Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  Elizabeth covered her face with her hands and broke into sobs. Her grandfather pulled her down beside him so that she leaned against his knees. He put his arm about her and drew her head to his shoulder.

  “Tell me all about it, Liz,” he urged. “What has he done, damn him?”

  “He never loved me, grandfather,” sobbed Elizabeth. “I never attracted him in the least. At first I believed he loved me, I believed everything he said, but once you perceive one falsity, you see all the lies. As though a coloured veil of lies was suddenly split; it all floats away and the whole landscape looks different.”

  “She’s thought about it, she’s gone over it over and over again and worked it all out,” thought Mr. Hardaker sadly, discomfited nevertheless that a woman could express herself at such a moment in such high-flown terms. In spite of himself he could not help feeling that a grief expressed in such fanciful comparisons might well itself be fanciful. “But why else should he want to marry you, Elizabeth?” he said soothingly. “A man doesn’t go into marriage lightly, you know.”

  “To get into Ramsgill,” flashed Elizabeth. “That was all he wanted. Grandfather, turn him out.”

  “But what would you and the child live on then, my dear?” said Mr. Hardaker.

  “I could go back to work. Grandfather, we’ve always been honourable people at Ramsgill. Edward isn’t honourable. He cares only for himself. You must get rid of him, you must turn him out. He’ll bring us all to disaster!” cried Elizabeth, beating his knee with her hand hysterically.

  Every prejudice which Mr. Hardaker had ever felt against Edward, every irritation, every small distrust, rushed back into his mind.

  “How has this quarrel come about exactly?” he demanded.

  “There has been no quarrel. We’ve parted rooms at his request, that’s all,” said Elizabeth with bitterness. “But that’s only one thing, grandfather, that’s only the small rent in the veil. Everything he has said and done now shows as the falsehood it really was.”

  “But it may be just this drinking of yours, Elizabeth. It must grieve Edward, you know.”

  “He doesn’t know of it. Oh, it’s sufficiently obvious, I’ve no doubt,” said Elizabeth. “I expect the whole Ramsgill valley knows it. I’m sure Carol knows. She brought the children over here one day and fetched them in the afternoon. But Edward and Lucius don’t know. Edward doesn’t see it because I take precautions and he avoids me, and Lucius of course never sees anything, poor dear. There’s Edmund,” she said as the child’s fretful wail came to their ears. She rose. “He’s awake. I must go.”

  “Elizabeth,” said Mr. Hardaker strongly, holding her by the wrist. “Leave Edward. We’ll get you a separation from him. It’ll be a tough job; he’ll cling like a leech and unfortunately he owns some Ramsgill shares, but I’ll buy him off somehow. Slip a few things into a suitcase for yourself and the child, and come home with me now. I’ll postpone my appointment; I’ll drive you home. Wouldn’t you like to do that, eh?”

  “Yes, I should. But would it be right? After all, he’s my husband. I ought to stand by him. I made marriage vows.”

  “Don’t make a martyr of yourself, girl,” said Mr. Hardaker. “It’s never any use. Stand up for yourself for once. You have your rights.”

  “And what would mother say?” blurted Elizabeth suddenly.

  “What does that matter? It’s my house.”

  “I don’t know whether I could stand the humiliation, grandfather. Mother would remind me every minute of every day that I couldn’t hold my husband.”

  “Well, of course, if you’d rather be miserable with a scoundrel than stand up to a few silly remarks from your own mother, there’s nothing more to be said,” said Mr. Hardaker crossly, disgusted. “My God, look at the time. I’m due in the Ire Valley in ten minutes. Think it over, Elizabeth,” he added more kindly as he made for the door. “But make up your mind fast. There’s a merger suggested for Ramsgill; if we’re getting rid of Edward it’ll be off. So think fast. Mind what I say, now: don’t sacrifice yourself for nothing. Of course, you know best how things are between yourself and your husband.” He looked at her unhope-fully: her drooping hair and tearful face, her air of perplexity and her wobbling gait, irritated and saddened him. No spirit, he thought; naïve, high-flown, spinsterish—I don’t altogether wonder at Edward, damn him. Carol has twice her sense. “Have a word with Carol, perhaps,” he suggested. “She sent you her love. You might just telephone Henry Morcar at Syke Mills and tell him I’ll be a few minutes late,” he added in a different tone as he opened the front door, giving the number.

  * * *

  “Carol,” said Elizabeth in a high shaking voice: “I’ve rung you up to tell you—it’s only right that you should know—you’ve always been so kind and sympathetic. I’m thinking of leaving Edward.”

  “Oh, no! No, Liz!” said Carol emphatically. “You mustn’t do it. Think of Edmund. Of course I’ve seen for a few months that it hasn’t been going as well as it should—”

  “You mean you knew I was drinking,” said Elizabeth.

  “Well, really, Liz! I never thought of it that way—I just thought—but don’t leave Edward, Liz love, don’t. A woman leaving her husband, you know, that’s dreadful. For Edmund’s sake, Liz.”

  “I notice you don’t say for Edward’s sake,” said Elizabeth, regaining her composure.

  Carol exclaimed. “Of course I do, Liz love,” she said.

  “You’re lying, Carol my dear,” said Elizabeth. “And you’re not a good liar. You knew from the beginning, from when we were first engaged, that he didn’t really care for me. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “No, of course not,” lied Carol unconvincingly.

  “I well remember how uneasy you were when we first announced our engagement.”

  “Liz, you sound terribly, terribly—I don’t know exactly, but it doesn’t sound a bit like you. Sort of cynical, as if you didn’t care.”

  “I do care, Carol,” said Elizabeth, her voice shaking again. “But what’s the good? I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving Edward. He’ll be delighted, I assure you.”

  “No! No! Look—I’ll come round to see you.”

  “How can you, with all those children?”

  “I’ll get my next-door neighbour to sit in with them.”

  “It is no good, Carol,” said Elizabeth sharply. “Don’t come. I’m going out. I shan’t be here.”

  “Elizabeth,” said Carol, deeply earnest. “You must not leave till you’ve told Edward. That’s only fair. You must wait till he comes home from the mill. You must, really.”

  “I shall have to do that in any case,” said Elizabeth with irony, “because he’s driving my car. I’m just taking Edmund out in his pram, as usual.”

  * * *

  “I may as well be straight about it, Harry—it’s a habit of mine. I’ve bad news for you,” said Mr. Hardaker, sinking into an agreeable armchair in Henry Morcar’s handsome and commodious modern office. “I’m afraid the merger idea is off.”

  “Why? Young men not like it?”

  “Nay, I haven’t told them,” said Hardaker wearily. “But the one you’re interested in—Edward Oates—I don’t feel certain about him. My grand-daughter and he are splitting up. She thinks he’s a scoundrel.”

  “It may be only just a matrimonial row, you know. Young women—especially if they’re in the family way—get hysterical ideas sometimes.”

  “She’s not in the family way. They split rooms a couple of months ago.”

  “A couple of months? That sounds more serious,” said Morcar thoughtfully. “Haven’t they any children, then? I thought you said—”

  “One. A wreckling, poor child. Elizabeth says Edward only married her to get into Ramsgill.”

  “It would be more convenient if all this were just a young couple’s flare-up.”

  “It would. But I don’t think it’s that. Somehow—” Mr. Hardaker paused and ruminated. “Somehow I don’t think I’ve ever been quite s
ure of Mr. Edward Oates. Of course if you want to offer him a big job here in Syke Mills, now’s your chance. Take him and welcome.”

  “Thank you for nothing,” said Morcar with a grimace. “I want somebody I can trust.”

  “Well, you may find yourself able to trust him.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “No. Of course, I may be doing him an injustice. But when his own wife says he’s dishonourable and wants you to throw him out—”

  “It gives you to think.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “Does he hold any Ramsgill shares?”

  “Yes, damn him,” said Hardaker with a sigh. “I shall have to buy him out and that’s going to cost a pretty penny. I wish I were misjudging him. He’s such a clever lad—really very capable, and as you said yourself a good designer.”

  “Pity.”

  “Would you like to come over and have a look at him? Elizabeth may be wrong, you know.”

  “I might at that,” said Morcar thoughtfully. “But only if he doesn’t know what I’ve come for. Otherwise it’s useless.”

  “How could he possibly guess? I shan’t tell him, you may be sure.”

  “Have you mentioned anything at all about the merger to them?”

  “Harry,” said Hardaker soberly. “I give you my word I haven’t said a word of it to a living soul. It crossed my mind this morning, when they both seemed so uneasy, that they might have heard a word of it from your side—”

  “No!”

  “—so I told them I was coming over to see you this afternoon. Just to see their reaction, as it were.”

  “Well?”

  “There wasn’t any. They showed complete indifference. Didn’t even ask me what I was coming to see you about. They dismissed it as just one of old grandfather’s—”

  “Ploys.”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right, I’ll come. Tomorrow, eh? Because if it’s not to be a Ramsgill merger, it will have to be somebody else, you know, John. I want to get a good man settled here and working under me to learn my ways, as soon as possible.”

  “I understand. Come about half past three and we’ll all have our cup of tea together.”

  “And no mention of a merger or anything of that kind, to a soul.”

  “You have my word,” said old Hardaker stiffly.

  * * *

  The wintry twilight was just sinking into dusk when the sound of a car travelling up the steep winding lane towards them came to the ears of the two men as they stood at the edge of the moorland road. It was the dead time of the afternoon; the mills were still at work, but the traffic out here had dwindled as car-owning men made for home. At a turn in the lane the black car now appeared for a moment, far below.

  “Here he comes,” said Edward to Lucius, grimly.

  They watched in silence as the black car wound round the folds of the hill towards them. The wind blew cold; the turbulent landscape of rocks and heath had now lost almost all its colour; the road was mercifully empty; dark grey clouds drove furiously across a pale watery sky.

  “Suppose he doesn’t stop?”

  “Don’t you know him better than that?”

  Edward climbed into the car which had brought them—Elizabeth’s as usual—which stood on the grass verge of the main road, and drove it obliquely halfway across the first bend in the lane; then dismounted.

  “Hadn’t you better put on your lights,” suggested Lucius, “in case it looks odd without them?”

  “Losing your nerve again?” jeered Edward. Nevertheless he reached into the car and turned on the side lamps. He then opened the boot and drew out the jack lever. “Here; take this.”

  Lucius trembled as the cold iron touched his hand.

  “Make to take off the wheel,” said Edward, handing him the jack.

  Obediently Lucius stooped and tried to place the instrument for this purpose. But he could not find the proper position; the bars of the rear axle and the jack seemed to swell and diminish and become entangled. At least, however, in his stooping position he was spared a view of the black car’s approach; only heard the scrunch of the wheels as it drew up behind him.

  “Anything wrong?” called old Mr. Hardaker’s voice. “Can I help?” He opened his door, dismounted. “You!” he said, surprised. “What are you two doing here?”

  This was the point of no return, for he had recognised them. Lucius sprang up, whirled round, found himself face to face with old Hardaker. Behind him loomed Edward, his face livid, his mouth open, distorted; he cried: “Now!” and struck Hardaker’s head with a spanner. Blood spurted and flowed. A most extraordinary look of childish fright came over the old man’s face; his eyes widened, he put out gloved hands and stumbled forward.

  “Strike, damn you!” yelled Edward.

  Lucius lifted the lever. Even now he could not bring himself to strike at the face, but hit hard at the shoulder. A bone cracked and Hardaker fell sprawling in the road. Then Lucius remembered all the dangers and frustrations and jealousies to which this old man’s existence exposed him, and he struck savagely, over and over again, not knowing what he was doing, until Edward laid a hand on his arm, saying: “That’s enough.”

  They lifted the body between them and wedged it at the wheel in Mr. Hardaker’s black car, then pushed the car across the lane, across the rough grass verge, over the rocky edge. Suddenly it slipped from their hands, sprang down the steep slope, stumbled, hit a rock, overturned and burst into flames. It seemed to Lucius that for one very brief moment he saw a body thrown into the air as the petrol tank exploded.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Edward. “Let’s get away from here.”

  They threw their weapons into the boot and jumped into their car. After an uncomfortable moment Edward, swinging the wheel and accelerating hard, got them up out of the sheltering curve and on to the main moorland road. A lorry passed, but it was travelling swiftly and the driver could have had but the barest glimpse, if any, of their number plate. Edward drove fast; after a few minutes they left the moor behind them, and came to fields, the church, Ramsgill village.

  It was now quite dark, and suddenly in the valley below and on the distant hills long chains of lights sprang into existence, marking the roads, punctuated by blocks of lights here and there—the mills. Smaller and dimmer gleams came up in scattered houses on the upper slopes. At a turn in the road the lights of Hudley could be seen reddening the dreary sky. From this height there was, indeed, a superb industrial panorama, a West Riding nocturne. It was so beautiful and so friendly, so familiar to Lucius and so well-loved, that tears of fond sentiment stood in his eyes. He was glad to be away from the cold wild moorland, with all his problems solved and left behind him. He could scarcely believe that he would never see his grandfather again. Poor old thing! But what a relief! He lived through the murder again.

  “Edward,” he said suddenly: “I have a feeling I saw—the body—thrown clear of the car.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Perhaps we ought to have gone down to make sure?”

  “Good heavens, no! It was sure enough.” Edward paused, and added with meaning: “There were plenty of rocks.”

  “To account for the injuries, you mean.”

  “Exactly. Though you let yourself go, rather.”

  “You struck the first blow,” said Lucius in a heavy menacing tone.

  “We’re both in it together—we know that,” said Edward impatiently.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “All we have to do is to stick together and tell the same story.”

  “Oh, I agree.”

  “Well, here we are,” said Edward, driving through the arch way into the Ramsgill Mills yard. “Don’t forget: we’ve been to call on Butterworth the merchant in Annotsfield—where you were very convincing, I must say, Lucius, about our new spring ranges; an admirable performance—we’ve been to Butterworth’s in Annotsfield and we’ve come back by the usual Denbridge Road.”

  “Not
over the moors,” said Lucius.

  “Why on earth should we have come over the moors?” said Edward irritably. “Of course we didn’t come by that roundabout route. Don’t forget, Lucius: we didn’t know where Mr. Hardaker had gone and so of course we couldn’t know which way he would be coming back.”

  “You surprise me,” said Lucius sardonically.

  “Nobody knows that we knew, so we didn’t know,” said Edward with emphasis. “For heaven’s sake remember that; it’s our alibi.”

  “I shan’t forget,” said Lucius.

  * * *

  They drew up by the office door.

  Carol came running down the steps.

  The two men gazed at her almost stupefied. After the frightful crisis through which they had passed, they were unable to return to normal life so promptly.

  “Ed,” said Carol, laying her hand on her brother’s arm as he dismounted. “I’ve been waiting here a clock hour for you. If you want to save your home you must go up there at once. Elizabeth rang me up in a terrible state. She’s thinking of leaving you.”

  “Good God! Why?”

  “That’s for you to say, Ed,” said Carol soberly. “But she’s serious, I can tell you that. You must go at once.”

  For a moment Edward actually experienced relief. To be free of his dreary wife, he thought, would be splendid. Then he suddenly remembered that at this particular moment he could not possibly afford to appear to be on bad terms with any member of the Hardaker family. He sprang back into the silvery car and drove off at once to Ram’s Hey.

  * * *

  “Elizabeth, this is all nonsense,” said Edward severely. “You’re upsetting the child.”

  Edmund was indeed screaming his disapproval; he did not like being lodged in his carry-cot and laid down on the floor of the Ram’s Hey hall. Elizabeth made no reply to her husband; she opened the front door, carried out the cot, opened the back door of her car and wedged the cot on the seat.

  “You love me, Elizabeth,” began Edward.

  “I used to love you,” said Elizabeth, returning for her suitcase.

  “If I had known how much you cared about the room business, Elizabeth,” began Edward again.

  “Don’t humiliate me any further, Edward,” said Elizabeth coldly. “It’s quite unnecessary, believe me.”