a wasted journey, though. The churchyard’s worth a look if you like Robin Hood.’
‘Robin Hood?’
‘The grave of Little John’s here. You know. The tall one in the films. Didn’t you know? It’s usually what brings tourists to the church. It’s over there.’ He nodded his head to the left and turned back to his colleagues.
Little John and Robin Hood. Not exactly the literary pilgrimage Sadler had envisaged. He could remember from primary school one of his teachers telling the class about this grave. He hadn’t been much interested in the folk tale, preferring cricket and dinosaurs, but still, he remembered hearing about the story of a tall man in Derbyshire.
He followed the path and found a low iron fence next to a yew tree and a stone with a modern inscription. Not much, but something. Touched, he stayed there for a moment. Did it matter whether it was true or not? Someone had cared enough to mark the spot and it was part of the local history.
He left his car outside the church and walked down the steep hill towards the town. Turning into Baulk Lane, he checked the guidebook and followed the public footpath until he came to a house with tall spindly chimneys. Brookfield Manor, the template for Vale Hall in Jane Eyre, where the heroine teaches under a false name. It was a large building, made of Derbyshire stone, with an air of genteel wealth. North Lees Hall, further along the path, was more to his taste. It was the inspiration for Mr Rochester’s Thornfield Hall, and Charlotte Brontë had even used the family’s surname, Eyre, for her heroine. Sadler leant on the wall and studied the crenellated roof. It would have suited Hercule Poirot as a home, he thought. The house’s footprint was a perfect square.
‘Fancy living there? You’ll have to beat me to it.’
Sadler turned, taken by surprise by a woman standing over the hedge opposite him wearing loose dungarees over a bottle-green top. She had a rake in her hands, sweating from recent exertion. ‘Sorry, did I startle you? You had a look in your eye that I see often with walkers. Dreams of domestic grandeur.’
‘It’s an imposing house. A bit big for me, though.’
‘That’s what I tell myself too. What would I do with all that space?’
‘Is it privately owned? They must get sick of people stopping to take a look.’
‘It’s owned by the Peak Park but they rent it out. There are tenants in at the moment. They take it on with the knowledge that there’s a public footpath running alongside the house so they can’t complain.’
‘You’re the gardener?’
‘How did you guess?’ She clutched the rake to her, getting it tangled in her curls that were being unsuccessfully tamed by a headscarf.
‘I’m very observant. It’s what comes of being a policeman.’
Why did he tell her that? He, who kept his professional life so separate from family and friends.
A shadow crossed her face but she smiled and pointed at the hall. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’d give my eye teeth to live there.’
‘You don’t live on site then?’
She laughed, dimples appearing in her round cheeks. ‘I’m not a permanent gardener. It’s part of my rounds. They pay me to come here one day a week.’ She pointed at her van standing in the drive, which had the name ‘The Land Girl’ emblazoned on its side. ‘That’s me. Mina, the land girl.’
‘It’s a good name.’
‘It is, isn’t it? My mum thought it up. She’s got a much better imagination than me. She loved it when I told her I was working at North Lees Hall too. All those Gothic associations.’
‘She’s a fan of Dracula too.’
Mina tried to stop herself looking pleased. ‘You mean my name? I guess so. She just, you know, liked reading.’
‘She’s not alive?’
There it was again. A flicker of pain as she spoke. ‘She’s in hospital. No more reading for her, I don’t think.’
Very ill then. Discomforted, Sadler turned away. ‘It’s a busy time of year for you, clearing all the leaves. I’m keeping you from your work.’
‘Don’t worry. I should be having a break but I’m pushing on so I can leave early. You’re the first person I’ve seen all morning.’
‘The path’s usually busier?’
‘It’s wonderful. It brings people from all over the world to Hathersage.’
‘The workman at the church said they mainly came to see Little John.’
‘Did he? Well, I’ve worked here for three years and I can tell you for every person looking for Little John, there are five who are Brontë fans.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Did you know that there’s a local legend that the hall ev
en had a mad woman in the attic? The name of Agnes Ashurst. It’s where Charlotte Brontë got the inspiration for the first Mrs Rochester.’
‘Is it true?’
Mina shrugged. ‘Who’s to say? Is it Little John from legend in the grave up at the church? That’s the point of legends, isn’t it? We don’t know.’
‘True.’ Sadler made to go.
‘Listen, can I ask you something?’
He stopped. ‘Of course. What is it?’
‘I’m just wondering. Oh, I don’t know. It’s about finding someone. I’ve been raking and thinking and then I meet you and you say that you’re a policeman. Do you believe in serendipity?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
She laughed. ‘No. Actually, neither do I. But, anyway, you must sometimes have to find people as part of your job.’
‘Occasionally. You want to find someone? Are they missing?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not missing but lost. Don’t mind me. I’m thinking while I’m talking. It’s my worst trait.’
‘If you think a crime has been committed …’
‘Oh, there’s no crime. I might need to find someone from decades ago, that’s all.’
But lost is an odd way to describe someone, thought Sadler.
‘I was wondering how easy it is to look for someone when you only have a first name?’
‘Officially, it’s going to be quite hard but if you’ve got the name of a place or a work address you could probably ask around based on first name only.’
‘A place?’
‘Well, yes. My name’s Francis and I’ve told you I’m a policeman. I might be hard to find on an official document with only those two bits of information but, if you asked around Bampton or went to the station, you’d find someone who could identify me.’
‘Right. So I need to ask around?’
‘It’s just an idea. Is everything all right?’
‘Don’t mind me. I’ve got a lot on my plate, that’s all. I’ll let you get on.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded and returned to the leaves she was gathering. He carried on down the path, past her van. The Land Girl. The van was old but well cared for. Recently washed, the gold letters of the business name glinted in the low sun. The back doors were open and he could see the tools laid neatly on top of each other. Mina, a woman with a lot on her mind and with a mother sick in hospital. Perhaps he should have asked her for the name of the person she was looking for.
He turned around and she was staring after him. She raised her rake in farewell and he waved back, intrigued at what was clearly preoccupying her.
6
Mina left North Lees Hall thinking about the unsettling man with the cool demeanour and steady gaze. He’d be a good policeman, she suspected. He hadn’t appeared surprised by her question, just concerned. What had he said his name was? Francis. She’d wanted to ask him for help there and then but had been struck dumb by the futility of her task. How ridiculous it would have been to ask him to help find her mother’s childhood friend when all she had was a first name, Valerie. He had, however, helped. Given her an idea where to start.
She drove around the main square in Bampton, keeping her eye open for a parking space. When a traffic warden came down the street, a few idling cars drifted away, leaving her with a choice of spots. She picked one nearest to the library and went inside the building. She’d rarely used the library since childhood. The horticulture section had been hopelessly out of date, full of texts with black and white photos and old-fashioned advice. Unlike the hospital, however, the library had survived cuts and threatened moves and been refurbished at least twice in Mina’s memory. It looked like it needed a third. The front desk was staffed by a lone figure hunched over a book, rubbing out pencil marks. He glanced up at her and then again in surprise.
‘Mina? Is that you?’
Mina crossed towards him, not recognising the man in his twenties although he reminded her of the kayaker she’d encountered the other evening. The same sharp cut hair and soft beard. She squinted at the top half of his face, trying to place him.
‘It’s Joseph. You probably don’t remember me but I worked with your mum for years. She introduced me to you in the street about a year ago. How is she?’
Mina winced. ‘Not good.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. How’s she coping on the boat?’
‘She’s not coping at all. She’s in hospital.’
‘Oh no. She loved her houseboat.’
After retiring from the library, Hilary had made radical changes in her life that Mina realised she’d been planning for some time. Always independent, she had gradually stripped her small semi of the furniture and other items she deemed unimportant. Mina had hardly noticed to begin with. Days at college had been augmented with backbreaking work, either at the allotment or at Chatsworth House where she’d got a temporary job staking the tall lupins that graced the borders of the large gardens. Only once had she remarked the house was looking a bit sparse and she found out why on the day her mother handed back her staff pass to the local authority. The house was given to Mina, an advance on her inheritance, and her mother had proudly revealed her new home, the Evening Star.
‘Can you help me?’ Mina looked around, aware of her unkempt appearance and the dark rings staining her T-shirt under her armpits.
‘Of course.’
‘The thing is, I’m trying to find someone for my mother, a school friend, and all I have is a first name and that they presumably went to Bampton Grammar School in the fifties. That’s certainly where my mother went. Are there any records here that might help?’
‘Bampton Grammar?’ Joseph shook his head. ‘We don’t have any school records at all. What’s the first name?’
‘Her friend was called Valerie. That’s all I know. What about alumni organisations? Are there any groups connected to the school?’
‘Not that I’ve heard of. The school’s still going so you could ask there. Aren’t there any friends you can ask?’
‘My mother hasn’t kept in touch with any of them. Is Carol in?’
‘Carol? She’s retired too. She left just after your mum, but she wasn’t originally from around here anyway.’
‘Mum might have mentioned a Valerie to her.’
‘Maybe.’ Joseph leant against the desk, doodling on a pad in front of him. ‘The only information she ever gave me about her personal life was in relation to you. She’d talk a lot about you. She said you’d been born with green fingers.’
Mina felt tears prick behind her eyes. ‘Can I have Carol’s address?’
Joseph hesitated. ‘I can’t do that but I can tell her you want to speak to her. Leave your mobile number with me and I’ll get her to call you.’
Mina wrote her number on the proffered Post-it, which Joseph inspected. ‘I tell you what you could do, though. Why don’t you put some notices around town? Something along the lines of “Looking for Valerie. Student at Bampton Grammar in …”’
‘I don’t know. The fifties, I guess.’
‘Okay, so, looking for Valerie, a student in Bampton in the nineteen fifties, a friend of Hilary Kemp. Was that her maiden name?’
Mina nodded. ‘Yes. She never changed it.’
‘So write that and leave your contact details. Put the notices up in the supermarket, Costa, that sort of thing. You know, Valerie might even come forward herself.’
‘Mum thinks she’s dead.’
‘Well, her family then. It’s worth a go.’
‘Do you know what, that’s a good idea.’
‘While you’re here, why don’t you fill in one of these cards and I’ll put it on the community noticeboard over there.’
Mina followed his gaze to a large board dotted with cards. ‘I can do that?’
‘We have to police it something chronic. There’s always some chancer wanting to put up a flyer, which is why we’ve created this system. As long as it’s not illegal, if it’s related to the com
munity you can fill in the card and we’ll display it for you for two weeks. Okay?’
Mina filled in the information in her neat script and handed the card back to Joseph. ‘Thanks.’
He smiled back at her. ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’
She laughed. ‘I’m too old for you.’
He stuck a pin in the card. ‘Worth a try.’
*
Ten minutes before closing time, a hand unpinned the notice from the board and studied it closely.
LOOKING FOR VALERIE. PUPIL AT BAMPTON GRAMMAR SCHOOL IN THE 1950s. FRIEND OF HILARY KEMP. CALL MOBILE OR LEAVE A NOTE ON THE EVENING STAR HOUSEBOAT.
Replacing the pin in the board, the hand hesitated for a moment then put the card between the pages of a book and left the library.
7
Having an argument with your partner isn’t the best way to start your weekend. Ruth departed to her vintage furniture shop, slamming the front door, leaving Matthews still in her pyjamas, red faced and near tears. Not only was she being an idiot at home but she was aware that she wasn’t exactly making herself popular with her team at the station. She couldn’t relax enough to get people on her side, but now, when she finally had her chance to prove that she could do a DI role, she wasn’t going to ruin her chances by allowing standards to slacken just because Sadler was away.
Alone in the house, she was aware that there was a basket full of washing that needed doing and a layer of dust on the living room table. Their cat, named King William and who had a clear preference for Ruth, marched past her with his nose in the air and departed into the garden with a clatter of the flap. It was the last straw. She left a pile of dried biscuits in his bowl and drove to Bampton station to check everything was okay.
The station was empty except for a few duty officers. The CID sergeant had already telephoned her as asked to say that nothing had come in during the night. He glanced up briefly as she entered the Detective Room, looking put out at her appearance. Matthews sat at Sadler’s desk, powered up her laptop and began to go through her checklist again. She heard a heavy tread outside her office followed by a cough and Superintendent Llewellyn put his head through the door.