Roger, of course, was impossible.
But these were foolish thoughts. They all stemmed from the vanishing Nana, an incident which certainly had a simple, logical explanation. I paused in my work and walked over to the window.
The moors looked beautiful bathed in the autumn sunlight. ‘You little fool,’ I said aloud. ‘You are letting yourself get into a state of nerves over nothing at all. Look out there, look at God’s beautiful world, look around you at the warmth and security of your home. There’s nothing to worry about.’
I went back to my typewriting with a contented heart and rattled away happily at my work.
It was about three o’clock on Monday afternoon when I typed the last page of the last copy of my task. I assembled my work neatly and placed the copies in manilla folders. The copies I locked in the cupboard of my desk, the original manuscript I placed in the drawer, locking that also. I put the key back into the powder bowl and decided that, after spending the best part of three days hunched over my machine, a good brisk walk was what I needed. The weather was still fine, but by late afternoon there could be a nip in the air, so I slipped into a tweed jacket and a pair of stout walking shoes and set off, deciding to deliver the work to Uncle Joshua upon my return.
I walked out of the house and went west across Howl Moor and down the hill towards Wheeldale Beck. I crossed the beck on the stepping stones which had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The stones were worn smooth by the water and by the feet of generations of children. The children used to skip to and fro across the stones, calling, ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.’ If you stepped on each stone, you always ended up with a ‘beggar man’, but we all used to cheat a little and try to jump over a couple of stones without touching them, thus ending up with a ‘rich man’ as we stepped onto the far bank. This, of course, was not without risk, and many a child would end up with a ducking. Today all was well, and I was saying ‘rich man’ as I stepped onto the far bank.
I decided to walk on to the Roman Road, which ended about a quarter of a mile from where I had crossed.
‘Bless my soul, if it isn’t Miss Emma. We haven’t seen you in these parts for many a year.’
It was Mr. Higgins. As always, he was at work, weeding and clearing the flints and the slabs of stone along which, two thousand years ago, Caesar’s legions had marched. It was said that on a still night, when the mist came down over the moors, you could still sometimes hear the tramp of their feet and the clatter of their weapons as they marched north toward the Tyne and Hadrian’s Wall.
I stopped and chatted for a while with Mr. Higgins. But I soon decided that it must be time to be getting back, so I turned and retraced my steps toward Goathlands.
I had been rather longer than I had intended, and it was about five o’clock when I got back to the house. I went straight to my rooms and took off my outer garments. It was with a feeling of achievement that I went to get the typewritten copies from my desk. I opened the powder bowl and was much surprised to find that it was full of powder. I dug around with my fingers in the powder but the key was not there. That foolish girl Letty must have filled the bowl and removed the key, I thought. I went into the sitting room and was just about to ring for her when I noticed, to my astonishment, that the key was right there in the lock of the cupboard door.
It was with a feeling approaching panic that I went toward the desk. I reached out to the cupboard door. It was unlocked. I was becoming really afraid by this time. Someone had opened the cupboard. I swung the door open and stared in horror at the sight that confronted me.
Where I had left my beautifully typewritten manuscripts, there was now nothing but a pile of charred burnt paper.
I fell to my knees and wept bitterly.
Chapter Six
How long I lay there sobbing, I shall never know. The next thing that I became aware of was that the light was fading. I rose unsteadily to my feet and looked again at the poor charred remains of my work. For a moment I hoped that it might merely be some horrid practical joke, but no; as I sifted through the ashes, I found pathetic little scraps of unburnt paper which told me all too clearly that it was indeed my precious work.
Dear God, I thought, the original! The original represented months, even years, perhaps, of Uncle Joshua’s painstaking research; had it been destroyed too? Had the villain who had burnt my papers ‒ for there could be no doubt that this was a deliberate act ‒ had that evil person destroyed the original as well?
I tugged at the drawer where I had left it, but it was still locked. I began to hope. I took the key out of the cupboard and, hardly daring to look, opened the drawer. It was all right. The manuscript was still there, lying neatly and safely where I had left it. Whoever it was that had done this terrible deed had intended to give vent to his hatred on me and on me alone.
But who? Who could it be? And why? What possible reason could anyone have? Could it possibly be someone like Letty? Could it be someone who resented people like myself because we had the good fortune to be born into good circumstances? Someone hated me, there could be no doubt about that, but for what reason I could not imagine. It was now quite apparent that the disappearance of Nana had been no accident even though as a work of infamy, it could not compare with what had just happened.
But there were pressing and immediate problems. What could I do now? Uncle Joshua’s guests would be arriving in the early evening of the next day. As Uncle Josh had told me, one of the prime purposes of their visit was to study the documents which I had been given the task of preparing for them. There was only one thing I could do. I would have to get down to it immediately and re-typewrite the whole lot.
In moments of great stress I had always found that action was the finest medicine, so it was with this thought in mind that I went into my bathroom and did a quick repair on my tear-streaked face. When I returned I found Letty in my sitting room.
‘Letty,’ I asked as calmly as I could. ‘Have you been into this room since luncheon?’
‘No, miss,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry, miss, had you been wanting me, miss?’
I choked back the angry remarks that came tumbling to my lips. ‘No, Letty. Letty, I do not want to be disturbed this evening. You can tell Barton that I shall not be down to dinner. He can bring me a tray later.’
‘Yes, miss. What about your bed? Shall I do it now?’ she replied.
‘Never mind about my bed,’ I snapped, thinking that I should be lucky if I were to see my bed that night. ‘You can go now, and you can take the evening off.’
‘Oh, thank you, miss.’ She seemed pleased. ‘Have I done something right?’
‘Letty, I just don’t want to be disturbed. Please go now.’
She left. The foolish girl was actually behaving as if I was rewarding her. When she had said that she had not been to my rooms during the afternoon, I had realized that any further questions would only result in repetitions of that statement. So I decided not to question her, at least not for the moment.
But what about the burnt papers? Should I not tell Uncle Josh? Dr. Harrison’s warning rang in my ears ‒ no undue excitement, no worry, a sick man. I decided that, in any case, I should discuss it with no one until I had completed the whole job once more. If I waited, I would be calmer and more rational. Moreover, whoever it was who had done this thing might be more likely to betray himself if I took no action. I felt that by adopting these tactics, I might stimulate my enemy’s curiosity and thus, perhaps, find some clue to his or her identity.
Speculation was all very well, but it would not get the job done. I looked at the pile of ashes with something approaching nausea. I realized that I hated the sight of them, so I decided to get rid of them. I got down on my knees and carefully cleaned out the cupboard, putting the burnt papers onto the fire where their destruction was soon made total.
Once they were out of the way, I began to feel a little better; I was being illogical, I suppose, but the evil hand th
at had done this thing seemed further removed from me when the evidence of its infamy had been consumed.
So it was that I sat down at my desk and prepared, for the second time, to commence my task. As I fed the first sheet of paper into the machine, I thought, how different this is from Saturday, when I set to work for the first time. But it had to be done. At about eight o’clock, Barton brought me a tray of coffee and sandwiches and inquired solicitously about my health. Letty, it appeared, had told him that I was ill. He left after I had assured him that I was perfectly all right, that I did not need anything, and that all I wanted was to get on with my work undisturbed.
To my surprise, I found that I was really quite hungry, and I ate my sandwiches ravenously, though not without the foresight of putting two or three aside for later during what promised to be a long night. Feeling much better after I had eaten, I got back to work. The pile of typewritten sheets looked pathetically small and seemed to be taking an eternity to assume the satisfying bulk which would indicate that the job was well under way.
I do not remember how long it was after I had finished eating, a couple of hours I suspect, when I was interrupted by a tap on the door. I jumped; really, I was getting very nervous.
‘Emma.’ It was Henry’s voice on the other side of the door.
I went over and opened it. Henry walked into my sitting room.
‘Hello, coz,’ he said. ‘What’s all this I hear about you not being well?’
‘Not well?’ I replied. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Actually, it was Barton. He said that you were indisposed, you know how he talks, and that you would not be down to dinner, so I thought the least a cousin could do was to come and find out if you needed anything.’
‘I’m afraid Barton must have got that from Letty,’ I replied. ‘I am quite all right, it’s just … it’s just that I have rather a lot of work to get through.’
‘But I thought that you had finished. Has that old scoundrel of a father of mine been laying it on too thick?’ He said it lightly, but I could not help feeling that he really did mean to criticize Uncle Joshua.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘He’s been charming. I just haven’t finished, and I still have quite a lot to go.’
‘Sorry, old girl,’ he said. ‘But I saw you out walking this afternoon and assumed that you must be finished.’
‘I wish that was true,’ I said.
‘Look here, Emma,’ he said kindly. ‘I can’t help thinking that there is something wrong. Wouldn’t you like to tell me about it?’
‘Yes, I would,’ I blurted out. I quickly corrected myself. ‘No, besides, there’s nothing you could do.’ Suddenly I burst into tears.
He put an arm around me and murmured comforting things to me about being tired and overwrought. He led me to the sofa, where he sat me down ever so gently.
I was on the verge of telling him everything, for a trouble shared is a trouble halved. At that moment I was on the point of blurting out the whole story. I wanted, oh, how I wanted to. Why I did not I shall never know; it was as if something deep down inside of me forbade me to confide in him. Anyway, I said nothing.
‘Would you like me to bring you a glass of brandy?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you,’ I replied. The moment had gone and I was again determined to keep to my original resolution and tell no one.
‘Then at least let me pour you a cup of coffee,’ he said, going over to the pot and putting his hand on it. ‘Oh dear, it’s stone cold. I’ll have a fresh pot sent up to you.’
‘That would be nice,’ I replied. ‘Henry, I don’t want to sound rude or ungrateful, but I do want to get on. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not, coz,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll be off.’ And as he got to the door, he said, ‘If you need anything, I’m two doors down on the other side of the corridor. Any time, day or night. And Emma …’
‘Yes,’ I replied as he paused.
‘Be careful,’ he said, and he was gone.
Be careful? What did he mean by that? Was it a threat or a warning? Good heavens, I was really getting jumpy. I needed to take a firm grip on myself, or I was going to start seeing assassins behind every door and ghosts under every bed.
Once again I got back to the work at hand. Gradually the rhythm of the machine and my concentration on my task seemed to clear away the horrible thoughts which had been coursing through my mind. I was determined to finish in time. Above all, I knew that the one thing I could not allow myself to do was to let Uncle Joshua down. Although I knew that I could confide my fears in him alone, I also knew that this I would never do. Whatever I thought of her, whatever dark suspicions lurked in the back of my mind, Dr. Harrison had been right when she had warned me that Uncle Joshua was not to be worried or upset. He had known suffering and heartbreak enough. Probably the only thing that kept him going now was his work. In that, at least, I could help by shielding him from the knowledge of what had happened today. Whether the incident had been aimed at Uncle Joshua or myself, I did not know. I thought, on balance, that it was personally directed against me. If this was not so, why had the intruder made no apparent effort to find the original? There was, of course, always the possibility that he had gone about his or her loathsome task in such haste that he did not realize that the original was not with my typewriting. However, I could hardly believe this to be the case. No, I was almost sure that it had been me at whom he was aiming. This being so, I could see no advantage, even to myself, in discussing it with Uncle Joshua.
I had been working for about half an hour after Henry’s departure when there was another tap on my door. Oh, I thought, that will be my fresh coffee. Henry had been most kind and thoughtful. I opened the door and found, to my surprise, that the bearer of my coffee tray was Dr. Harrison herself.
‘May I step inside for a moment, Miss Waldron?’ she asked in that flat, unemotional tone of voice which never seemed to vary.
‘Well,’ I replied. ‘I really am very busy.’ The last person I wanted to see was Dr. Harrison, but she had been kind enough to bring up my tray and it would have been churlish to have refused her request. Quickly I corrected myself, fearing that she might think me rude. ‘I’m sorry, do come in for a little while. Perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of coffee?’ I said, having observed that there were two cups on the tray.
She stepped inside, murmuring her thanks, and proceeded to pour out two cups of coffee. I sat down in one of the armchairs and sipped mine. The hot, bitter liquid tasted good, and I felt that I had been unkind to hesitate before asking her in. For a moment we sat in silence.
‘Are you surprised that it is I who have brought your tray?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am,’ I replied.
This was quite true. The obvious thing for Henry to have done was either to bring it himself, or to send it up with one of the servants.
‘I hope that you will not consider this an intrusion,’ she went on, ‘but Henry was most specific about my coming to see you. He said that he thought that you seemed a little distraught and that possibly you were feeling unwell.’
I wished that Henry had not said that, though I could not condemn him, for he had shown only concern in telling the doctor that he was worried about me.
‘No,’ I replied quite firmly. ‘I am not unwell. I have a great deal of work to get through before tomorrow evening, but as far as my health is concerned, I feel fine.’
‘You are quite sure?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Quite sure.’
‘I would be most willing to examine you and prescribe some medication, should that be necessary, if you think that that might help at all?’
‘No. That will not be necessary,’ I answered quickly.
Why did I feel repelled at the thought of this woman touching me? She was a doctor, and her attitude was very correct and professional. Had I met her in her consulting rooms I should, no doubt, have been most impressed by her cool, unemotional, efficient demeanour. But here in my
own home, I could not stifle the feeling of revulsion which welled up within me.
‘Very well, Miss Waldron. We’ll say no more about it at the moment, but please do not hesitate to call on me should you ever require my services professionally,’ she said. And then, changing the subject, she continued, ‘By the way, I have not had the opportunity of seeing you alone since our talk on Saturday. Have you given any thought to what I said then?’
I was relieved at the chance of giving her a frank and honest reply.
‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and you may rest assured that I shall do my best to follow your advice and do nothing knowingly which will cause my uncle any distress.’
‘Thank you, Miss Waldron, I find myself much relieved,’ she replied. ‘Well, I shall not detain you any longer, as you say that you have work to do. I have to look in on your uncle before I retire, so I shall bid you goodnight.’ And she was gone.
I returned to my work. Gradually, as the hours wore on, stillness came upon the house. Not that stillness which one experiences from being alone in one’s room, but the deep, heavy silence which pervades when a large house has gone to sleep. All the little noises of the day which had passed unnoticed were now recognizable in their absence. This was the deep velvet silence of all familiar things sleeping, unconscious of the other sounds which had taken their place. Every noise was magnified a hundredfold by the heavy silence of the night: the minute patter of small feet somewhere in the rafters as some small creature scurried about its nocturnal business, the occasional hoot of an owl and the lowing of a restless beast in the fields.
I had never before worked through a whole night, and I found, much to my surprise, that the experience was, far from being scary, in fact comforting. Only once during the dark hours did I get a fright and that only momentary; it was when a vixen, somewhere out on the moor, gave forth a shrill cry which sounded just like a baby in agony. This apart, the whole atmosphere I found most conducive to my work.
Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery Page 6