‘So you do have some hint of what he knows.’
‘I wish I did.’ I picked up the letter. ‘There has been so much going on in this village. Perhaps Gabriel Cherry knows he should have spoken up and did not. I’m inclined to open this envelope.’
Sykes is not a great one for debating niceties. He held out his hand. ‘This calls for steam. If it’s tittle tattle and nowt to do with owt, we’ll seal it up again.’ He looked at me for confirmation.
I nodded. ‘With the inquest tomorrow, we should have as much information as possible.’
We trooped back into the kitchen.
Sykes had done this sort of thing before, that much was clear. He held the envelope above the kettle’s spout, examined it and then brought it to the table. He placed the point of a pencil under the flap and drew it gently across.
He handed the envelope to me. I opened it and withdrew a single sheet of paper. I unfolded the paper.
It was not the letter of explanation I expected but was a drawing; a map, to be precise.
The names of the lanes were familiar from Aunt Freda’s local map, the one I had consulted to find my way to the Gouthwaites’ farm. There was the village of Stainforth, where Sykes had lodgings at the Craven Heifer. Goat Lane was neatly sketched, leading into Silverdale Road. A field was carefully marked: Lime Kiln Pasture. Gabriel had drawn in the small tower-like edifice that was the kiln. Behind this was an X.
I pushed the map towards Sykes.
He stared at it. ‘Has he been reading Treasure Island?’
‘Possibly.’
Mrs Sugden peered at the drawing. ‘He is a man of few words, your Mr Cherry.’
‘He wouldn’t give me a map marked X unless he wanted me to know what’s there.’
Mrs Sugden, always straight to the point, said, ‘Is he all there, in his mind I mean. A lot of men coming back from the war turned very funny.’
‘He’s all there.’
‘It’s a bit of a puzzle this,’ Sykes said. ‘Either he’s having a laugh or he seriously thinks something untoward might happen to him. Nothing has. Yet.’
‘That’s only because he wasn’t in the barn when it burned down. I don’t want to look at the sky on another night, see it red with fire, black smoke signalling some perverted success as his cottage burns. I’m sick of this village holding onto its secrets like a cat with familiar fleas.’
‘What do you propose?’ Sykes pushed the map back towards me.
‘Farmers rise at the crack of dawn. We should go now if we want to learn what’s hidden. That’s why he said we must act at night.’
Mrs Sugden pulled her ‘disgusted’ face. ‘Can’t we just ask him to dig up whatever he has buried? Is he having a laugh at your expense? I feel like giving him a piece of my mind.’
‘I’ll go,’ Sykes said. ‘I can cycle with a spade across the handlebars.’
‘You don’t know the way.’
‘It’s clear enough.’
‘It looks so from the map. I’ve driven there. It’s further than you think, and you’ll be hard pressed to make out the kiln from the rocks.’
‘We’ll alert the world if we go by car and besides…’
‘I know. Petrol.’
Mrs Sugden looked from one to the other of us. ‘Do you really think this chap’s in danger, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘I do, and I also believe that for the first time in his life he has the possibility of some kind of contentment, a home, a wife. He may be about to marry a barmaid from the Craven Heifer.’
‘That seals the matter for me.’ Sykes stood. ‘I’ll manage on the bicycle. Is there a spade in that shed out the back?’
I nodded. ‘And there’s another bicycle, Freda Simonson’s. I’ll just put on her divided skirt and I’ll come with you.’
Mrs Sugden thought of protesting, and then gave up on the idea. ‘I’m right glad I’m here to keep an eye on Harriet.’
‘I wouldn’t go otherwise.’
‘Oh and among Miss Simonson’s belongings, there’s a very warm jacket.’ Mrs Sugden and I went upstairs.
‘Aunt Freda has not only provided the puzzle, she’s given me the bicycle and the clothes to wear in order to tackle it.’
Ten minutes later we were ready to set off. Of course, Mrs Sugden had to follow us to the gate. ‘Are them tyres pumped?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a lamp?’
I had travelled the distance between Langcliffe and Stainforth by car with Harriet and Beth. To reach Stainforth and beyond by an elderly bicycle would be a new experience. I hoped local constables would be securely tucked up in bed.
The moon had diminished to the merest sliver. Without the lamp which Sykes had attached, our way would have been black as pitch. With the lamp, we could see just as far as the tiny pool of light inches ahead. For now, on this bumpy deserted road, that had to suffice.
We cycled side by side, blinking into the darkness, Sykes holding the spade across the handlebars.
I tried to see some indication of our whereabouts but all was blackness. Occasionally, shapes of buildings loomed, giving the reassurance that we were still on the main road but also creating the odd sensation that these houses might take a few steps towards each other and crush us.
‘At least it isn’t foggy,’ Sykes called.
‘Not yet.’
Our voices breaking the silence sounded huge and unnecessary, threatening to wake sleeping souls and send some irate villager running for a constable. Nah then, what’s all this? Stop in the name of the law!
Sykes saw, or divined, the turning into Stainforth. He pedalled through the deserted village and I followed him. I recognised the shape of the Craven Heifer from my previous visit. I turned right, in the direction of the lanes that led to the moorland, our way rapidly growing steeper. Sykes followed. His pedalling slowed, his breathing increased.
‘Stop the bicycle,’ I called. ‘We’ll walk!’
‘A bit further.’
‘How do I explain to Rosie if you have a heart attack?’
Not until the cobbles ended and the dirt road began did he come to a halt. The way from here was far too steep.
We dismounted. Sykes stood with one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. He detached the lamp and shone it around, looking for a place where we might leave the bicycles.
We wheeled them on a little way and left them by the side of the lane for when we came back. Sykes put a brave face on the job. ‘That wasn’t as bad as I expected. Beats the ride to Applewick I did a few years back.’
‘Don’t be over-enthusiastic, unless you want us to be the only enquiry agents in the country to go out and invest in a tandem.’
So far, we had kept to the main thoroughfares and paths. In this pitch blackness we may lose our way. All it would take was a mist to descend, a fog to swirl in and what little sense of country direction we possessed would be blown away.
‘At least no one will see us,’ Sykes said.
‘Not unless some midnight poacher mistakes us for game.’
Sykes shouldered the spade. I carried the lamp. Its dim flicker proved no great help but I could see my feet and the compacted earth of the path.
‘How many miles do you reckon, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘Two and half.’
‘I like the half. You prefer not to say three.’
‘All right, three. We pass a farm in about a mile and a half. There’ll be a cluster of buildings on our right. Then it’s about the same again to the lime kiln meadow.’
‘Now I know how grave robbers felt on their way to work.’
‘Grave robbers would be better prepared than we are.’ We spoke in low voices as if eavesdroppers crouched behind the dry stone walls, notebooks at the ready. The way became steep and steeper, leading as it did towards the hills.
Dotted about the fields were cattle and sheep, lying like stone sculptures, noticeable only when I stared into the darkness and saw the whiteness of a sheep against the black fie
ld.
The air was clear and cool, smelling of grass and dung. Holding the lantern, I had the advantage of spotting cow-pats. Sykes was not so fortunate and muttered under his breath every now and then.
We reached the halfway point, of Catrigg Farm. It was in complete darkness. I imagined Mrs Murgatroyd, lying sleepless in her bed, and Jennifer tossing and turning in her sleep. Had they postponed the wedding? When would the funeral take place?
So many had lived and died here before us. This was the country where centuries ago Scots raiders had struck terror, raiding cattle, killing, burning. It was said that the village of Langcliffe had been so utterly destroyed that it had to be rebuilt in a different place.
We walked in silence, each with our own thoughts.
Would Rosie be wondering when Sykes would return, giving some pat reassuring answer when the children said, ‘When’s Dad coming home?’
Would Lucian be in bed yet, or making a list of what he needed to have done in order to turn Lilac Cottage into his, or our, home and a consulting room?
I felt glad he had let the place lie for a few months while he tended the garden and allowed time for his aunt’s spirit to take her leave. Glad, too, that he entrusted me with sorting her belongings. That was what I should be doing. That and the care of Harriet. Instead, I was behaving like some juvenile character from a girl’s story, heading for a spot marked X. All that was missing was the gnarled oak tree and the promise of treasure.
Sykes’s thoughts were travelling along the same lines. ‘I hope this Gabriel Cherry fellow is worth our exertions and that this isn’t some bad joke of his.’
‘He’s worth it. He was a stretcher-bearer in the war. No one speaks of them now, but they were the real heroes.’
‘I noticed the barmaid in the Craven Heifer chatting to a fellow from one of the farms. Might have been him. Anyhow, he deserves happiness after living in a barn out this way. How did he not freeze to death?’
‘He has a little dog called Nipper. I expect they cuddle up.’
‘Oh that explains it. That makes a world of difference.’
‘Don’t get clever.’
‘Why not, it makes a change.’
A cloud covered the moon entirely. We walked side by side. I held the lantern between us, for what little good it did.
After an age of walking, I saw the outline of the lime kiln. I stopped. ‘It’s there. Can you make out that shape in the field ahead? That’s the old limekiln.’
He stared for several seconds. ‘I expected it to be bigger.’ We walked on. ‘What’s the way in?’
‘I don’t know. This wall goes on and on, and then there’ll be a gate.’
‘I’m not walking any further. We’ll have to backtrack if we do. We’ll climb the wall.’
‘We risk knocking down the stones.’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ He stopped. ‘Come on, we can do this.’ He took the lantern and placed it on the ground. ‘Excuse the familiarity.’ He put his hands on my waist and lifted me. I raised my legs as in some mad midnight high jump. Sykes leaned into the wall, setting me down on the other side.
‘There’s stones fallen already. That wasn’t us.’ He passed me the lantern which flickered as I took it.
Stay lit, lantern, we need every flicker you have for a while longer.
This was the field young Martin had limed. The ground looked white where the lamp lit our steps. Beyond was darkness. I held onto the lamp.
Sykes held the spade like a rifle. ‘I hope whatever lies under the spot is something we can reinter, or take away.’
‘And I hope he hasn’t buried it too deep.’
We reached the dilapidated kiln and walked round. The ground at the back of the kiln was a bigger stretch of earth than I had expected.
Sykes put the spade in the earth, pressing it with his foot. ‘Did you bring the piece of paper?’
‘No, but the cross was in the centre. He’d drawn pencil lines for the stones on the base of the kiln and it was dead centre.’ I trod the space, heel-toe, heel-toe, counting my steps. ‘Here. Dig here.’
‘He’d drawn a line to show it wasn’t exactly against the wall. Here, I’d say.’ Sykes moved two stones. ‘He will have covered the spot to disguise that it was newly dug. Let’s notice where these stones are and return them.’
He began to dig.
If any pirate looking for buried treasure found his hoard as quickly as we did, he would be fortunate indeed. Sykes very soon hit something hard. He eased around the object until he could free it from the ground. The tin container he picked up was of the kind that may have held a gift of shortcake biscuits. If left in the ground much longer it would have rusted and lost its colour but as I lifted the lantern so that we could examine it, I saw that the bright green and red of leaves and berries, making me think this had contained some dainties or shortcake bought at Christmas time. A piece of twine had been tied round the box, holding the lid shut. I put down the lantern and held the tin while Sykes tackled the twine, murmuring, ‘Full fist knot.’
I thought of the biscuit barrel in which Gabriel had kept Victoria Trevelyan’s love letters. Did the man make a habit of burying containers across the countryside? And who gave him all the biscuits?
Sykes opened the lid. Something was wrapped in wax paper. I held the lantern aloft while he looked at papers. ‘Certificates. Birth, Marriage, Death.’
He closed the lid. ‘We’ve been lucky so far. Let’s take it back.’ He re-fastened the twine. From his inside pocket, he took a large linen evidence bag and slid the tin inside.
I took it from him and watched as he returned the soil to the hole and replaced the stones, leaving the area exactly as it had been.
We returned the way we had come, just as a light rain began to fall.
Mrs Sugden was waiting up for us, sitting by the front window. She came to the door. Sykes left his bicycle under the window and carried mine through the hall and into the back garden. Mrs Sugden took the spade. I carried the evidence bag through to the kitchen and placed the tin box on the table.
Mrs Sugden looked at it with reverence, as though it might contain the Holy Grail. ‘You were that long. I thought you’d lost yourselves on the moors. Stand near the fire!’
I felt a sudden reluctance to open the tin. Birth certificates, but whose and why were they hidden?
Mrs Sugden had the kettle on the boil, and a pan of warm milk only slightly decorated with soot from the chimney. She made mugs of cocoa for us. I held the mug with both hands, trying to bring life into my dead fingers. Only when I felt a little warmer did I take out the first certificate.
It was the birth certificate of Selina Gouthwaite, born on January 1, 1890 in Eggleswick to Abner and Sarah Gouthwaite.
I spread it on the table and passed it in the direction of Mrs Sugden and Mr Sykes.
‘Where’s Eggleswick?’ Sykes asked me.
‘I don’t know, but I’ve heard the name.’
‘Aye you’ve heard it from me today. It’s the remote dale where Mr Holroyd hailed from.’
‘Oh yes, that was it.’ I looked at the second certificate. ‘This is a marriage certificate. Abner Gouthwaite, bachelor aged twenty-three, farm labourer, and Sarah Brignall, spinster aged twenty-four, married at All Saints Church, Eggleswick in June, 1885. And the last certificate… that’s a death certificate for Sarah Gouthwaite. She died of heart failure in 1913.’
I felt tired. Something was not making sense.
‘So who exactly lives in that farmhouse?’ Sykes scratched his head. ‘One dead, two alive. Mother dead, father alive and the name of the woman living there?’
‘Selina,’ I said quietly.
‘Ah,’ Sykes let out a breath. ‘At the Craven Heifer, they say it’s Mr and Mrs Gouthwaite at the farm and that they make a poor fist of farming. According to these certificates…’ Sykes drew the papers towards him and looked at them. ‘According to these certificates, Mr Gouthwaite and Miss Gouthwaite live there. You did say sh
e was called Selina?’
‘Yes. He calls her that. I thought it odd because most men refer to their wives as the missis or the wife. Most women refer to their men as the mister.’
Mrs Sugden scratched at her neck. ‘Oh dear, we’ve found out summat that they’d rather nobody knew. She’s his daughter. Do they live as man and wife?’
The cold night air and the exertion had left me feeling slightly stupefied. ‘Yes they do.’
Slowly, Sykes stirred his cocoa. ‘Incest.’ He took a sip. ‘No wonder someone tried to burn down the barn with Gabriel Cherry in it if they knew he had this little lot by him.’
‘Why did they keep the certificates,’ Mrs Sugden asked, ‘if they knew someone might see them? They must have wanted to keep quiet about what they were up to. I expect that’s why they moved from Eggleswick.’
‘Well people do keep birth, marriage and death certificates. Everyone keeps their important papers. I’m guessing these were tucked well away and that Gabriel found them because he knew all the hiding places from when he was a curious lad.’
These papers explained so much. There was a good reason for Abner Gouthwaite to take his daughter away from the place where she knew people, had school friends that she grew up with, neighbours she might have turned to if she needed an escape. It gave me a chill to think how long Abner Gouthwaite may have been treating his daughter as a wife, perhaps long before her mother died of heart failure. Did that mother turn a blind eye, or not suspect? It was hard to believe she could not have suspected, but perhaps was too weak and ill to intervene, or would not have been able to. And Selina, was it all she had ever known?
Gabriel had said that he once pitied Selina and then he loathed her for taking the precious letters sent to him by his mistress.
The gross figure of Abner Gouthwaite seemed a presence at the table as Sykes, Mrs Sugden and I looked at the box.
We once more examined the documents, as if unable to believe the evidence of our own eyes.
‘Little wonder they left Eggleswick,’ Mrs Sugden said. ‘People would have known them, known what was going on.’
A Death in the Dales Page 25