Lost Lad
Page 11
Simon Tonks was worth his weight in
gold and Algernon Hardman knew it.
Chapter 14
"He Comes not Still, tis Dark no Moon"
After the unhelpful response from Cressbrook Hall, Barry Peirson decided that the situation was now serious enough to telephone a friend in the police force. Detective Inspector Derek Russell patiently listened to the full story and acted immediately. He sent a small team to search the area around Cressbrook Hall and drove to Wormhill to interview the boys. It was just short of 5.00pm when he and Detective Sergeant John Winter sat in the living room of Wellhead Farm facing five sad looking youths. Even the dogs were doleful having absorbed something of the melancholic atmosphere.
Apart from having mislaid a friend, they were worried about the problem of getting home before dark since they had no means to pay for a further night. These considerations weighed most heavily on Simeon Hogg. Mindful that he was 'up' before two senior police officers, it would only be a matter of time before the lights on his bicycle may be checked and found wanting - that is, wanting new batteries. In such circumstances, he was disposed to take 'the bull by the horns' and blurted out their difficulties before the official interrogation began. Derek Russell (a father of two boys himself) soon took the measure of his interviewees, decided they were 'nice lads' and put them at ease.
"Don't worry about lights and money. We know all about that plus the fact that you've not eaten since lunch time at Tideswell. Yvonne is cooking all of us a meal and, when we've had our chat, you lot, bikes and all, will be safely delivered back to your homes well before dark in a police van."
At this point Scott, Simeon and Danny were asked to stay with the Detective Inspector. Tom and Rex were taken into the dining room with the Detective Sergeant.
"Nothing sinister!" said the senior man. "We just need to get all the facts straight and make sure they agree. That's the way we solve serious problems."
Every detail was wheedled out. Winter noted that Brian Forrester had 'wandered off' before breakfast. Was he a wanderer by nature? Russell noted that the absentee had expressed a desire to explore Eldon Hole. Would he be there? It must be searched. Brian was given to jokes and teasing which in turn gave hope that he might have gone off somewhere, got lost and would eventually turn up.
Little useful information came to light about the fast descent down the steep hill. Scott and Rex were hurtling ahead through the crashing wind in maximum concentration, hardly aware of each other let alone the others. At the hair-pin bend, Rex recalled going slow enough to catch sight of Danny, behind him, heading 'too fast' into the corner. It seemed highly probable that Brian had taken the wrong, precipitous and dangerous right fork when he had fallen behind Danny: at great speed, an easy mistake to make. At a more leisurely pace, Tom and Simeon saw only themselves.
Not only a boy but a bicycle had strayed, which, unfortunately, could not be described. Not one of the cyclists could describe the colour or make of Brian Forrester's bicycle. As a test they were asked to describe details of their own bikes safely deposited in the Peirsons' garage. The results were not encouraging. Simeon knew that (under the dirt) his was a red Triumph Palm Beach, three speed Sturmey-Archer. None of them could give a single fact about the machines of any of their pals with the notable exception of Scott's, dropped handlebars, splendid BSA Golden Wings, ten speed derailleur gears. The policemen gathered that half the pupils of William Howitt Secondary Modern School could probably give an enthusiastic account of that gleaming blue and silver racer. With the exception of the BSA, the other cycles were all second, third or fourth hand, dark and very dirty.
It was during dinner when Danny, now more relaxed at the conclusion of the 'official inquiry', thought that Brian's bike was a deep maroon colour. Better still, he spoke of a recent 'transfer' which Brian had recently applied to his cross-bar. A transfer was a design or picture made to be moistened and pressed off onto another surface - very popular with boys in the 1950's.
"It were a mounted knight in armour, we a lance an shield, we a red cross on. Just a little n, but a think it said 'Champion' oonderneath."
"Well done! That's what we need - detail," said Derek, but did not mention his fear that Sir Knight could easily be removed.
Later that evening at the humble Forrester home, alarm was tempered by hope: hope that 'silly bugger' Brian would soon be bicycling back into Heanor. His parents put on a brave face and hid deep concern. They took comfort from the negative result of the initial police search in the Cressbrook area and reassured themselves that Brian would be, somewhere, mounted and moving.
"Once 'e finds a main road we signs, 'e'll be back wantin' 'is tea. 'E'll turn up, you see," said Mr Forrester optimistically.
Detective Inspector Russell explained that taking a copy of their son's fingerprints from personal objects was 'merely routine', as was the loan of the best recent photograph - and a poor best at that. Had Brian been on the school football team, like his more sporty brother; a professional clear image would have been available such as the photograph proudly displayed on the sideboard. The fuzzy, badly focused picture of a skinny little youth sticking his tongue out at Uncle Jack (who took the 'snap' on his Brownie 127) was far from satisfactory. This was a tiny black and white print of the family group on a day trip to Mablethorpe in 1957. Brian, an already young looking 15 year old, was no more than a child in this dated picture.
Twelve hours later at 10.00am on Monday, July 25th, Brian Forrester had still not 'turned up'. Russell and Winter were coasting down the winding drive leading to Cressbrook Hall. The car pulled to a stop at a point which gave on to an overall view of the Hardman mansion through the beech trees.
"I'm not at all happy with the thoroughness of yesterdays operation. Parker said he had only seven men and they were beaten by bad light. He's back this morning with three more to give it the full day. They'll have a good look along Water-cum-Jolly Dale as well as up in the Cressbrook hills," said the senior man. "Any ideas, John?"
"I was thinking about that old bloke last year, sir. Do you remember? His wife died and ten minutes later his little granddaughter complained that 'Granddad's been rude'."
"Repressed behaviour triggered by grief? It's possible. Is that the path of your mind - has Algernon Hardman been 'rude' with our missing Brian?"
"Hardman sees Brian staggering past the french windows dazed and injured, offers help, takes advantage and tries it on. Brian's not having any, threatens him with The Law, so, Hardman shuts his mouth - permanently."
"Very neat, John!" The Detective Inspector thoughtfully added, "All the same, indecent assault is regarded a black sin - punished savagely. Not only do we send them down for a good few years, but turn a blind eye when certain other prisoners, sadistic thugs, give 'em the works. Hardman is an intelligent man. He's well informed. He knows all about that sort of thing. It might be as you say."
"We just need a body, sir!"
"Not as bad as that - yet - I hope. Those lads have made it all so water-tight. Our lost lad never reached the bottom of the hill, three good witnesses all say so. Two equally reliable boys say he was in front of them. The only inhabited buildings in between are Cressbrook Hall and The Lodge. There were only three people in between: Hardman, his son and his manservant. The gardener at The Lodge claims he was out in his motorcar."
"Lost Lad," mused Detective Sergeant John Winter. "It seems familiar! Isn't there a place somewhere up here called Lost Lad?"
"You're thinking of the legend about the boy who went on to the top of Bleaklow Moor one winter. There was deep snow, but he had to get the sheep down. It must be ... oh, about a dozen miles north of here: a vast moorland. The weather changed and fresh heavy snowfall covered all the familiar landmarks. There was yet more snow which obliterated everything; a blizzard - high winds and drifting."
Derek stared out over the endless expanse of the high hills above the chimneys of Cressbrook Hall. Hilltops which would have been painted white just three months be
fore. He shook his head -
"Poor sod was cold, exhausted and disorientated. He and the dog took shelter underneath a rock near Black Tor. He drifted into a frozen sleep - the big sleep, the long sleep. My old teacher, Miss Calder taught us a heartbreaking poem about his mother waiting anxiously down in the old village of Derwent."
"Is that the drowned village now at the bottom of Ladybower Reservoir?"
"That's right. It went something like -
'He comes not still!' she said, 'tis dark, no moon!
Oh! woe betide me, if he comes not soon.'
Can't remember anymore. Three months later, in early spring ... they found his remains. He'd scratched the words 'Lost Lad' on to a rock.
In reverence, it's an established tradition that every shepherd who passes that tragic place puts a stone on the site. There's a large cairn there now."
Clearly effected by emotion, Derek Russell, took a deep breath, rolled down the window and sat more upright in his seat. He turned to face his junior officer and forced a smile -
"It's all in John Merrill's book, 'Legends of Derbyshire'."
Chapter 15
Acetous, Aloof, Cold and Haughty
At the conclusion of this conference, an officer approached the car and handed Detective Inspector Derek Russell a typewritten note. After a brief perusal he said -
"Well that seems to be OK. Albanian authorities confirm two fatalities in a head-on collision last Saturday. Nasty. Two 'right-offs'. I expect Hardman and his son are pretty well shook up."
"How did he get back so quick?"
"Chartered a plane," he looked down to study the print. " .. and came from Manchester by taxi ... which delivered him here yesterday at about noon. The driver seems to be fairly confident about the time."
"It'll be interesting to see if he claims he didn't arrive home until after ... What time did our boy disappear?"
"As near as we can get it - 12.45 - give or take half an hour." He added with an engaging grin -
"Anyway, John, you're in for a big surprise!"
The car completed the short distance down the drive up to the front door. Derek enjoyed his mischievous reward when the front door opened to reveal an odd little fellow, head on one side, wearing an inquisitive enigmatic smile and whose legs somehow appeared to perform a half pirouette during the opening process. Detective Sergeant John Winter had exactly the same experience some eleven years earlier when he met Simon Tonks for the first time. On that occasion he was opening the front door of Bridge House School in Belper.
The two policemen had worked together, and nicely complemented each other for over twelve years. With his good looks and natural easy charm, Detective Inspector Derek Russell approached his work with a degree of gentle sophistication and measured compassion. In contrast Detective Sergeant John Winter, slightly inclined to plumpness, not quite so cordial, polite or patient, was more typical of the officious type of police officer. Since Simon Tonks had attracted considerable comment and no small amount of mirth back in 1949, his sudden re-appearance up here in the High Peak precipitated a shriek of laughter which delighted the servant. For a few moments formalities were put aside to exchange reminiscences of the Calder sisters and general pleasantries which created an agreeable chemistry. Simon had that rare beguiling quality which made him everybody's friend - even a friend to the police engaged on a serious investigation.
They were led through a Tudor arch into a substantial and comfortable oak-panelled morning room which, in fact, was the grand and resplendent study of the Master of Cressbrook Hall -
"Dr 'ardman 'll be with ya presently," said Simon with a little camp bow before he gave a quick twirl and minced off to attend to his duties.
Derek gravitated to a large mullioned leaded window framed by Virginia creeper. His eye was gladdened by a profusion, a multiplicity of bright colours which smiled back from interesting, geometric flower beds. These attractive formal gardens extended across neat lawns up to a stone balustrade which overlooked the sudden, steep, densely wooded descent down into the Water-cum-Jolly Dale ravine. To each side he noted mature ornamental trees. Looking above, again, he saw the endless vista of green and white, dappled and darkened with the occasional slow moving cloud. Except for the welcome bird-song there was a profound peaceful silence.
Derek Russell pondered the rich quality of life available to one who has never had to work for a living and has the means to live in such a beautiful house in such a magnificent location. He was not by inclination envious, yet, here and now, he did envy Algernon Hardman. Being reasonably content with a fulfilling career, enjoying a modest level of status in the community, Derek had never been particularly ambitious, but he did occasionally daydream of what 'might have been' if wealthy parents had made it possible for him to try his hand at risky ventures, such as acting or writing. Algernon Hardman could have done almost anything, but was satisfied to be reclusive, bookish, studying languages, foreign cultures and travelling abroad.
John Winter was sharing similar thoughts perusing a shelf of antiquarian calf-bound volumes. Oak beams and a 16th century style stone fireplace gave the feeling of a much older house. There was porcelain, a china cabinet, some good paintings and a few family portraits looked down on a massive Victorian desk which dominated the room. John was leaning over this expansive piece of furniture to inspect more closely a large Oriental vase of fresh cut flowers when, suddenly, a dark forbidding figure appeared in the doorway.
It should have been obvious that the Detective Sergeant was admiring either the container or its well arranged contents, but, there was something in the quality of the silence of this sinister newcomer: something about the intensity of his disapproving countenance which made John immediately launch into an unnecessary explanation -
"Oh! Sorry! I was just ... I never could resist the scent of ..."
Derek Russell stepped forward and rescued his subordinate with perfunctory introductions which partially relieved the atmosphere. Algernon Hardman moved towards his desk and, with a slight gesture of his hand, indicated two leather easy chairs. Derek knew of this local lord by his formidable reputation but, until now, had never beheld him in the flesh. His dark leathery face, deeply wrinkled around a cruel mouth, gave him the look of a man who was nearer 60 than approaching 50. Perhaps, thought Derek, the horrendous recent experience on the Continent had contributed to this haggard and reproving glare.
Hardman silently slipped into his desk chair and interlocked his fingers revealing long black hairs on the back of his hands. Up to now their unfriendly host had not spoken one word. The uncomfortable silence forced Derek into speech -
"I'm sorry to be troubling you at this difficult time ... "
Impatiently, Hardman interrupted in a stern and commanding tone - "It would be hypocritical to pretend that you were welcome, Detective Inspector, in this house. My wife is killed! My son and I are both fortunate to be alive, and yet we barely have time to sit down, before an army of your men trample over my garden; trample through my woods ... since yesterday, as I gather - without result."
"I appreciate the inconvenience but ..."
"Truants usually return when the novelty has worn thin. This 'hue and cry' is somewhat precipitant do you not think? The person concerned has hardly had a chance to become hungry!"
Derek parried. Employing his diplomatic skills he was determined to re-gain lost ground and complete his sentences -
"I wish I could share your optimism, Dr Hardman, and sincerely hope you're correct. We'd all like to go home ... however ..." He forestalled an imminent interruption. "However, the circumstances of this particular disappearance strongly suggest that Brian Forrester is somewhere on, or indeed in, your property. We will need ... "
"Oh please do! Don't waste time getting a search warrant. Bring in your troops, bring them all and explore the cellar. I doubt you'll find any recently dug graves. Don't forget to search the trunks in the attic and when you've finally finished - depart and leave us in peace."
"I can understand your line of thought regarding Simon. Quite simply, if I had any doubts whatsoever on that matter, he would not be allowed anywhere near my own family. Whatever his predilections and weaknesses beyond Cressbrook Hall, his record here, has been exemplary." At this point his features and voice softened a little more as he looked down at a pre-war photograph of a young woman. "Marjorie would wish me to say that. He has been invaluable. Charles needs him ... especially now." Suddenly, he looked up sharply and resumed his cold hostility. "To suggest that Simon is capable of, or even able to plan and effect an abduction is utter lunacy. As I believe you already know, he is guilty of many sins, but child molestation is, I can assure you gentlemen, not one of them."
While that subject was hanging in the air, Derek asked to interview Mr Hardman's son Charles on the grounds that a child can observe things most of us miss. The request was granted, only just and very reluctantly. He rose and pulled the bell for Simon.
"The boy is traumatised: we are all traumatised. Please remember that when you are questioning Simon. He doesn't show it, but he's really very upset indeed. He thought the world of Marjorie."
Simon was given instructions and re-appeared minutes later with a nervous, shy, mousy boy who was thin and looked to be about twelve years of age. He had a pale, pleasant, if vacant face of soft rounded features. Derek greeted him cheerfully and seriously suggested that he might be in a special position to help the police.