She knew what a scaur was too. They had written about it at school when learning of the Rohilla disaster. A scaur was a perilous shelving of rocks that could cause heavy breakers and surf, sometimes well out to sea. The hospital ship Rohilla ran aground on Saltwick Nab in 1914. Thoughts of that tragedy at sea gave her the shivers.
Far off, she heard the faint hoot of a foghorn and a louder booming reply. The sound made her shudder. ‘What’s that?’
‘The first sound is a small boat, sounding its foghorn to let a ship know that it’s there. If a ship’s large, they don’t always see a little boat nearby. They could bump it, sink it. The second louder sound is the ship’s acknowledgement.’
‘Will we come close to some ship?’
‘We might. I showed you how to use the foghorn.’
‘I thought it was just for fog.’ What she didn’t say was, This is dangerous. I should be afraid. I am afraid.
Suddenly she saw something quite extraordinary. The sea began to glow as waves broke at the prow of the boat. Waves turned luminous and alive with colour, blues and greens, purples and golds, tiny dots of magic. ‘What’s that?’
Brendan spoke softly, afraid to break the spell. ‘Creatures too tiny to see by day. They put on a show.’
She could not shift her gaze from the sparkle and the dance which continued for about ten minutes.
And then it ended, as suddenly as it had begun.
Felicity suddenly felt a pang of missing her mother. She would love such a show. She had not liked to leave her mother with just a note, and she hated missing her Auntie Kate. What would they be doing now, Felicity wondered. Fast asleep in bed probably. ‘We’re mad,’ she said.
‘It’s because it’s night. You’ll feel differently in the day. But we should put on the life jackets.’
She went to the bulkhead and fetched the life jackets. They had practised putting them on and so she did it easily enough.
‘Here’s yours. I’ll keep us on course.’
He took off his oilskin frock.
Three buttons on his shoulder strap glinted in the darkness. If the boat sank and his body was hauled from the sea, the cable rope and ladder detail on his gansey would mark him out as from Whitby. His mother had knitted his initials into the hem. BW. Brendan Webb. Webb, the name of the captain on the matchbox. No relation. Webb, a good name for a sailor.
If they were lost at sea, her body might be washed up on some shore where people would talk about the drowned girl in the Aran cardigan. A bonnie lassie in an Aran pattern, a mystery to unravel. Or fish might nibble the buttons, and her eyes, and the cardigan would be as lost as she was herself.
Don’t be silly, she told herself. We’ll be all right.
And then Brendan said, ‘Don’t panic but I think we’ve come too far out. I must have nodded off while you were resting. That’s why we heard that ship and foghorn so clearly.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We keep going. I’ll take us in closer to shore. You have a sleep if you want. I’m wide awake now.’
‘I’m sitting by you. Where’s that foghorn? We might need it.’
Twelve
Hilda Webb and I left the hotel by a staff door. She led us towards the town down a steep hill and through a maze of yards, steps and alleys, mercifully avoiding Skinner Street. Even so, the image of Mr Philips’s dead blue eyes and the touch of his cold hand came with me as far as Bagdale.
From the opposite side of the road, Hilda and I stared at the old Tudor hall, now dark and forbidding. The gas lamp fixed on a wall bracket cast a strange shadow.
Someone had placed a lamp in an upper window. I calculated that this must be Alma’s room.
We crossed the street and made our way to the side courtyard entrance. Hilda drew back. ‘Don’t make me go in there. I’ll have a heart attack.’
‘You’ll be all right. Mrs Turner will be pleased to see you and hear your news.’ I shone my torch, lighting our path to the porch. ‘Be brave. Knock on the door. She probably won’t hear from this distance, so we’ll go up if the door is unlocked.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Just knock. No one’s going to hurt you.’
‘The ghosts…’
‘The ghosts will ignore us.’
Hilda gulped. She knocked on the door suddenly, and then took a step back, bumping into me. We waited. No answer. No sound of movement from indoors. I tried the door. It opened.
‘Don’t!’ Hilda reached out but stopped short of touching my arm. ‘What if we disturb Mr Cricklethorpe?’
‘He won’t mind, I’m sure.’ I tried the inner door. Not locked.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’ Hilda turned away.
I pushed open the heavy creaking door. ‘The idea of something is always worse than doing it. Come on! We’ll just climb the stairs.’ I spoke cheerfully to give Hilda courage. ‘You can tell Mrs Turner you have some news, that Felicity isn’t alone. Think about it. If you went missing and someone brought word to your mother, she’d be glad.’
We stepped inside. The fire cast an eerie light in the hall.
‘Someone’s here.’ Hilda paused and listened. ‘I can hear noises.’
‘It’s just the sound of the house, drying out.’
The fire gave off a reassuring crackle. Hilda was not reassured and grabbed my arm. ‘I don’t like it. Why would someone have a fire for an empty room, except for ghosts?’
‘Well I haven’t seen a ghost. It’s just an old building, with a life of its own.’
We trod the flagged floor to the foot of the staircase.
It was impossible to move silently through this house. Stairs creaked and groaned objections as we climbed, creating an odd sensation of echoing footsteps.
We crossed the landing and mounted the second set of stairs.
On the second landing, Hilda, who had slipped behind, moved beside me, not wanting to be left in the rear, I guessed.
My tap on Alma’s door brought no answer. A cold chill ran down my spine. What if she too lay dead? But that was ridiculous.
Gingerly, I pushed open the door and called her name. I had been right in identifying the room from the street. An oil lamp burned in the casement window. There was no sign of Alma. I could see from the doorway that the table by the window, lit by the lamp, had been tidied. Her manuscripts made one neat pile. I crossed to the table and was rewarded by the sight of a note.
Felicity, I hope you have changed your mind about going off. Stay here and I will be back soon. I am not cross.
Hilda was beside me. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Yes.’
She scurried from the room. By the time I reached the ground floor Hilda was standing with her back to the wall, near the door.
‘One last look, Hilda. Follow me.’
‘Where?’ It was less a question and more a wail.
‘Just think, you’ll be able to tell your friends that you went into Bagdale Hall and came out in one piece. You thought you heard a noise when we arrived. I suppose Mrs Turner might be in the kitchen.’
The room that adjoined the kitchen also had a fire. Like some fascinated visitor from a different world, Hilda stopped to look. ‘They must have their own coal mine and forest for this lot of fuel.’
I pushed open the kitchen door. The place was in darkness, but this time without the scuttling mice. The noise came from somewhere outside, a scraping sound across the yard.
I called, ‘Hello?’
Silence. And then a crash, something breaking.
I called again, ‘Alma!’
This time, there was an answering call, shortly followed by a dishevelled-looking Cricklethorpe who came in from the yard, carrying a torch. Once we had recognised each other, we directed our beams to a spot on the kitchen flags and watched them dance. Mr Cricklethorpe brought with him the unmistakable scent of whisky.
‘Ah, Mrs Shackleton. You have changed your mind and wish for a room.’
‘No. I was looking for Mrs Turn
er. She is not in her room.’
‘May I give her a message?’
‘Just that I’ll call on her tomorrow.’
‘Very good. Consider it done, dear lady.’ He was all shifty attention, but not towards me. He glanced back at the yard, where the voices – if indeed I had heard voices – had gone silent.
Part of me wanted to push past him to see what he was up to. He might be murdering Alma or dragging Felicity’s body away in a cart. He was up to something and in a hurry to get back to whatever he was doing. ‘Mr Cricklethorpe, I believe you know where Felicity has gone.’
‘I? What makes you think that?’
‘Because earlier, in Alma’s room, she asked you “Did you have any idea what Felicity was planning? Did she say anything at all to you?” You answered the second question but not the first. Felicity may not have told you what she was planning, but I believe you have a good inkling and I wish you would say.’
He crossed the kitchen and came to stand beside me. ‘I am impressed, Mrs Shackleton. I see why you have taken to looking into puzzles and troubles. I really do not know where Felicity is. Now if you’ll excuse me…’
Whatever was going on in that back yard had his attention. Reluctantly, I gave up on him, for now, and let him walk me back to the front door. He talked non-stop, so as not to let me get a word in. ‘It’s most distressing, but I have the strongest feeling that Felicity is safe and well. I walked with Mrs Turner to the Spa, in case some of Felicity’s friends might have seen her.’
‘And had they?’
‘No, and they were surprised not to see her. Perhaps she made some other plans. Who knows?’
‘You do, I think.’
He laughed. ‘If you need to find Mrs Turner, I have a good idea where she’ll be. She sometimes walks in the evenings, her constitutional. Given her line of work, she takes measures to avoid being accosted. Certain ladies of the town feel entitled to gratis predictions.’
We were now by the vestibule. Hilda had vanished.
He opened the front door for me. As I stepped outside, he said, ‘I wouldn’t recommend it because you don’t know your way, but she’s likely to be by the abbey, communing with the moon.’ He nodded sagely. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Shackleton. I am glad that Mrs Turner has a friend.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Cricklethorpe.’
He closed the door behind me. The key turned in the lock.
Hilda hovered a few yards from the house. She was shaking. I touched her arm. ‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? It was only Mr Cricklethorpe.’
‘The dame won’t like people knowing his business.’
‘What is his business?’ I was beginning to have an inkling.
‘Oh I couldn’t say. We don’t say.’
‘Why do you call him the dame?’
‘He plays the dame in the Whitby Players pantomime. People call him that.’
‘Affectionately, or scornfully?’
‘Oh, affectionately. He’s well-liked, he stuck to the terms, people say.’
‘What terms?’
‘They don’t say. I’m not sure anyone really knows. They just say it. “The dame stuck to the terms.” When I asked my mam, she wouldn’t tell me. Perhaps she doesn’t know.’
‘Would his business have anything to do with whisky?’
‘Oh I couldn’t say.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘No, we don’t.’
We walked towards the harbour. ‘Hilda, Mrs Turner and Mr Cricklethorpe called at the Spa earlier, to see whether any of her friends had seen Felicity.’
‘I already heard neither of them was there. That’s why I’m sure.’
‘I want to find Mrs Turner. Where else might she have gone to talk to Felicity’s friends? Is there a café or a street corner where young people congregate?’
‘Not at this time of night.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone, I just want to know where Felicity’s mother may have gone to look.’
‘Well there’s a yard by the fish and chip shop. There’s a warm pipe runs along that wall. People sit on it.’
‘Then let’s take a look.’
As we crossed the road from the station, I could smell fried fish. It was a long time since tea in Botham’s. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘They won’t be frying now, Mrs Shackleton. It’ll be closed.’
We were outside the shop and the lights were still on. ‘I wish they were open. Could you eat something?’
‘I can always eat a bag of chips.’ Hilda peered through the window and waved. ‘They know me well enough to open up.’
She was right. Moments later, we each had a bag of chips with scraps of batter and I had the luxury of a fishcake, liberally splashed with vinegar and sprinkled with salt.
‘Where’s this warm pipe that your friends sit on?’
‘It’s down here.’ Hilda led me along an alley and indicated the pipe that came down the wall and ran just a little higher than ground level. I suppose when one is more used to outside privies than the indoor sort, a sewage pipe is simply a warm pipe. I decided against identifying it for Hilda. After all, it was cast iron and a good place to sit.
We sat down to eat our banquet. ‘You’re still out and about, Hilda. Where would your mother think to look for you?’
‘She wouldn’t. She knows I’m out working and might be held back. She’s always glad if I’m held back. It means I’m waiting on table or washing up and will fetch home a bigger pay packet.’
We finished our food in silence. ‘Come on then, Hilda. There’s nothing else we can do at this time of night. I’ll walk you home.’ I screwed up the newspaper wrapping.
She took the paper from me and clattered the lid of a nearby dustbin. ‘There’s no need. You’ll want to get back to the hotel.’
‘I want to be with you when you tell your mother about Brendan and Felicity. She may know whether they really have gone together.’
Hilda’s mood had lightened, and why not? She had passed on her worry. Now it would be my task to talk to Alma about the possibility that Felicity had boarded a boat dressed as a boy. ‘I’m sure they’ll be all right. Our Brendan’s eighteen.’
‘Felicity is missing. If we don’t find out something soon, her mother will have to go to the police – if she hasn’t already.’
‘It’s not that serious is it? They won’t come to harm.’
She led the way towards the bridge that joined the west of Whitby to the east. The water gleamed in the moonlight.
Hilda chatted as we walked, about her brothers and sisters, her gran and granddad, and how lucky she was to have a job in the hotel, so much to be preferred to mending nets and selling fish. Her mam did not want the boys to go to sea, because the sea had proved unlucky for their father. She had ambitions for them to move up beyond the hills and have some land, as her own cousin did.
On the other side of the bridge, the shops and houses were mainly in darkness, with just a few upper windows showing a light through a chink in the curtains. We walked a little way beyond the bridge before turning left onto Church Street. Here the lane was too narrow for standing street lights. What little light there was came from bracket lamps attached to the walls of houses.
‘The lodgers will be in the pub now so Mam will be able to speak.’
‘You have lodgers?’
‘Oh yes, but they’re no trouble. Mam makes a pot of potatoes and a pot of cabbage. They each bring in what they want cooking, a chop or a herring or a slice of liver.’ She turned into a narrow entry. ‘This way. We’re Clark’s Yard.’
The houses were crammed closely together and seemed to lean precariously towards us and each other. ‘We’re in the same yard as my grandma and granddad,’ Hilda said confidently. ‘Our house belonged to my great-granddad and grandma.’
In daytime, this place must seem quaint, old-fashioned and even charming. The light of the moon did not reach into this confined space. It had the quality of a frightening dream, somewhere you could turn an
d turn and never find your way back. Houses might reach out to touch each other in order to crush any stranger who ventured too close.
‘I’ll just tell Mam you’re here and make sure there’s no earwigging lodger. If there’s no bobby on the prowl, the pubs stay open long as they can.’ She came to a stop by the house door. ‘If Mam knows you’re here she won’t brain me for trying to tell Mrs Turner about Brendan and Felicity before I told her.’
She went inside. I waited, feeling self-conscious, hovering in the close-packed yard, hemmed in by the dark shapes of houses. I had escorted Hilda, and now realised that I would have to find my way back to the hotel. I became aware of my greasy fish and chip fingers and took out my handkerchief to wipe my hands, and then pulled my gloves back on. Murder and upset could so easily divert one from being properly dressed.
After a long moment, I heard a raised voice. ‘They never have! When was I supposed to know?’
Hilda’s answer was inaudible.
The mother spoke again. ‘Well who is she?’
Hilda must have answered.
‘You’ve brought an hotel guest here, are you mad? Do you want to be sacked on top of all else?’
Whatever Hilda said next must have done the trick. The door opened. A tall woman, surrounded by a halo of light from the lamp within, filled the doorway. ‘You better step inside, madam.’
‘Thank you.’ I felt as reluctant to step in as she was to invite me, but choices were limited. ‘I’m Mrs Shackleton, and I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Webb.’
The woman, perhaps in her forties, held the door for me to pass. She must have been pretty once but her face was now lined by care and weather. I entered a decent-sized room that was almost entirely taken up with a large deal table. A half-made skirt lay across the table. I had interrupted Mrs Webb’s dressmaking. Stools were pushed under the table. Along the side of the lead fire range was fixed a wide shelf. On this lay a pale girl with a pinched face and red-rimmed eyes. She was wrapped in blankets, her head on a green cushion.
Mrs Webb pulled out two stools, with one between so that we should not be too close. This must be the place where lodgers ate their potatoes, cabbage and individual choice items. We sat with our backs to the sickly child. I wondered if she would be diverted by our conversation, or too poorly to care.
Death at the Seaside Page 9