Moody Street, cleared only this morning, was once again white over; and snowflakes spiralled from the sky. Blinking at the wintry scene like an animal emerging from an underground lair, he marvelled at the depth of it. There must be a foot or more laid down already. Curtains had been drawn in every house down the street, the amber gleam of firelight escaping through the gaps. His lone footsteps creaked in the crumbly snow. What if he went straight to The Quarryman instead? Seriously, would she ever find out?
Course she bloody would. That woman’s got eyes up her arse.
Right, he battled with himself, well best get this over with then maybe he could nip to the pub after – just for a quick half. There was another reason for wanting to pop into The Quarryman too. Something had come on the wireless earlier about a woman going missing in the blizzard, and there might be some who’d know more about it. He wondered who the woman was. Too much to hope it’d be Agnes, he supposed, a smirk spreading across his face. Nah, he didn’t have that kind of luck. Besides, they said the devil looked after his own, so it definitely wouldn’t be that old bitch.
***
Chapter Fifteen
Harry – continued…
Alders Farm stood at the end of a long track on the edge of Ludsmoor, at the point where the moors became too barren and boggy for human habitation. Isolated and uncompromising, its gritstone walls had weathered the drear, dank weather for centuries, and the pitted dirt-track down to the farm led only to the house itself with no one except the occupants or visitors to the Hollands ever using it.
Deep snow now covered the unlit lane and Harry stumbled in and out of potholes, slipping and cursing with every near fall. A raw northerly sandpapered his face with icy sleet, his hair was pasted to his skin, and cold drips trickled down his neck. The hedgerows had petered out half a mile back, leaving nothing to counter the fierce wind that rushed over the clifftops and down over the desolate plateau, flattening everything in its path. Not much survived out here – a few hardy sheep, the rawk-rawk of a lone bird on a summer’s day…but there was nothing out here on a night like this…
Another half mile still to go and up to my knees. Damn and bloody blast Viv asking me to do this.
So much for getting it over with quickly and scooting off to the pub! His legs were beginning to ache and his face was numb. It wasn’t until you got out here on your own, he thought, that the vast sense of space really hit you. It must be seriously lonely. God knows they were cramped on Moody Street but he could never live out here. Bent double and with the wind howling around his ears it wasn’t until he got much closer that he heard the five-barred gate repeatedly banging against the drystone wall at the end of the drive. Relieved to be almost there and gasping from another belt of sleet, he secured it properly then hurried down to the house.
That was odd: there were no lights on. He flicked on the torch. Alders Farm squatted low and dark, its blackened walls gleaming wetly, the outhouses weighted with snow. The double doors to the garage were closed and there were no tyre tracks. Downstairs the curtains were open and the rooms in darkness.
Great. No one was home so he could go straight back and tell Viv he’d tried.
He made to turn around but Viv’s voice chipped away in his head. Well, did you knock? How do you know she wasn’t lying dead in the yard at the back? What if she’d slipped and was knocked unconscious? You’ll have to go back, I’d never forgive myself…
Harry sighed. It was a long, long time since he’d been here and the place didn’t feel any less hostile. If he never saw it again it would be too soon. Well perhaps he should knock on the door and then at least he could honestly say he’d done all he could? Eyeing the front steps packed with several inches of untrodden snow, however, he hesitated. A person could break their neck on those. On impulse he looked up and scanned the bedroom windows. Someone’s inside watching me. All the curtains were drawn upstairs and the house stood dimly silent yet there had been, he was sure, a fleeting movement from within. For several more minutes he stared intently at the upstairs windows but no, it must have been his imagination. He really must be overly tired today.
With the overriding urge to leave as soon as possible, Harry decided to have a brief scout round the back and try the kitchen door to say he’d done his duty, then he was bloody well going home. It was freezing and clearly the old crone wasn’t here. She’d be at Annie’s on Wish Lane. He’d call in there since it was on the way back. Well, it wasn’t really but it was on route to The Quarryman.
Rounding the corner of the yard, a fresh blast of wind knocked the breath out of him and he slipped, awkwardly saving himself with the palm of his hand. Cursing loudly, he slid down to the back door, rattled the handle and rapped on the glass panel. “Agnes? It’s Harry! Just checking to see as you’re alright, duck!”
No answer.
Rubbing his hands together, he glanced over his shoulder at the yard. The wind whistled and whined around the outhouses. A pile of firewood lay half-chopped, the logs iced with snow. Again there came an uneasy feeling of being watched from inside the house. Was someone in there or not? Pulling his coat collar up higher, he cupped his hands and stared through the glass into the shadowy kitchen. A movement then caught his eye, so sudden it caused him to draw back sharply.
For a full few seconds he lost the power to move or think clearly. Inside his chest the anvil banging of his heart pounded into his ears. Every nerve in his body shrilled with alarm. The movement had not been from inside the house, but rather in the reflection. So whoever had made it must be…
He whirled around, back flat to the door and flashed the torch across the yard. The weak ray of light caught on a discarded spade, an empty wheelbarrow, bolted stable doors. But the yard was quite empty.
The second he realised nothing was there his limbs relaxed and began to shake violently. Bloody hell this place was spooky. Right, that was it, anyway. Duty done. It was time to get the hell out.
Hurriedly he retraced his footsteps. There was a bridleway half way down the track that would cut across to Annie’s place on Wish Lane and then he was done. The two old hags would be there anyway, probably sitting by the fire knitting effigies. Viv was bloody going to have to make it up to him for this… Yeah, well that would be the day.
For some reason, and he couldn’t quite say why, once safely at the end of the drive by the five-barred gate he stopped to get his breath and glanced back at the house.
One of the upstairs curtains twitched and immediately fell back. So there was someone in! Agnes or Grace? Well, they were the only two who lived there so it had to be one of them.
***
The return journey was not as arduous with the wind at his back. Not only that but it was buffeting him along as if hustling him to leave. All he had to do was make sure not to miss the turnoff for the bridleway, which could be easily overlooked if you didn’t know it was there. Un-signposted, it was now also covered in snow, but he’d known the place since childhood and knew where to spot the boulder. The inscription etched on the front of the rock said, ‘Wish Lane 0.3 miles’ and the mystery of a hand imprinted into the granite remained just that – a mystery; but meant it was distinctive enough to be the right one.
Even to this day it still rankled with many in the village that Annie had the Wish Lane cottage at all. Jed’s family had worked the land for centuries and by rights it should have been left to young Bill when his father died. Yet Crocker Bill, crippled by polio and now in his seventies, lived in a shepherd’s hut up near Kite Ridge, occasionally frequenting The Quarryman and working as a gravedigger to make ends meet. Most of the time though, he stayed up there on his own. It seemed a strange and peculiarly harsh life. Not much was known about him apart from the fact he’d never gone to school, had a built-up shoe, played a neat game of snooker and never spoke to his step-mother. They said he was simple, a bit behind the door, but Harry didn’t think so. Crocker Bill was smart as a brass tack. Behind those shuttered eyes he knew everything. No, he bet Bil
l stayed up there with good reason.
It wasn’t long before the lamplight of Annie’s cottage window came into view and Harry sighed with relief. A quick knock on the door and he’d be away. Job done. It should be that fat, bone-idle bugger, Vic Holland, looking out for his mother and grandmother on a night like this; but of course he’d be lording it on his fat arse down in Grytton, probably swigging a fine port by the fire. If he couldn’t get the car out he wouldn’t be budging. Bloody awful family he’d married into, he really had, and with a history he could never get his head round. The thing was, Annie’s younger daughter, Ellen, had married brilliantly well – to Aaron Danby of all people. They should have been wealthy and set up for life. Yet it seemed the marriage had been cursed with rotten luck because first Aaron, a fit, healthy young man, had died within three years of the wedding; then Ellen had been crippled with rheumatoid arthritis and now didn’t appear to know one end of the week from the next; Marion, her eldest, had been ostracised because of an illegitimate child, and now Lana had turned out to be…well to put it like everyone else did, as mad as a shithouse rat. On top of that there was the huge fall-out between sisters Agnes and Ellen, with neither ever speaking to the other again.
Was it a coincidence that Agnes’ husband had also met an untimely end within a couple of years of marrying? Dr Fergusson – good old Dr Fergusson – had shaken his head, listened to the previously fit, young man’s chest, and declared it was nothing a good holiday and some sea air couldn’t fix. And his life insurance had, just like Annie’s husband’s, been considerable. For a time Harry had worried for his own longevity, but luckily it seemed Vivien was not of the same ilk as that half of her bloodline. Some wondered why he’d married Vivien at all, when she came from such a family. Why take the risk when all their husbands died? The black widows they called them. And as his own mother said, Viv wasn’t exactly a looker, but a fog of confusion wrapped itself around his memory. He couldn’t even recall how they’d met except she’d been in the same class at school and they’d been to the flicks once or twice. Oh yes…the night they’d walked back through Grytton Forest…ah… He laughed.
The thing was, why were these old women so embittered? You’d think Annie would have been thrilled her youngest daughter had married the richest man in the county. He scowled, not for the first time wondering what in God’s name had happened to all that inherited land and wealth, because it hadn’t come his way that was for sure, and those women down at Lake View Villa slept in threadbare sheets. Viv told him!
Vivien’s closeness to Agnes worried him too, now he came to think of it. Viv’s closeness to a lot of people worried him. And now little Louise was beginning to worry him too. Partly it was the child’s growing resemblance to the coven – that dark hair with its distinctive copper stripe and the knowing eyes. But mostly it was the things she saw that weren’t there – the way she’d watch something invisibly work its way across the room – and the disturbing dreams she woke the household up with in the early hours. He shuddered inside at the thought of her being enticed into this…well, not to put too fine a point on it…witchcraft; because there was absolutely no doubt in his mind they practised it and frankly, Louise’s imagination was troubling enough already.
Harry clicked open the wooden gate to the cottage and was just about to knock on the front door when it flew open. Agnes stood there and his heart missed a beat. She was not an easy woman to look at. Even with the light behind her, her face seemed set to stone and her eyes burned with malice and loathing.
In the name of self-preservation he feigned concern. “Just checking as you’re all alright, duck?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m ’ere looking after Mother. What with the weather–”
Clearly she had no intention of inviting him in. He nodded and made to leave. “Right you are then, duck. I’ll be off home.”
“Been up to th’ farm, ’ave you?”
“Aye.”
“Our Grace there?”
He shrugged. “I think so. She didn’t answer but I saw the curtains move so—”
She nodded. “Daft time for ’er to be in bed – keeps all hours ’er does. Anyhow, thanks all th’ same. Good of you to come. Much appreciated.”
She’d shut the door in his face before he had time to reply. Ungrateful cow. She could at least have asked him in out of bloody decency. Not that he’d have accepted but she should have asked. With a shrug, he walked back down the path, deciding that yes, stuff the lot of them, he would pop into The Quarryman for a quick pint to see what was happening. He deserved it and Viv would have to lump it.
With luck, Bill would have made it down and be able to help with grave digging tomorrow. They were going to need pick-axes to break the ground open. His mind moved onto thinking about the iron-hard earth and the task ahead. And deep in thought he’d almost got to the end of Wish Lane, about to turn onto Moody Street, when he suddenly remembered where he’d last seen Violet Bailey and his mouth dropped open.
It had been there, hadn’t it? Inside Wish Lane Cottage? Bloody hell, aye…last autumn when he’d come to find Viv one Saturday afternoon. She’d taken Louise to visit Annie, ‘for half an hour to play with the kittens’.
Only they’d all been there – about seven or eight of them sitting round a table in the parlour.
***
The snow was coming down thick and heavy now and the village had merged with the landscape in a cotton wool ball of white. It was probably stupid to think of tramping up to The Quarryman in this. In a moment of indecision he paused at the corner, when suddenly a dark shadow materialised from out of all the other shadows and moved rapidly towards him.
“Who—?”
He let go of his breath.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” said Vivien. “Not thinking of hopping up to The Quarryman, were you?”
Shoving his hands deep into the pockets so she couldn’t see them jumping about like marionettes, he laughed. “No, of course not. Sorry, duck, I wasn’t expecting to see you there.”
“I’ll bet!”
“What are you doing out, anyroad? It’s freezing.”
“The lines are still down. I went out to th’ phone box to ring Mum but there’s no dial tone. Then I saw you’d locked up and thought you’d be checking on our Annie and—”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Who’s looking after the kids?”
“They’re in bed. Anyhow, look, I couldn’t get down to Grytton this morning. I made it half way along Hilltop but I was up to my waist in it and ’ad to turn back. I’m just praying the road ’ll be cleared tomorrow. I’m worried sick. I hope Rosa and Marion got home. Honest, I’m that worried about Mum. I don’t suppose you’d be able to get down tomorrow morning, would you? What if we took Mack? Tonight?”
The two of them began to tramp back towards Moody Street. “He’d be even worse in this than us, and he needs new shoes. Look, if Ellen stayed indoors she and Lana will be fine. I think it’s Rosa and Marion we need worry about myself, but I’m sure they’ll be back by now. The snow makes everything take twice as long and there’s no reason they wouldn’t have got home eventually.”
“But what if—”
“Viv, we can’t go in this tonight, and the kids are on their own. Anyhow, I think I’m going to ’ave to delay Violet’s funeral until we can clear the path to the church so let’s see what we can do tomorrow, eh? If it stops bloody snowing for five minutes I’ll get down to Grytton, I promise.”
“Alright. First light tomorrow, though? I’m really worried.”
“Maybe your mother could ask that lard-arsed cousin of yours next door for a bit of help?”
“I don’t know why you don’t like our Vic. I’m sure he’d help her out if she asked him—”
Yes, and I’m just as sure he wouldn’t, Harry thought. What was wrong with that side of her family? And why couldn’t Viv ever admit it?
***
Chapter Sixteen
Lake View Villa, earlier that mornin
g
Ellen Danby
The long night fused into dawn and Ellen woke from a fitful doze at the kitchen table. Something was badly wrong, but what?
At barely five on that January morning the blackness of the kitchen seemed to have folded in from the corners and boxed her in. Panic snatched inside her chest. There wasn’t a sound. Not a single stirring of movement. Blindly she stared through the window until her reflection faded away and silvery-white shapes on the lawn began to emerge – a familiar landscape… shrubs, a fountain… She rubbed at the ache in her neck. Still alive then. Still here.
But why was she in the kitchen? There was a vague recollection of drifting around the house, moving from room to room. Had that been a dream or real? The answer came rushing in with a sickening lurch: her girls, her daughters - they hadn’t come home last night. Oh dear God in heaven - this was real!
What had happened? What? What? She searched around in the mists of her memory. They’d gone to Chapel, yes that was it, but had never returned. She’d been to check on Snow. The girl was having one of her funny turns…but after that what had she done? She closed her eyes and tried hard to remember. It had been going dark and the girls should have been back. Was she sitting at a window last night or way back in the day when, transfixed, she’d be here in the kitchen willing them to burst out of the forest – just children – breathless and brimming with things to tell her about what had happened that day at school.
But this time they never came.
The first time….they never came…
Vivien had phoned, hadn’t she? Yes, shouting into the receiver, dropping coins into a call box. “Don’t cry, Mother, they’re grown women and very sensible. I’m sure they’ll be alright. They’ve only to keep warm and put one foot in front of the other. Now, ’ave you ’ad something to eat? You need to get a fire lit and make you and Lana some tea. I’ll come down in the morning… Hello… hello? Oh, the line’s terrible - it’ll probably come down th’ weather’s that bad. Look, don’t worry, keep warm and I’ll be there soon—”
The Soprano Page 11