After about half an hour of trotting and cantering, I arrived at a point a mile or so east of the house. Here I left my previous route and headed south-westerly in the direction of Crag Stone Rigg. Crag Stone Rigg is the hill due south of Goathlands that terminates in a gully, followed by a short climb up to the top of Northdale Scar. The Scar itself is a sheer cliff, some thirty feet high and perhaps half a mile long, overlooking the wheat fields toward Blawath Beck.
As I rode in the direction of Northdale Scar, I could see the smoke rising from the fields in the distance. Honey took me down into the gully and then up again toward the cliff edge. The panorama which spread out before us as we mounted the crest was quite a dramatic sight.
I slowed Honey to a walk as we approached the top of the Scar. I could see Ormerod away to the right, inside an elbow formed by Blawath Beck. I could see that he was busy. He had another man with him, and they were walking down each end of the line of burning stubble, making sure that the fire was contained and that it did not spread beyond the boundaries of the field. The rest of the view from the top of Northdale Scar is quite magnificent. To the south is the expanse of Pickering Forest, behind you stands Goathlands, to the west lie the rolling moors, and to the east there is a single-track railway line which skirts both Lockton High Moor and the strangely titled Snod Hill.
I walked Honey almost to the cliff edge and then stopped. I leaned forward to pat his neck and give him permission to crop a little of the grass on which he was standing. I let the reins go loose and he lowered his head, carefully selecting the most succulent tufts. I doubt if he enjoyed it very much; there had been so little rain in recent weeks that the grass was very dry. I realized that this was giving Ormerod and his assistant quite a lot of extra work, as they were constantly beating out the fire at the ends of the line in order to prevent it from spreading. They were so intent on their task that I am quite sure that they never noticed me.
I had been sitting there for some ten or fifteen minutes, watching the men working and enjoying the view, when I suddenly became aware of the smell of smoke. At first this meant little to me; after all, I was watching the fire in the field. Then Honey lifted his head and, laying his ears flat, started to shiver. I began to realize that the smoke I was smelling could not possibly be coming from the fire I was watching. The breeze, light though it was, was coming from behind me. I was beginning to feel worried as I looked back in the direction of the house. To my horror, I saw smoke rising from the gully behind me.
I urged Honey in the direction of the smoke, but he would not move. There was no time to be gentle with him, as the smoke seemed to be coming from a very wide area. I laid into him with my whip but it had no effect. He was standing stock still, trembling with fear.
Quickly I dismounted and ran toward the gully, and as I did so I was appalled to see that there was fire on either side of me. I ran to the top of the dip, and there the full implications of my situation became all too apparent. We were completely cut off by an arc of fire which spread from the edge of the cliff to the right, on through the gully, and round to the cliff edge on the left.
I was sure that at that moment I could have run through the fire to safety, but could I abandon Honey? Horses are remarkably stupid in the presence of fire. How often did one read stories of their being burned to death in their stalls simply because they refused to run out of a blazing stable? Honey was no exception. I knew that he would stand there transfixed and be terribly burned, perhaps even to death, before he would attempt to make a move; the sight of the smoke and flames seemed to paralyse him.
The situation was rapidly becoming critical. At its nearest point, the fire was only some ten or twelve yards away. Thank the Lord the breeze is light, I thought, for I knew that a sudden gust of wind might envelop me and Honey in an inferno of flame. I searched frantically for a way out as fingers of flame probed out in our direction from the main body of the fire. Suddenly, I saw what might be a chance to my left. There was a flat rock outcrop, almost circular and about seven or eight feet in diameter. The fire would not be able to burn on that. If only I could get Honey there, we might be able to get through as the fire swept round. I rushed over to my horse and tugged with all my strength at his reins.
‘Honey,’ I cried. ‘Honey, don’t make me leave you. I’ll have to if you don’t move. Please, Honey, please.’
The tears were streaming down my face as I begged and pleaded with him, but he just stood there, ears back and eyes rolling, his beautiful body shivering in some sort of diabolical anticipation as the flames crept nearer.
By this time, sparks were landing all round us and I realized that I was going to have to leave him if I was to get to the flat rock and have any sort of a chance myself.
‘Goodbye, Honey, I can do no more,’ I said between my sobs.
I tried one last time to move him and then, just as I was about to leave him and make for the rock, I screamed as a smouldering figure burst through the wall of fire and rolled on the ground, furiously beating out the sparks on his clothing. It was Roger.
‘Roger, I ‒’
‘Shut up and get on the horse,’ he shouted.
‘He won’t move,’ I cried.
‘Don’t argue,’ he roared, picking me up bodily and thrusting me onto the saddle.
‘Over there,’ I said, pointing to my rock.
He was stripping off his jacket and then his shirt.
‘Put this over your head,’ he commanded, pushing the jacket into my hands.
I took the jacket and saw that he was binding the shirt over Honey’s eyes.
‘Get that thing over your head,’ he yelled at me. ‘You don’t want to burn that lovely face.’
He took hold of the reins and, talking to him gently all the while, led Honey to the rock. Honey, now blind, was moving as obediently as a child.
‘Now, listen to me,’ said Roger. ‘I am going to wait until the fire is almost surrounding us and then I shall make a dash for it, so hang on tight. If the horse stops, get down and run. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Keep the jacket over your head. There is no sense in risking getting your face or eyes burned. After all, we only need one pair of eyes to get us through.’
‘I want to tell you …’
‘Shut up and do what I say. You can tell me afterwards,’ he snapped.
I buried my head in the jacket and waited in the blackness for what seemed an eternity, seeing nothing and feeling only the occasional shiver as it ran through Honey’s body.
‘Now get hold of his mane. Hold tight. Now!’
Suddenly we were moving forward at a trot. I don’t know how long it took, but it could only have been a matter of seconds. I felt Honey shy once, but without stopping his forward motion, and then I could feel him descending into the gully. We stopped and I pulled the coat from over my head. Roger was standing smiling at me.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’
‘Oh, Roger,’ I cried. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘You could have got out of it,’ he said.
‘But I couldn’t move Honey,’ I replied. ‘And I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him.’
‘You’re very fond of that animal, aren’t you?’ he said.
I nodded silently as I handed him his coat.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Very fond. Here, you had better put this on, it is getting quite chilly.’
‘Why in heaven’s name did you come out there when you knew that they were burning stubble?’ he asked as he slipped into his jacket.
‘But I didn’t,’ I cried. ‘What I mean is, Ormerod is down there at the beck. They’re burning the bottom field. I was watching them.’
‘You mean that all of this was started by accident?’ he said, looking at the line of the fire which was by now burning itself out along the cliff edge.
‘I hope so,’ I replied, aware of the incredulity in his tone.
Dear God, this could be yet another at
tempt. I shuddered at the thought.
‘Look here, you are cold,’ said Roger. ‘Why don’t you ride up to the house and get warm?’
‘No, I’m not cold,’ I said quickly. ‘You think it might not have been an accident?’
‘It must have been started by someone,’ he replied. ‘But if they had started it accidentally, what I can’t understand is how they failed to see you and warn you.’
‘Did you see anyone on your way here?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I saw someone on a horse, but they were over toward Snod Hill.’
‘Man or woman?’ I asked.
‘That I couldn’t say. They were too far away and riding hard. Knowing that you were going out, I thought that it might be you. Getting back to this fire, you obviously think that it might have been deliberate.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
The feeling was growing within me all the time that this had indeed been another attack. If this was so, I had not altogether failed in my plan. Though I could still not be sure of the identity of whoever was doing this to me, I felt that I could now eliminate Roger.
‘Well,’ he said gravely, ‘we’ll soon find out.’ He paused. ‘That is, if you want to find out.’
Did I want to? I so dearly wanted to prove by some miracle that it had been an accident. But the truth, however frightening, was essential. Ignorance or knowledge, providing either is complete, I could deal with. Uncertainty would drive me mad.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I must find out.’
‘Come on then.’
I dismounted, and we tied Honey to a bush where he could graze contentedly. Roger led me to the cliff edge where the burnt grass started. It was still smouldering and crackling in places, but by now it was quite safe. Roger’s eyes were fixed on the ground as we walked along the bottom of the gully. He told me that he doubted very much that there would be any visible tracks, as the ground was too hard and rocky, but he kept on looking. After about fifteen minutes, the gully shallowed to a narrow dip. At this point the line of the fire swung abruptly towards the cliff edge. As we approached this point, we became aware of a small column of smoke rising from what, at a distance, appeared to be a small shrub or bush. As we drew nearer, the object in question took the form of a shapeless bundle. Roger ran on ahead to examine it. I followed him, and when I caught him up he was looking very grave.
‘Look at this,’ he said.
It was a bundle of charred and almost burnt-out hay. It had been bound with wire, and there were about ten or twelve feet of rope attached to the wire.
When I arrived, Roger was holding the end of the rope, examining it carefully. He dropped the rope and came toward me, his grey eyes more serious than I had ever seen them before. He held out his hands toward me and took both of mine in his.
‘What is it?’ I asked, frightened by his serious manner.
‘Emma.’ He spoke very quietly. ‘Someone tried to kill you.’
Chapter Fifteen
There was a long silence.
‘Emma,’ said Roger, ‘do you understand what I said to you? Someone is trying to kill you. This was a deliberate act.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said quietly.
‘Someone made this,’ he said, indicating the still smouldering bundle. ‘They lit it and dragged it through the dry grass in that gully and tried to cut you off against the cliff edge.’
‘Roger, will you take me back to the house? I’ll walk with you, I don’t want to be alone.’
‘Of course I will,’ he replied. ‘Then I shall go straight to the police. This is a matter for them to deal with.’
‘No, not the police,’ I pleaded. ‘Please don’t go to the police.’
For the second time someone wanted to take my troubles to the police, and for the second time I felt that I could not permit it. The same reasons still applied as when Ormerod had made the same suggestion about the broken girth.
‘Why on earth not?’ said Roger. ‘That is a very foolish idea. Someone deliberately tried to endanger your life. I cannot see that we have any alternative.’
‘Roger, I beg you, please not the police, Uncle Josh ‒’
‘If you are worrying about your uncle, you can stop right now,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s a tough old bird. No one knows that better than I do. As soon as he hears about this I am sure that he will insist on the police being called in.’
‘But there is no reason for him to hear about it,’ I said.
‘Emma.’ Roger spoke very firmly. ‘He has got to know about it. If you will not tell him, then I shall. I am not joking, and it is no good arguing with me. I insist on him knowing.’
I was defeated. Roger meant what he said. I sensed a will of iron in the man standing before me, but if Uncle Josh had to be told, then I had to be the one to tell him.
‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I’ll make a bargain with you. If I promise to tell Uncle Joshua, will you, for your part, promise me that you will not go to the police unless he agrees?’
‘When will you tell him? Today? I will not wait longer.’
‘I shall tell him this afternoon and let you know what he says at dinner,’ I replied.
‘I don’t approve of waiting,’ said Roger. ‘But I agree. Provided that you keep your side of the bargain, I shall not act without your permission. But, if for any reason at all you fail, then I shall go to the police this evening.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’ll agree to that.’
I realized that he had gone as far as he would. We walked on in silence for a while. I found it very comforting to have this strong, purposeful man beside me. I had a feeling of security and relaxation in his company. How I wanted to tell him everything that had happened, but I realized that if I did that, I could no longer control events. I knew that I would find myself submitting to his will. I looked at him, strong and purposeful, his jacket open over his bare chest. He had discarded his shirt after ripping it off Honey.
‘I really am grateful for everything you have done,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry about your shirt. I feel that I should replace it for you.’
‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘I have a better idea. Instead of giving me a new shirt, why don’t you come fishing with me?’
‘But it is the closed season,’ I said. Salmon fishing finished at the beginning of October.
‘Oh dear me, no. Not salmon,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t the patience for river fishing. I’ve got a small coble which I keep at Whitby. I’ll go out first thing tomorrow morning and sail it round to Robin Hood’s Bay. You could get Ormerod to drive you out about eleven, by which time I should be waiting for you. Well, what do you say?’
‘I should love to come,’ I answered.
I found the thought of spending a morning in his company most attractive. I suggested that I might ask Mrs. Jollyman to prepare a picnic hamper so that we could stay out all day if the weather was good. We could get home in the early evening and cook our catch for supper. I was warming to this man in a manner which I could only describe as pleasantly disturbing.
By this time, we had arrived at the stables. There we found that Ormerod had got back before us. He came toward us looking full of concern as he observed that I was dismounted.
‘Has anything happened?’ he asked, and there was an ominous ring to his voice.
‘No,’ replied Roger. ‘I met Miss Waldron on the moor and we walked back together. Have you just returned?’
‘Not more than ten minutes ago, sir,’ he answered.
‘Can you tell me if anyone other than Miss Waldron has had a horse out this morning?’
I could tell that he was trying to make the inquiry sound casual.
‘That I wouldn’t know, Mr. Attwood,’ said Ormerod. ‘I’ve been out myself since about half past seven. There was only Arthur left up here, and he’s gone. I understand that Dr. Harrison sent him to Pickering to get some supplies.’
My heart missed a beat when Ormerod mentioned Dr. Harrison’s name.
‘W
ell, do you know if any of the horses have been out, apart from Honey?’ Roger asked.
‘Well, there were three to be brought in this morning,’ replied Ormerod. ‘Arthur went in a horseless carriage, so he hasn’t taken one. The other two were Mr. Henry’s mare and my cob, they should still be in their stalls. Just what is it thou are after, Mr. Attwood, if I might be so bold?’
‘Let’s go and look at them,’ said Roger, ignoring Ormerod’s question. ‘Can your man there take Honey?’
Ormerod beckoned the groom, who took Honey from me and led him toward his box.
‘Mr. Henry’s mare is in there,’ said Ormerod, indicating a loose box.
When we looked in, the big black mare was munching away contentedly at her hay. I still did not understand what it was that Roger had in mind, but he did seem to have some definite sort of plan. He looked the mare over carefully and seemed satisfied.
‘And the cob?’ he asked Ormerod.
‘First box round the corner,’ replied Ormerod.
We went to the cob’s box, and it was when we saw him that I realized what Roger was looking for. The animal’s neck and withers were foam-flecked; he was covered with sweat and steaming. That horse had been ridden, ridden very recently and very hard. Ormerod was furious.
‘Who the devil’s left him in this condition?’ he roared. ‘Just wait until I get hold of that Arthur, he’ll need to have a right good explanation for this.’
‘I doubt very much if Arthur will be able to tell you anything,’ said Roger. ‘What I would like you to do, Ormerod, is to see if there is any way you can find out who it was that took your horse out. Do you think you could?’
‘I can look at the tack,’ said Ormerod.
‘What will that tell you?’ I asked.
‘If it’s warm, it’s been used, it’ll be in a mess too from the look of the horse. If it’s a side saddle, it were a lady.’
‘And if it was a man’s saddle, would you be sure that it was a man?’ asked Roger.
‘Not for certain,’ said Ormerod. ‘There are ladies who I have known to ride astride, though I cannot say as I hold with such practices, immodest I reckon.’
Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery Page 14