Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  He paused for a moment beneath the painting of his father. The eyes in the painting stared dully back at him, foreshadowing, he fancied, the dementia that lay ahead. He suppressed a shudder and tried to put the logical implication of this train of thinking out of his mind, consoling himself with the thought that Blackamoor would soon be his to do with as he pleased. His hand absently brushed against the hall table that stood against the wall beneath the portrait. He smiled unpleasantly. Nothing like the silky patina of a rosewood antique to put things in the proper perspective.

  He continued down the hall. On his left ran the ornately carved balustrade that had, on more than one occasion, saved him from a drunken swan dive to the ballroom floor below. At the top of the grand staircase, he peered down into the gloom and frowned. He thought he'd heard something. The wind moaning on the moor, or was it just his imagination?

  Suddenly he froze. There it was again—a sort of faint sighing, punctuated this time by a burst of feminine giggling. Hardly daring to believe his good fortune, he hurried to her door. He leaned against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. Then he pressed his ear to the thick panel and listened.

  There was no mistake. The creaking of bedsprings and a muffled feminine voice, mostly unintelligible, excitedly urging her partner on, the occasional explicit instruction audible. God, she's a wanton bitch, he thought. She behaved as if the entire universe had been created solely for her pleasure. Talk about your Big Bang. He licked his lips—this was going to be good. He opened his dressing gown and pressed his body against the door, the smooth mahogany cool against his skin.

  There was a man's voice now. Then the noises in the room ceased. There was a thump, followed by a soft footfall. He leapt back as if the door was electrified. Gathering his gown untidily around him, he flapped down the hall, trying not to rouse the entire household. He ducked into the first room on the left past the staircase. He shut the door behind him with more commotion than he'd intended and fell back against it, wheezing heavily. His interest in his stepsister's latest dalliance, not to put too fine a point on it, had flagged considerably.

  At that moment, the woman's door opened and she stepped out into the hall. She looked to be in her twenties. She stood naked in the hallway like a vision of Venus, her appearance, unlike her voyeuristic stepbrother's, unsullied by the lurid light. There was something lying on the floor at her feet. She bent down and picked it up. A silk sash. She frowned and then turned back to the room. She knotted the sash loosely around her neck and tossed her long, dark hair in a seductive gesture. Her eyes, however, were cold. She looked at her companion and said, “There's nobody there. It must have been my imagination.”

  Frank Elger expertly fitted the final topstone into place then straightened slowly with an involuntary grunt. He surveyed the repaired section of drystone wall. “That's fixed it, Katie, lass,” he said. “Good as new.”

  His daughter, who had been busy laying out the lunch things on the grass, looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “Here, Dad, I'll get you your beer.”

  Elger smiled. “That's music to my ears, lass.” He gazed at her fondly. “If only your mother could see you now.”

  “Oh, Dad! Sit down and have your lunch.”

  He lowered himself stiffly onto the springy turf. Straightening his legs, he leaned back against the wall. He was sweating and the stone felt cool against his back. He took a swig from the long-necked bottle and sighed contentedly. “Soon be time to get t' hay in,” he observed presently.

  Katie nodded and handed him a sandwich. She perched herself on the wall. “You know, I think September is my favorite time of year here.” Looking beyond her father, she scanned the vast expanse of moorland at the head of Brackendale with a naturalist's eye. Climbing steeply to the northern skyline that formed the dark backbone of the North York Moors, with the great valley of the Esk beyond, the moors were still glorious with the purple bloom of ling mixed with the greens and bronzes of crowberry and bilberry. But the deeper purple patches of bell heather were beginning to fade now, presaging the darker and colder times ahead. Below them, nearly hidden in a copse of alder beside a tiny gill was their gritstone farmhouse. Farther down the valley was a Lilliputian sprinkling of red pantile-roofed buildings—the village of Brackendale. Drystone walls, extending up the slopes on both sides of the dale and terminating just below the heather-clad tops, subdivided the green pastureland like the ribs of a great beast.

  Katie experienced a sense of contentment, slightly tinged with melancholy, as she took in her surroundings. She only got home on weekends and holidays now, but she still felt like the luckiest person on earth. Like the purple haze of heather, however, she knew that it couldn't last forever. She looked down at her father. Short and wiry—as strong as a horse in his day—he now looked old and frail. His face had tightened into a frown, as if he were puzzling over something.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “What? Ah, well, I was just wonderin How much t' beasts will fetch this year.” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Will there be enough, do you think?” she heard herself ask, her voice sounding hollow in her ears. She knew all too well that the price of sheep had recently plummeted.

  He sighed. “I don't know, lass. Bugger's raised t' rent, 'asn'the?”

  She flushed with anger. “It's just not fair! He has no right to—”

  “Now, lass,” her father admonished, “don't get started— 'e owns this land and there's nowt we can do about it. With old Mr. Dinsdale it was different, but them days 'ave long gone.”

  She avoided his eyes. “Look, Dad, perhaps I can get a job with the National Park Authority and—”

  “I'll 'ave none of that, Katie!” the old man exploded. “Tha'll be goin' back to university next month and I'll hear no more about it.”

  A troublesome wind had picked up. She followed the beck with her eyes from its confluence with the river, past their tiny farmstead, and up to the crest of the rigg above. Silhouetted against scudding clouds was a sprawling slate-roofed pile of gray stone with jutting chimneys and a dark-windowed facade. Lording over the dale and all its inhabitants. Katie felt a familiar loathing. It wasn't enough that he trampled on people's rights. She had suspected all along that he was trying to force them off their farm, even though it hadn't made any sense—no one could be a better tenant, a more conscientious steward of the land than her father—but now that she knew what he was up to, she hated him more than ever. She shivered, experiencing a sudden sense of foreboding. The farmers' shoot was tomorrow. She had half a mind not to go. She was afraid she might do something she'd later regret when confronted with their high-and-mighty landlord, but she knew her father would be disappointed. And she had promised Mrs. Settle she'd help with lunch.

  She turned to her father with an odd expression on her face. “Don't worry, Dad. Everything will be all right. I promise.”

  Katie Elger looked out the window of the shooting box. The mist had settled over the moor once again, reducing the visibility to no more than a few yards. They'd only managed to get in one drive that morning, when the fog had briefly lifted. She didn't have much use for shooting and the so-called grouse economy for which the moors were managed primarily to produce shooting for the pleasure of the wealthy, but she didn't begrudge her father and the others a bit of fun. God knows there wasn't much of that these days. She had pitched in with the meal, and now, after lunch, she was helping Mrs. Settle with the washing up. The rest had gone back out for the afternoon shoot with hearty, if misplaced, optimism.

  Isn't it just typical? Katie thought. The one day when the local farmers and workers who help out with the shooting all season were allowed to take a few birds for themselves. Compliments of Lord bloody Dickie. She grimaced. He'd no doubt be happy if the whole thing were called off, leaving more of his precious grouse for him and his paying customers. He'd brushed up against her at lunch, his breath rasping and reeking of alcohol, his intentions obvious. She'd almost kicked him in the balls. She would
have if her father hadn't been there, she told herself.

  “Hand me those cups, dear,” Mrs. Settle said.

  “Yes—yes, of course.”

  “Penny for your thoughts, lass,” Mrs. Settle said, motherly concern showing in her face.

  Katie hesitated. “I don't know, I suppose in a way I was wishing that things didn't have to change.”

  Mrs. Settle sighed. “I know what tha means, Katie, believe me.”

  There was something in her voice.

  Then, without warning, the gamekeeper's wife began to sob convulsively.

  Katie gathered her hands in hers. “What is it, Mrs. Settle?”

  Tears streamed down her plump, white face. “It's no good, lass. There's nowt you can do about it.”

  “Tell me,” Katie urged.

  “It—it's my Harry. 'E's been sacked.”

  “What?” Katie asked incredulously.

  “It's true. After forty years an' all.” She began to sob again. '”E's 'elpin' out today only out of loyalty to t' others.”

  “There, there,” Katie said reassuringly. “Sit down and I'll fix us a nice cup of tea, then you can tell me all about it.”

  Mrs. Settle wiped away her tears with a tea towel. “Thanks, lass. I've been keepin' it to myself for so long, it feels good to let it out.”

  The first sip of tea had a noticeably soothing effect on the gamekeeper's wife. She explained how Mr. Dinsdale had been furious about last month's protest on the Twelfth, as if there was anything Harry could have done about it. “Mr. Dinsdale told 'im that Mick Curtis would be head keeper beginnin' fend of August. ? said he'd let 'im stay on as Mick's assistant,” she added indignantly.

  “There's nowt Mick knows about keeperin' as my Harry hasn't taught 'im.” Her expression suddenly darkened. “That one's always suckin' up to Mr. Dinsdale, tha knows!”

  Katie was shocked at this news. There was no way in the world that old Harry Settle should be held responsible for the protest. “Mrs. Settle, I really don't know what to say. I'm so sorry.” A burning sense of injustice welled up inside her. “It's just not fair!” she blurted out.

  Mrs. Settle sighed. “Nay, lass, but is it fair that one man should own four thousand acres of land and everybody on it?”

  Katie was mildly surprised by this expression of political consciousness from the gamekeeper's wife. “What are you going to do?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  For the first time, there was a look of fear in Mrs. Settle's eyes. “I don't know, Katie, I honestly don't know. We've got nowt to call our own, really—just a few sticks of furniture. We've never owned our own home, never will at our time of life. We've allus lived at Rose Cottage, but tha knows t' house goes with t' job. We could live with Emma, I reckon, but it would kill Harry. 'E's such a proud man.” She dabbed at her eyes with the towel.

  Katie was angry now. She was thinking about her father, his thin face etched with worry. “There must be something we can do!” she protested.

  Mrs. Settle shook her head slowly. “Not so long as 'e's around.”

  Katie Elger shivered convulsively. The mist gathered around her like the ghosts of her childhood as she followed the rough track that led over the blackened wasteland of burnt heather to the grouse butts on East Moor. There had been times as a young girl when she had been caught out on the moor above Dale End Farm when the fog set in. It was strange, but she hadn't been afraid then, imagining that she was Cathy, lost on the moor between Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, or an angel dancing amongst the silver clouds of heaven. Today, however, she felt cold and damp and utterly alone. And try as she might, she was unable to suppress a palpable feeling of dread. It was midafternoon, but it might as well have been midnight in the dead of a nuclear winter.

  She had set out from the shooting box with a flask of tea for her father on a journey that would normally have taken less then ten minutes. But the farther she walked, the more difficult it became to pick out the muddy ruts, and after twenty minutes she found herself up to the tops of her Wellies in a bog. She could barely see the hand in front of her face and didn't have the slightest clue where she was. She tried not to worry. After all, she reassured herself, if she went too far to the east she'd eventually end up in Rosedale; too far west and she'd hit Blackamoor Rigg Road. She carefully retraced her steps until she was on firm ground again. She thought about calling out—assuming she hadn't wandered too far off course, she should be getting fairly close to the butts—but she was too embarrassed to admit to the others that she had gotten lost.

  She set out once more, bearing right to skirt the patch of wet ground, her boots rustling against the blackened stalks of heather. The ground began to rise and as she climbed she had the impression that the mist was beginning to thin. Suddenly she stopped. What was that just then? She listened intently. There was nothing but the sound of her breathing, muffled in the stillness as if she were enclosed in a translucent white chrysalis. She was sure that she'd heard something, a faint groaning sound. She chided herself (letting her imagination get the better of her like that!) and started walking again. She could visualize the gleam in her father's eye when she told him about her little adventure—

  There it was again! There was no doubt about it this time. An unintelligible muttering, then a horrible gurgling sound. It seemed very close. Now she was truly afraid.

  A voice cried out. Then, before she could react, a gunshot boomed over the moor; a second later there was another loud report. Katie began to run towards the sound, stumbling over the uneven ground, frantically calling out for her father. Just ahead, the dark shape of a shooting butt and a figure loomed in the mist. She stopped short and began to walk slowly towards the figure, as if in a trance. She was very close now. It spoke to her in a halting voice.

  “Must get help … still time if we hurry…”

  She recognized Mick Curtis, his face white, his eyes wide and staring.

  Her stomach knotted. “What's wrong? What is it?” she asked mechanically. It was as if somebody else were speaking.

  His mouth moved, but he seemed unable to make a sound. He raised his arm and pointed at the butt.

  From her vantage point, Katie could see only a gray, lichen-stained wall. She approached the gamekeeper with a morbid sense of curiosity. A shotgun lay on the ground at his feet. She looked inside the butt and gasped.

  There, lying facedown on the short-cropped grass was a man. As Katie stared, the body jerked spasmodically. It smelled like someone had been sick. “We must turn him over on his back,” she said slowly, remembering her first aid.

  Curtis did not move.

  She looked at him. “I'll need your help,” she said.

  There was no response.

  She slowly approached the prostrate form, took a deep breath, and knelt down beside him. A shock of recognition surged through her—it was Dickie Dinsdale. She spoke to him, but there was no response. She was about to feel for a pulse when a movement in the corner of the butt caught her eye.

  It was twisting and coiling and lashing back and forth like a thick yellow rope, all frayed and dripping red at the end. She stared at it incomprehensibly. At some level of consciousness, she could hear a commotion of boots and voices behind her. She slowly got to her feet and backed away. She stumbled, nearly bumping into Curtis. She turned and stared at him. With a strangled cry, he fell to his knees and began to vomit.

  She stared out the kitchen window through her own insubstantial reflection into the darkness. She was aware of the clock in the sitting room ticking loudly. She turned to look at her father, her face expressionless. “That's the way it happened, Dad. It was awful.”

  Frank Elger nodded slowly, sucking with studied deliberation on his pipe.

  CHAPTER 2

  Powell sat alone in his study. A green-shaded lamp spilled a pool of light onto the desk. He poured himself another drink and inserted a disk into the CD player. Diana Krall this time, her voice smooth and smoky like the Scotch. He lit a cigarette. His movem
ents were slow and measured, as if he were performing the task for the first time. He exhaled slowly. Funny thing, life. Like a drunk staggering past a street lamp—a brief interval of illumination before being swallowed up again by the darkness. The existential equivalent of Warhol's fifteen minutes.

  He tried to recall the time when everything seemed possible, even happiness. His university days, the army, then marriage and the blur of the years. His sons grown now and so many things left undone and unsaid. He heard the faint slamming of a door upstairs. Marion going to bed. Alone. He swore without venom. He wondered how it had come to this, a prospect as unequivocal as a flat gray sky.

  He drained his glass and set it aside. A battered brown leather gun case lay on the side of the desk. He placed it in front of him, released the brass locks, and flipped back the top. He removed the barrels from their baize-lined compartment, the cool touch of steel and the sweet, oily smell oddly soothing. He unfastened the fore-end from the underside of the barrels and placed it on the desk. Then, transferring the tubes to his left hand and gripping the finely checkered wrist of the stock in his right, he pushed the top lever over with his thumb and carefully fitted the hook of the front barrel lump onto the hinge pin of the action. He closed the gun and released the top lever to lock it. He snapped the fore-end back into place to complete the operation.

  When he was satisfied that all was in order, he broke open the action of the shotgun and lay it on its case. The intricately engraved action body glowed in the lamplight with faint traces of hardening colors, a paisley of swirling scroll work. The dark walnut stock was grainy and figured like a man's face. A masterpiece of elegance and efficiency bequeathed to him by craftsmen long dead. There was some comfort in that, he supposed.

  He reached down and lifted a canvas cartridge bag from the bottom drawer and placed it on the cracked leather surface of the desk. He sat motionless for several minutes. Eventually he stirred, as if coming to a decision.