A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘Then I expect he’ll find him.’ She frowned. ‘What makes you think this boy will be hiding in a cave?’

  ‘Because that would be a good place to hide.’

  ‘Won’t Gabriel Cherry look in the caves?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You know his Christian name.’

  Susannah looked a little guarded and hesitated before answering. ‘My father owns the farm Mr Cherry works on so why wouldn’t I know his full name?’

  ‘He might not look in the caves. He’s busy looking after sheep and lambs so he’ll only look where there are sheep and lambs and they won’t go in caves, will they?’

  ‘I can’t answer for stupid sheep, but we won’t go in caves. You’re my guest and I live here so it’s up to me to see that you don’t go into darksome caves and never be seen again, or break your ankle clambering into one. They’re slippery.’

  ‘Then why come with me, if you don’t want to go in?’

  ‘Because we can call out. He’ll know we’re not the constable, or Farmer Gouthwaite.’

  This made sense to Harriet. Perhaps Susannah had more about her than she first thought. ‘All right. When we get to the caves, we’ll peer in, and call his name.’

  ‘That will be best, because remember what happened to Injun Joe in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He went too far into a cave and perished in the bowels of the earth.’

  It was mid-afternoon when Harriet and Susannah walked back to the village, footsore and weary. If Martin Young had entered one of these caves then he had gone so far in as to never be seen again. They had finished the liquorice, and grown sick of pear drops.

  Harriet pondered the difficulty. Perhaps Martin had not gone into a cave, especially if he knew what happened to Injun Joe in Tom Sawyer.

  As if she knew what Harriet was thinking, Susannah said, ‘Injun Joe was a bad lot. Not everyone who goes in a cave dies. Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn found a hoard of gold.’

  ‘I wish you’d said that before.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to go in too far. We’re only just friends and it would be a shame to go back without you.’

  Harriet told herself she was not downhearted. It would have been wonderful to find Martin and take him to the mill as work ended for the day, to see the surprise and pleasure on Beth’s face. But at least she would be able to say that they had searched.

  Auntie Kate had left the cottage door key under a plant pot. Harriet led Susannah inside and through to the back garden. They tried tying one end of the rope to the drainpipe and Harriet twining, but it didn’t work. Skipping was too babyish anyway. They took it in turns to play two-ball against the wall, unders and overs until one of them was out. Harriet taught Susannah some rhymes, surprised that she knew so few. They liked the alphabet one for playing ball, doing unders for the rhyme and overs for the names of people, places and goods.

  ‘A my name is Ann, my husband’s name is Arthur, we come from America and we sell apples. B my name is Beth, my husband’s name is Billy, we come from Borneo and we sell beads. C my name is…’

  Harriet had reached M and was chanting, ‘M my name is Madge, my husband’s name is Martin, we come from Manchester and we sell.….’ when the shed door opened. She stopped.

  Both girls turned to see a boy of about their own age with unkempt black hair, an anxious face and scruffy clothes. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  Harriet took pride in the fact that she hadn’t dropped the tennis balls, in spite of her surprise. ‘Hello, Martin. I wondered when you would come.’

  He looked about cautiously. ‘Was it you who left the cake?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You should’ve put it in a tin. I had to tussle a mouse for it.’

  ‘I’m glad you appreciated it.’

  ‘Where’s our Beth?’

  ‘She’s at work. You’ve missed her dinner hour.’

  ‘I could murder a drink of water.’

  ‘There’s dandelion and burdock.’

  He stretched and yawned. ‘Go on then, if you don’t mind.’

  Harriet went inside.

  Susannah looked at Martin. ‘How did you know where to come?’

  ‘Mr Cherry saw me and called out.’

  ‘Why did you run away?’

  ‘Because I thought I’d killed my boss but Mr Cherry said I only fractured his knee. Any road, I couldn’t go back.’

  ‘We only looked in two caves. Harriet doesn’t know about the others. I saved you a bacon sandwich but when we didn’t find you I ate it.’

  ‘Ta very much.’

  Harriet came out carrying a glass of dandelion and burdock and a plate with buttered bread and a hunk of cheese.

  Martin sat on the grass, eating and drinking. Susannah gave him a bar of chocolate. ‘It’s a bit melted.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  When he had finished eating, Harriet said, ‘Beth will be right glad you’re safe and sound.’

  ‘Aye, I knew she’d be worried. Will she come here? I don’t want to be seen and charged with breaking old Gouthwaite’s leg.’

  Harriet snorted. ‘He broke it himself.’

  ‘I would have run off anyway, after everything. And I can’t stop round here now.’

  ‘I don’t see why not, if you can find other work. Your Beth said you could. There’s lime kilns. There’s the railway. There’s all sorts a lad could do.’

  ‘I want to go back to Pendleton. There’s work for me there.’ He wet his finger and went round the crumbs on his plate.

  Harriet thought she had not given him enough to eat. ‘Why did you come to Langcliffe if you want to go back to Pendleton?’

  ‘Because there was work for Beth in’t mill.’

  ‘Didn’t you like farming?’ Susannah, sitting on the bench, stretched her legs and looked at her feet. ‘I would, if I were a boy.’

  ‘I liked it well enough, but I’m not stopping here.’

  Susannah’s hair had fallen in front of her eyes. She parted it so as to look at Martin. ‘There’s other farms. The Murgatroyds.’

  ‘Excuse my rudeness, girls, but they all piss in the same pot. Mr Murgatroyd might be better at looking after his cattle, the sheep and the walls, but they’re cut from’t same cloth.’

  It gave Harriet an odd feeling to realise that neither Susannah nor Martin knew Mr Murgatroyd was dead. She couldn’t tell them, didn’t know how to say it.

  Susannah spoke quietly. ‘I think you’re wrong, Martin. People like the Murgatroyds.’

  ‘I don’t care. They’re friends them two, Mr Gouthwaite and Mr Murgatroyd. They drink together.’

  Harriet was feeling left out of the conversation. ‘I didn’t see any pubs up there. Where do they drink?’

  ‘Old Gouthwaite makes his own booze.’ He yawned again.

  Harriet thought what to do next. ‘You can’t go wandering about the countryside half-starved and hardly able to keep your eyes open.’

  ‘Who says I can’t? Anyway, I’m not stopping. After I’ve seen our Beth, I’ll walk back to Pendleton. All I have to do is follow the river.’

  Harriet could see from the way that Susannah gave little glances out of the corner of her eye that she liked him. He probably reminded her of Dickon in The Secret Garden. She would think it a good idea to take him home. So Harriet got in first.

  ‘You can sleep in our shed, or I could ask my auntie if you can stop here. There’s a loft.’

  ‘What if your auntie says no?’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  Susannah consulted her watch. ‘This is what I think must happen. Harriet will meet your sister when the mill workers come out. She will fetch her here. You and she will have a good chat about everything but you needn’t make any plans yet. Then, you come back with me to the hall. We have masses of rooms that no one ever goes in from one year to the next. You can stay there. I’ll bring you food until you decid
e what to do.’

  ‘I’ve already decided.’

  ‘You’d like our garden. The gardener is old. He’d be glad of some help.’

  I was right, Harriet thought. Martin didn’t answer. He just sat there, looking unhappy and sulky.

  Harriet went inside. There was a bit of currant cake left. He could have that.

  Susannah leaned forward. ‘Martin.’

  ‘What?’

  She hesitated. ‘Did Gabriel Cherry ever give you books?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Oh nothing. It’s just… you won’t tell?’

  ‘I’m off back to Pendleton. Who would I tell?’

  ‘I think he brings me books and leaves them in the summerhouse. Twice I saw him talking to the gardener and on those days, there were books for me.’

  ‘He might do that. He’s the only one up there who’s any good. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Because I’m not supposed to know.’

  Sixteen

  As it turned out, Mrs Trevelyan did not need to call on the powers of magnetic force in her search for Gabriel Cherry. When we reached the entrance to Catrigg Farm, where she intended to pay condolences to Mrs Murgatroyd, she took a pair of field glasses from her saddlebag and scanned the land as if it were an enormous prairie instead of patchwork fields divided by stone walls and overlooked by hills. Her small purr of satisfaction, or triumph, told me that she had spotted her man.

  ‘There he is.’ She held onto the field glasses, gazing at the loved object, speaking of him as though it might be necessary for me to pick him out of a line-up of heroes and villains. ‘He is brown as a bright horse chestnut. His hair is almost black until you see it on a bright day and then there is a coppery glow, as if stroked by the sun. Did I tell you he can imitate every bird?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘He is turning out the cows. Have you ever seen a man so lithe and graceful?’ She handed me the binoculars and pointed. ‘His dog is with him. Nipper.’

  I looked in the direction she indicated. The figure of a tall man came into focus. He was standing still as an oak near a small herd of dejected-looking cows. A little dog, as motionless as its master, stood by his ankles.

  When I handed back the field glasses, Mrs Trevelyan pulled on her reins and turned her horse to enter Catrigg Farm. ‘Please don’t take no for an answer, Mrs Shackleton. He must give me back my letters. I don’t know whether that Gouthwaite woman has taken them or simply discovered their hiding place. Either way, she poses a terrible threat to me.’

  Feeling less than confident, I urged on Miss Shady. The mare tossed her head and trotted up the lane. From the field on my right, a lamb separated from its ewe gave a cry of complaint. ‘Go find her,’ I called to the lamb. ‘Don’t just bleat about it.’

  No casual conversation gambit came to mind as I drew closer to the man I sought. My mission seemed unreal in this atmosphere of pastoral tranquillity. We were close now, but a wall separated us. I could see no way through or over. He paid no attention to me but began to walk away. We were on parallel tracks. If he turned off, he and his dog would be off before I had time to speak to him.

  Fortunately, around the next bend was a gate. I dismounted. A great deal of frayed rope had been wound somewhat drunkenly around the gatepost to hold it shut. I tugged and tussled at the rope until I freed the gate which straight away dipped because it had been held in place by the rope. It was heavy and difficult to close but I did not want to be responsible for letting cows escape. The dog barked. The man stopped in his tracks. All around the gate was muddy. Not wanting to leave the horse here, or lead her across the field, I re-mounted and rode towards him.

  He was not quite the golden boy Mrs Trevelyan had painted. His face deeply lined from exposure to the elements; hair turning grey. The little dog beside him was thin with old age, skull sharp as a knife blade, eyes rheumy as he looked up. But Mrs Trevelyan was right in one respect. The man moved with a certain grace, and there was kindness in his lived-in, wearied face. The dog, eager to impress upon his master that this stranger needed attention, stood on his hind legs, front paws on the man’s calves. The man leaned down and patted the dog, shushing him. That was when I saw his hands. They were stretcher-bearer’s hands, full of so many tiny scars that they would never be properly healed and would always cause him pain. Stretcher bearers had the worst job. They did not charge out of a trench with a surge of emotion, camaraderie and blind determination. They held back until the first of the fallen needed them and then calmly and bravely stepped out to gather in the wounded, slipping, sliding, unable to wear gloves or they would not hold onto their stretchers.

  ‘Mr Cherry?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘My name is Mrs Shackleton, Kate Shackleton. I’m staying in the village.’

  ‘I hope you find it to your liking.’

  ‘I’m here with my niece who is recuperating from an illness.’

  ‘You picked a fine spot.’

  ‘Yes, and I have friends in the area.’

  ‘Ah.’

  It would have been easier if we could sit somewhere and talk. Looking down at him from the horse, I was conscious that we had trampled the grass, that the field was full of dung. I could not bring myself to broach the subject of letters. Yet I must say something.

  ‘Dr Simonson has kindly let us stay in the house that was his aunt’s.’

  ‘Very nice for you, madam.’

  ‘And you met my niece Harriet on Sunday and you were kind to her. She is of an age with Susannah…’

  Something in the way he shifted his weight and the slightest flicker in his eyes made me glad I had not said Susannah Trevelyan. The image of Susannah, with her golden brown looks and pale blue eyes stopped my train of thought and made it even more difficult to continue. He and Susannah had the same colouring, their eyes the same shade of blue. I recalled Lucian saying something to the effect that Mr Trevelyan did not like Susannah to be out and about too much. Was it because he did not want her natural father to see her, or because villagers might gossip? Perhaps he cherished the forlorn hope that she would grow to look more like her fair, plump mother than her farm labourer father.

  Gabriel Cherry did not help me by offering a comment or asking what I wanted.

  ‘Is there somewhere we might have a private word, Mr Cherry?’

  ‘Is it Susannah? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. She is with my niece. I’m hoping they will make friends.’

  ‘Does it look likely?’

  ‘I don’t know. Susannah had her head in a book when we arrived and took some persuading to put it down.’

  He gave the smallest smile.

  I had found a way to slide under his guard. ‘Susannah angled for bacon sandwiches for the pair of them for lunch. I expect they will have gone out wandering. Harriet has set herself the business of finding a boy called Martin who went missing from your farm.’

  ‘It’s not my farm.’

  ‘No, but you know what I mean. I had hoped you may have seen him. Mr Trevelyan placed Martin Young with Mr Gouthwaite to work as an apprentice.’

  ‘If you want to call it that. I told your niece and her friend I would look out for him. He’s safe, and probably with them now.’

  ‘He was mistreated by Gouthwaite.’

  ‘I was on that farm as a lad. I put up with the same and worse.’

  ‘It sounds as if you excuse Gouthwaite his brutality.’ This was not what I should be saying. I would put his back up before we started on the business of letters. He repeated my words as a question.

  ‘Abner Gouthwaite has a rage in him, and so does she, a deep rage.’

  ‘What will you do when the farm changes hands?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what will happen now with Bill Murgatroyd dead. It’s all in the air now.’

  ‘So might the Gouthwaites stay on?’

  ‘Nay. Trevelyan gave them chances. They didn’t know how to take them, and didn’t see the consequences.
It’ll be up to Mr Trevelyan and Mrs Murgatroyd. Bill Murgatroyd asked me to stay on and I said yes.’ The dog looked up at him, as if asking to be included in the conversation. ‘Nipper’s too old to go on the tramp.’ Hearing his name, Nipper thumped his thin tail on the ground.

  That made me smile. I was still not ready to ask about the letters.

  ‘You were a stretcher bearer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was with the VAD, nursing. We all had a most high regard for stretcher bearers.’

  He gave a small laugh. ‘Aye. Even them that jeered in the beginning ended up glad of us.’

  He came closer, patted Miss Shady, and spoke softly. That was why he had not sent me packing. Mrs Trevelyan was clever. She had let me ride her grey mare knowing that he would recognise the horse.

  ‘There’s something else that I must ask you, Mr Cherry, and I’m sorry to do this if it is painful. Mrs Trevelyan asked me to be a go-between in a particular matter.’

  He gazed past me, towards the horizon and the hills beyond. At first I thought he would not answer.

  ‘I know what she wants.’

  ‘She is afraid that her letters have fallen into the wrong hands.’

  He frowned. ‘There’s no chance of that.’

  Once more, the dog wagged his tail.

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan…

  ‘Her name is Victoria and my name is Gabriel. Isn’t that how lovers from time immemorial are named? Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Dante and Beatrice. Oh don’t look surprised. I read every night by lamplight, running the risk of setting the place on fire. Of course, Gabriel and Victoria doesn’t have the same eternal ring as Antony and Cleopatra. And why do you think the man’s name allus comes first, when the woman has the final word?’

  ‘She really does think her letters have fallen into the wrong hands.’

  ‘What hands?’

  ‘On May Day, Mrs Gouthwaite was in the village. She dropped a hint that sounded rather like blackmail.’

  ‘Selina knows nothing.’

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan believes the Gouthwaites don’t want to leave the farm…’

  ‘Of course they don’t. They’ve done their best but their best was never good enough. They don’t know best.’