When he got to the Haslam residence, he was invited into the drawing room by Melissa’s mother. She took the opportunity to question him about the progress of the investigation and he did his best to sound optimistic. Bridget Haslam then sent a servant to fetch her daughter. Several minutes passed. Hedley feared that Melissa simply didn’t wish to see him. He was relieved, therefore, when she finally came into the room, but saddened by her appearance. The once beautiful face had been shadowed by bereavement in a way that made her look positively ill. Melissa was hunched, subdued and hesitant.
‘It was … kind of you to come,’ she said.
‘Had it not been for the constant searches,’ he told her, ‘I’d have been here much earlier, but I felt that my first duty was to find Alex.’
‘You’re here now and I’m grateful.’
‘I gather that Inspector Colbeck called earlier.’
‘Yes, he did,’ replied Bridget, ‘and we found his visit very soothing. We know that he will somehow be able to solve this perplexing mystery.’
‘Did he warn you not to expect instant results?’
‘Yes, he did, Mr Hedley.’
‘Lord Culverhouse has complete faith in him.’
‘I hope that you do as well,’ said Melissa.
‘Yes, yes, of course …’
There was a long, awkward silence. Each one of them waited for someone else to initiate conversation. Eventually, it was Hedley who plunged in, asking if there was anything that he could do for Melissa while wondering how soon he could take his leave without seeming rude.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she asked.
‘Please do.’
‘What drove Alex to go on that excursion? He told me that he thought it would be amusing for himself and his friends to have a midnight picnic at Hallowe’en, but I’ve learnt a bit more about Hither Wood since then. Apparently, it’s haunted by the ghost of the man who was killed there ten years ago.’
‘That’s only supposition. Alex wanted to disprove the claim.’
‘There was danger in going there.’
‘But we never got that far.’
‘Do you think that Alex was being punished for daring to say that there was nobody haunting that wood?’
‘I don’t believe that’s what happened.’
‘Melissa and I are of one mind here,’ said Bridget. ‘On that night of all nights, it was foolhardy of him to tempt any ghosts. I know that Inspector Colbeck believes that the explanation for his death is in no way connected to the supernatural, but we are bound to have doubts. We’ve read about the weird incidents that have happened there.’
‘Most of them can be dismissed as sheer nonsense,’ said Hedley. ‘Your fears are groundless.’
‘Then why won’t they go away?’ asked Melissa.
‘You must listen to reason, Miss Haslam. Just because someone is killed, it doesn’t mean that he or she will come back to cast a spell over the scene of the crime. If that were the case, there’d be reports of haunting all over this country. Gregor Hayes, the man who vanished in Hither Wood, is dead and buried. Those who believe that a restless spirit returns there at Hallowe’en are deceived. It simply doesn’t exist.’
Leeming began to wish that he’d never dared to raise the subject of the disappearance of the blacksmith. Tiller started using words that the sergeant had never heard before as he talked about the structure, theme and evolution of his poem. It was bewildering. While he’d not actually liked them, he could understand what was going on in the barber’s poems. Albeit dull and written in a spidery hand, they were blissfully simple. Reginald Garside’s work had none of the technical variations of which the bookseller was talking. Leeming got to his feet and headed for the door.
‘You haven’t told me the truth yet,’ complained Tiller. ‘Why am I under suspicion? What evidence do you have that I was lurking beside a railway line at Hallowe’en in the middle of the night?’
‘We have none at all,’ admitted Leeming.
‘There you are, then. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? If you’re interested in my books, come here as often as you wish, but if you’re just trying to catch me out, I’d rather be left alone.’
‘I’m only doing my job.’
‘How would you like it if someone went behind your back and asked your barber about you?’
‘I wouldn’t like it one bit.’
‘Then spare a thought for my feelings.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘As for my poem,’ insisted the other, ‘there is absolutely no link between what happened ten years ago in Hither Wood and the incident at Hallowe’en.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Please pass it on to the inspector.’
‘I will.’
‘And put yourself in my position for a moment. If you’d sneaked off to commit a crime at Hallowe’en, don’t you think your wife would have noticed you’d gone?’
‘Estelle would have noticed at once.’
‘It’s the same with Ruth.’
‘But that’s not true,’ said Leeming.
‘I know my wife, Sergeant.’
‘Then why did you tell me she was a heavy sleeper?’
Tiller gaped. ‘I don’t remember doing that.’
‘You told me that an idea for a poem could strike at any time – even in the middle of the night. It made you get up at once because you needed to start putting words on paper. Your wife never woke up, you said.’
The bookseller glared at him and retreated into silence.
Caleb Andrews made a point of crossing the road to speak to his friend. He thanked Kingston for keeping an eye on his house and told him that he was sleeping at home now.
‘It was very good of you, Alf,’ he said.
‘It’s what neighbours do. We look out for each other.’
‘I’d still like to know who called when I wasn’t here.’
‘Well, he hasn’t been back, I can tell you that. In any case,’ said Kingston, ‘there’s no need to thank me. I enjoyed it, acting as your sentry. It gave me something to do.’
‘How is the leg?’
‘It’s a damn nuisance, Caleb.’
‘Are you still in pain?’
‘Yes, it keeps throbbing like mad. Don’t let’s talk about me. I want to hear about your stolen medal. Is there any chance of getting it back?’
‘I hope so. I’ve got a detective constable helping me.’
Kingston’s eyebrows twitched. ‘That’s good news.’
‘Ideally,’ said Andrews, ‘I’d prefer to have my son-in-law in charge of the case, but he’s up in the Lake District.’
‘What’s he doing up there?’
‘Someone disappeared at Hallowe’en and nobody knows what happened to him. Robert’s job is to find out.’
‘He usually gets what he’s after.’
‘This case will really test him.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Maddy had a letter from him to say that it was going to be hard work. He warned her that it might be some time before he was home again. It’d be a lot sooner if he let me help him,’ boasted Andrews. ‘I’ve got instincts when it comes to solving crimes on the railway. He ought to send for me.’
‘D’you really want to go all that way in this cold weather?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m not going anywhere until we catch the thief who stole my medal. I want to see him behind bars.’
‘What if the medal just went astray?’
‘It was taken, Alf.’
‘I’m always putting things down and forgetting where they are. It happens to people like us. Our brains are as tired as our bodies.’
‘I’ve still got plenty of life left in me,’ said Andrews, thrusting out a defiant chin. ‘And my brain hasn’t seized up with fatigue yet. A thief stole something that was very precious to me and I won’t rest until I get it back.’
When he listened to Leeming’s garbled description of the poem about the mysterious disap
pearance of the blacksmith, Colbeck had to make allowances for the fact that the sergeant had clearly not understood it fully. What interested him was the pivotal role played in the poem by a phantom.
‘Norm Tiller has seen him,’ said Leeming.
‘How much beer had he drunk beforehand?’
‘He was probably stone-cold sober.’
‘Then he has a vivid imagination,’ said Colbeck. ‘It’s a necessary precondition for any poet. He or she must be able to let the mind roam freely.’
‘But he didn’t make the story up, sir. It’s all true. The blacksmith really did disappear.’
‘That might have been his starting point but, from what you’ve told me, he used a great deal of poetic licence. You’ve certainly aroused my curiosity, Victor,’ he continued. ‘I may have to find time to visit the barber himself.’
‘I liked the idea of the phantom.’
‘That’s all it is – an idea.’
‘Norm saw him running among the fells.’
Colbeck was jolted. He remembered the train journey from Birthwaite to Kendal when he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure up on the hill. No sooner had he seen him than the man disappeared as if by magic. But was it really a man he’d seen? Was the figure a human being? Doubts began to form.
Had he been looking at the phantom?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Caroline Treadgold had remarkable self-control. When she was in company with others, she was poised, alert and resolute. Nobody would have guessed that her true feelings had been suppressed and that, once she was alone, she fell prey to an intense remorse that blocked out everything else. The times she’d spent alone with Alexander Piper had been the happiest in her life and she’d hoped that their friendship would one day be translated into marriage. It was not to be. When he announced that he’d met someone else, Caroline flew into a rage and accused him of betrayal. Piper coped with the situation by simply disappearing from view and rejecting all her demands for a meeting. It had been cruel.
Yet she was unable to give him up. Somewhere at the back of her mind was the lingering hope that he might one day recall the wonderful times they’d spent together and realise that no other woman could provide the excitement and devotion that Caroline had offered so unconditionally. Since he was avoiding her, she used Geoffrey Hedley as a kind of intelligencer, feeding off the snippets of information he gave her about Piper’s movements. It enabled her to turn up at certain social events and to watch him unseen.
The last time she’d managed to do that, he’d been with Melissa Haslam and her family. Caroline had a close look at the woman who’d dislodged her. What hurt her most was not the fact that her rival was undeniably beautiful. It was the look of contentment on Piper’s face. He was basking in his new life, the one from which Caroline had been so ruthlessly excluded.
Alone in her bedroom, she was still thinking about the way that her world had changed for the worst when a maidservant came to tell her that she had a visitor.
‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ she said.
‘The gentleman is most insistent.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘He said he’ll wait until you feel ready to come down.’
‘You heard me,’ said Caroline. ‘Send him on his way. I know that it must be Mr Hedley but I’m in no mood to see him or anyone else. Apologise to him and say that I’m not available.’
‘But it’s not Mr Hedley.’
‘Then who is it?’
‘Lord Culverhouse.’
In order to learn more about the ill-fated blacksmith, Leeming took the barber’s advice and went to see Sergeant Ainsley. The latter was surprised and irritated by his request.
‘Why do you and the inspector keep harping on about a case that happened ten years ago when you were sent here to solve a mystery that happened at Hallowe’en?’
‘We think there’s a link between the two.’
‘How many times must I tell you?’ said Ainsley. ‘The events are unrelated. Alex Piper and Gregor Hayes lived in different worlds. They never even met. They had nothing whatsoever in common.’
‘Yes, they did,’ said Leeming.
‘What is it?’
‘They both interest us.’
‘Gregor’s case is a distraction. Ignore it.’
‘I can’t – and you’re to blame.’
‘Why? What am I supposed to have done?’
‘You were the one who told me that Norm Tiller had written a poem about the case,’ recalled Leeming, ‘so I went to the bookshop and asked to see it.’
‘What did Norm say?’
‘He told me that the poem wasn’t up to scratch so he’d destroyed it. I didn’t believe him.’
‘You should have – he’s as honest as they come.’
‘I had a word with Mr Penrose at the King’s Arms. He gave me the names of the other poets in that little group that Norm brought together. One of them was a barber.’
‘That’s right – Reg Garside.’
‘He had a copy of the poem and let me read it.’
‘That was clever of you, Sergeant,’ said Ainsley with grudging praise. ‘I’d never have thought of doing that.’
‘I was determined to see it.’
‘And what did it tell you?’
‘Well, the shock for me was that Mr Hayes was so popular with women. All the blacksmiths I’ve met have been hairy monsters with ugly faces.’
Ainsley grinned. ‘That’s a fair description of Gregor,’ he admitted. ‘What made him so interesting to women was his personality. He could make you feel special just being with him and – this is what I loved about Gregor Hayes – he had a wicked sense of humour.’
‘The barber said you were his best friend.’
‘I was proud to be so.’
‘Policemen usually spend all their time with each other,’ observed Leeming. ‘It’s the kind of job that brings us together because a lot of people don’t trust us.’
‘Gregor trusted me.’
‘I know that the pair of you often went to the King’s Arms because the landlord told me.’
‘We were always a part of the crowd there, Sergeant. The real treat for me was to go fishing with Gregor. I usually went home empty-handed, but he always caught lots of fish. It was uncanny. He could charm them out of the water.’
Ainsley went on to describe some of the outings he’d had with the blacksmith. They were clearly times that he cherished. It explained why he’d put so much effort into the search for Gregor Hayes when the latter unaccountably disappeared in Hither Wood. Evidently, the blacksmith’s friendship meant a great deal to him.
‘As for women,’ he concluded, ‘Gregor was very fond of them but, deep down, he was always a man’s man.’
‘Thank you for telling me so much about him.’
‘Do you have any more questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Leeming. ‘However did you find the time to go fishing? If you were a serving policeman in London, you wouldn’t have had a minute to call your own. When you’d finished your shift, you’d be so exhausted that you’d be fast asleep when your head hit the pillow. Things are obviously different up here.’
‘I’m glad you recognise that at last,’ said Ainsley with an edge to his voice. ‘I’d be the first to concede that I’d be lost in a huge city like London – just as you and the inspector are completely lost in a place like Kendal.’
Having spent so much time with his nephew, Caroline had heard a lot about Lord Culverhouse yet had never actually met him. When she did so now, she was instantly aware of his status. Her visitor seemed to embody all the features of the aristocracy. Power, prosperity, condescension and other constituent elements of the titled elite were there. After introducing himself, he sat down opposite her and held her gaze. The smile never left his mouth.
‘I came here to thank you, Miss Treadgold,’ he said.
She was startled. ‘Why?’
‘You took part in the search for my nephew.’
‘So did lots of other people.’
‘Yes, but the vast majority were men and none of them had had such a close relationship with Alex as you did. He never talked about you, but it was obvious that someone in his life was making him very happy. That, I discovered, was you.’
‘Those days are gone for ever, I’m afraid.’
‘While they lasted, they invigorated Alex. Until …’
‘Until he met Miss Haslam.’
‘It’s not a mistake I would have made,’ he said, running a covetous eye over her. ‘When I measure you against her, I see a full-grown woman beside a child – albeit a very pretty child.’
‘Alex made his choice. That was that.’
‘It must have been very painful for you, Miss Treadgold.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Bottling it up will only lead to a life of misery. A shared trouble is easier to bear and who better to confide in than Alex’s uncle?’ He gave her a moment to absorb the implications of what he was suggesting. ‘Before he bought a house of his own, he lived under my roof. His room is full of souvenirs of his stay with us. I wondered if you might like some of them by way of mementoes to bring back memories of happier times.’
‘I already have plenty of mementoes, my lord.’
‘There must be some way that I can help you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come now, let’s be sensible about this. At the moment, we are both in mourning over someone we loved – me, as an uncle and you as a … close friend. That gives us something in common, Miss Treadgold,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Why don’t we let a decent interval elapse so that we can both recover from the shock, and then, perhaps, we can talk again about how we might help each other through the despair that follows an untimely death?’
‘I just want to know what happened to Alex.’
Fear on the Phantom Special Page 18