Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery

by Abigail Clements

  ‘Have you ever seen any lady here riding astride?’ I asked.

  ‘I recall seeing Dr. Harrison do it once. Of course, she’s different, being a lady doctor and all that.’

  Ormerod obviously regarded a lady doctor as some sort of freak who could not be expected to conform to his own high moral standards.

  ‘Thank you, Ormerod,’ said Roger. ‘Let me know what you find, anyway. I shall be in the big barn all afternoon.’

  Ormerod looked hard at me. ‘There is something wrong, Miss Emma. Is it anything thou can tell me about?’

  ‘No, Ormerod,’ I replied. ‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thou hast only to say the word,’ he said.

  I was grateful; I knew only too well how I could count on Ormerod. I promised him that the moment there was anything that he could do, I would let him know. I took the opportunity of asking him if he would be able to drive me over to Robin Hood’s Bay next morning. He seemed delighted, and we arranged to meet at ten. With that, Roger and I took our leave as he headed toward the tack room, no doubt to proceed with his investigations.

  I walked with Roger as far as the big barn, where I left him and continued toward the house. Once again I needed to be alone in order to take stock of my situation.

  It appeared that, for the first time, my knowledge had progressed. Even if I were to leave aside all personal feelings and desires, I felt that I could now be morally certain that, whoever it might be, Roger was certainly not my tormentor. It thrilled me as I thought back, almost with pleasure, to the moment when his form had come crashing through the smoke to my rescue. The masterly way in which he had taken command of the situation, with never a thought for his own safety, had left me feeling ‒ and here I must confess it ‒ more than a little fondness toward him. Why, even at that moment, I could feel the colour flushing to my cheeks as I looked back over the events of the morning and forward to the thought of spending the greater part of the morrow in his company.

  It was not that I did not still feel nervous. The tension was still there. I found myself continuously glancing over my shoulder to make sure that I was not being followed. I approached every corner with a feeling of trepidation, and when I got to my rooms, I paused at the door, fearful of what it might be hiding from my view.

  My fears proved groundless. I went in and washed carefully, for I could still smell the smoke about my person, a nagging reminder of the ordeal to which I had just been submitted. I changed into a day dress of pale blue wool and set off in the direction of Uncle Joshua’s rooms.

  I was not looking forward to the coming interview. I could not make up my mind where I would begin or how I could phrase myself without making the whole affair appear either too melodramatic or too insignificant. Then there was the question of how much I should tell him. I could not be certain that to tell him all would be the right thing to do, yet I realized that I had to tell him something. I suppose that I could have stuck to my original intention and said nothing at all. I did not regard the promise that I had made to Roger as binding; after all, it had been made under considerable duress. On the other hand, what would happen if I maintained my silence? Roger had left me in no doubt that he would tell Uncle Joshua the entire story and go to the police. He had threatened to do this, and there was no reason to assume that he would fail to carry out his threat. And yet, I argued with myself, it was quite possible that Roger was right. Just suppose that something terrible had happened this morning, or tomorrow morning, or the day after? I shuddered at the thought; it was not very pleasant to contemplate, but it was very real and had to be faced. If a tragedy were to occur, would not the effect on Uncle Joshua be altogether too devastating? Might it not be that he would be incapable of surviving the shock? On balance, perhaps it was better that he should know and be in a position to take whatever action he might deem necessary. Uncle Joshua had always been a man of action, and though his body had been cruelly scarred, the spirit which lived on inside that battered shell was still the same. Above all, I knew he cared for me and trusted me. Could I hope to retain that trust if he were to find out from other sources that I had, by my silence, spurned his trust and denied his protection? I felt trapped. I had to tell him, if only because I knew that he held me so dear.

  By the time I had arrived at his rooms, my mind was made up, though I still paused before knocking. I felt again the fear, though for different reasons, which I had felt the first time that I had stood at that threshold. For a moment I hoped that he would not be there or would have some reason for being unable to see me. But these were foolish fears. I raised my hand and knocked at the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  How the sound of Uncle Josh’s voice sent a shiver down my spine. I went in and saw to my dismay that Dr. Harrison was there in the room with him. By that time, I was becoming more and more afraid of that woman. She stood there, tall, expressionless, and statuesque. Her black hair and dress accentuated the pallid, unemotional face which they framed. Her eyes, like black coals of fire, seemed to be delving deep into my mind.

  As for Uncle Joshua, he was wearing neither his patch nor his skull cap, and the sight of the poor scarred features made me doubt the wisdom of the course I had chosen. As I looked at his face and remembered my own ordeal by fire, I trembled at the thought of what my own fate might have been but for Roger’s timely arrival.

  ‘How very convenient of you to arrive at just this moment, Miss Waldron,’ Dr. Harrison was speaking. ‘I was on the point of sending you a message. Would you mind coming over to my rooms for a moment?’

  I certainly had no intention of allowing myself to be alone with her, but it was not going to be easy to refuse her while Uncle Joshua was present.

  ‘I … I must first talk with my uncle,’ I said. ‘There is a matter of some urgency …’

  ‘Can it not wait?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It is a very private matter and I must talk with him now.’

  ‘I doubt if it can be all that urgent,’ she said, going toward the door. ‘I think it might be better if you talked to me first.’

  I made no move.

  ‘All right, Susan,’ said Uncle Josh. ‘I’ll have a word with Emma first, and then she can come over to you.’

  I observed with something approaching disgust that he referred to her by her first name.

  ‘Just as you wish, Sir Joshua,’ she replied. ‘I shall wait for you, Miss Waldron.’

  I was relieved to see that she still retained a formal manner of address when speaking to my uncle. I watched her go and wondered if I was, in fact, jealous of the attention he paid to her and she to him.

  ‘Now then, Emma,’ said Uncle Joshua as soon as we were alone. ‘What is this thing which cannot wait?’

  How I wished that I had asked Roger to come with me. In that moment, I really needed his strength. And there was something else. Was I mistaken, or did I detect a certain coolness in Uncle Joshua’s tone?

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ I asked. ‘What I have to say is not going to be easy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘Do forgive me.’

  He indicated a chair by the fire, and I sat down and waited while he took the seat facing me.

  ‘Now then, out with it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s awfully difficult to know just where to begin,’ I replied.

  ‘Emma,’ he said, ‘there is only one place to begin, and that is the beginning. I suggest that you try starting there.’

  ‘It all started with my teddy bear,’ I said and then stopped.

  A teddy bear, it sounded too utterly ridiculous. I do not know what reaction I expected from Uncle Joshua; incredulity, amazement, even laughter. What I most certainly did not expect was the reaction which I did in fact get. ‘Yes,’ he replied very seriously. ‘I know.’

  He knew! The words struck me like a whiplash. How did he know? What did he know? From whence came his knowledge? Or was he the moving force behind all of this? No. I put the thought out of
my head as soon as it entered; not Uncle Josh, that could never be true.

  ‘Uncle,’ I said, ‘how do you know?’

  ‘I was told,’ he replied.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By Dr. Harrison.’

  The doctor again, always the doctor. I was becoming more and more convinced that this was my enemy. If only I could find a motive. But once again the question burned into me: what reason could she possibly have?

  ‘Dr. Harrison is very worried about you and, quite rightly, approached me on the matter. She told me of the occasion when you came to her in great distress and asked her to come to your room where you showed her a teddy bear lying on your bed.’

  ‘Was that all she told you?’ I asked.

  ‘I felt it was quite sufficient for me to ask her to make a thorough examination of you and report back to me,’ said Uncle Joshua.

  ‘But she didn’t tell you anything else?’

  ‘Was there more?’

  What was I to say? His attitude was one of patient sympathy, and yet I could not go through with it, not then. I would have to wait until I had a chance to talk with Roger. Maybe I could get him to come along with me and tell Uncle Josh about that morning.

  I knew that if I was to try and tell him anything now, he simply would not believe me. And why should he? Like a fool, I had destroyed the only piece of solid evidence that I possessed: the burnt papers.

  I made my excuses to him and explained that I would be unable to go and see Dr. Harrison that afternoon but would come over and see her some time the following day. I had to talk with Roger before I did anything.

  Surprisingly, Uncle Josh let me go and promised to convey my message to the doctor. In somewhat of a daze, I made my way to my rooms and locked myself in. I sat down and gazed into the fire. Uncle Josh had spoken to me as if I were a child. He had agreed to my request regarding Dr. Harrison without a murmur. He knew about the teddy bear. What was in his mind? What did he imagine was in my mind?

  I could think of only one answer to that question. Uncle Joshua thought I was going mad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For the first time since my arrival at Goathlands, I had a disturbed night. I went to bed early but found that sleep evaded me. I tossed and turned, dozing fitfully, for how many hours I do not know, but I can remember seeing the dawn and watching it etch its grey lines of light along the edges of the curtains. My mind was in a turmoil. I found it impossible to control my wandering thoughts and relax into the sweet oblivion of sleep. Having decided to tell Uncle Joshua, I had then, through circumstances over which I had no control, been denied the chance. It had been like a blow in the face. I had, I believed, taken very real risks in staying on at Goathlands, and my only reason had been solicitude for my uncle. To find now that he did not trust me was a most shattering experience.

  Thank heavens for Roger. In him I had found a friend, maybe something even more, but nonetheless a friend with broad shoulders where I could lay part of the burden of my fears.

  Morning could not have come too soon for me. As soon as it was light, I dressed warmly and went downstairs. There was a stillness about the house which was in sharp contrast to the light and bustle of the kitchen as Mrs. Jollyman fussed over the preparations of breakfast and morning trays. If she was surprised to see me, she did not show it; not that I expected her to. I am quite sure that if there had been an earthquake, Mrs. Jollyman would have continued unperturbed with her preparations for the next meal.

  I had it in mind to catch Roger before he left and ride over to Whitby with him, but when I inquired, Mrs. Jollyman told me that he had been in an hour earlier, breakfasted, and gone on his way.

  Not wanting to face any other members of the household, I asked Mrs. Jollyman if I could again have breakfast in the kitchen and was promptly rewarded with a plate of steaming kidneys. Letty came in to get my tray and was amazed to find me there. However, she refused to be denied her task of looking after me and fussed over me like a mother hen while I ate my breakfast. I was quite glad she had appeared, for I had forgotten the field glasses that Colonel Willoughby had so kindly given me. I thought it would be a good idea to take them with me, so I asked Letty to slip up to my room and get them, cautioning her to tell no one where I was. This seemed to please her, for she left on her errand in a most conspiratorial manner. My main reason in thus cautioning her had, of course, been my desire to avoid any contact with Dr. Harrison before I had had the chance to talk to Roger.

  I must have hung around the kitchen for a couple of hours or more. For the greater part of that time, I sat at the white deal table, sipping cups of coffee. The silence was broken by occasional conversations with Mrs. Jollyman about routine matters of running the house. I tried very hard to make everything appear normal, for I was aware that my presence there must have seemed strange to them. However, if anyone was surprised, no one remarked on it.

  At a quarter to ten I felt that it would be safe to go over to the stables and meet Ormerod. I was about to leave when Mrs. Jollyman presented me with a wicker picnic box, telling me that Roger had asked her to make it up and give it to me before I left. So, armed with my binoculars and the picnic box, I left the house by the servants’ entrance.

  When I got to the stable yard, I found Ormerod fiddling with one of Uncle Joshua’s horseless carriages.

  ‘Morning, Miss Emma,’ he greeted me. ‘Thou’s a mite early.’

  ‘I know I am,’ I replied. ‘But I was ready, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came over to meet you.’

  ‘Bless thee, no,’ he said, smiling and then looking at me with a touch of concern in his face. ‘Art thou well? Thou seemest a little pale this morning.’

  ‘I am sure that there is nothing wrong with me that a breath of North Sea air will not cure,’ I said, with an attempt at a gaiety that I did not feel.

  ‘Right then,’ he replied. ‘We might as well be off. I’ll take that.’ He indicated the picnic basket.

  He put the basket into the back seat and then proceeded to wind the handle that jutted from the front of the contraption. There were a couple of coughs and splutters, but apart from them, nothing happened.

  ‘It’ll be right in a minute,’ said Ormerod optimistically. He went round to the driving seat and adjusted some of the little levers which seemed to grow in profusion around the steering wheel.

  I was glancing anxiously back toward the house, worried in case anyone had noticed my absence and come looking for me. To my relief, there was no one in sight except Arthur, who was carrying buckets into one of the loose boxes.

  Ormerod was winding his handle again. Suddenly there was a loud bang and a puff of obnoxious smoke, and the machine rattled into life.

  ‘Right,’ Ormerod shouted into my ear. ‘I’ll give thee a hand up.’

  I clambered aboard the clanking, hissing, shaking thing. Ormerod ran round and jumped into the driving seat, and with a rattle and a roar, we were off.

  In order to get onto the main drive, which ran across Howl Moor to the road at Nelly Ayre Fosse, we had to skirt the big barn to the front of the house and then turn straight down the drive past the summer house. As we were passing the house, I looked up, and what I saw sent a chill shiver down my spine. There at one of the upper windows stood Dr. Harrison, staring tight-lipped in my direction.

  We followed our usual route as far as Goathland Village, and after leaving it behind, started up Sleights Moor. The road climbs sharply away from Ellen Beck Ford until, by the time you are in the middle of the moor, you are nearly a thousand feet up.

  It was from here, after snorting and spluttering and bumping up the hill, that I saw the North Sea for the first time since my arrival. Though the coast was still some six miles distant, I could just make out the curve of the cliffs overlooking Robin Hood’s Bay, and away to the left, the busy little fishing port of Whitby.

  What happy times I had spent there as a child, when my father or Uncle Josh and Aunt Hester would take Cousin Henry and myself for
a day at the seaside. I was sure that somewhere around the house we still had the collection of beautiful sea shells which we had so carefully garnered from the tidal pools among the rocks beneath Ness Point.

  Ahead lay all those happy childhood memories. I looked back; I could still see Goathlands standing foursquare on top of its hill. What lay there? The house itself had taken on an air of menace toward me. All of its friendliness seemed to have vanished; now the shadows which it cast in the autumn sunlight were shadows over my life, shadows from which I desperately wanted to escape. Ahead, however, all was clear and clean and bright. I tried to picture Roger as he sailed his little boat round from Whitby harbour; I could almost see him in my mind’s eye as he handled his craft with ease and skill. Of course, I was fantasizing. I had no means of knowing whether Roger was a good sailor, but he was so efficient and practical in all he turned his hand to that I was quite sure that he was equally skilled in the art of sailing.

  I looked at Ormerod and wondered whether he intended to accompany us on our fishing trip. I knew that he should, even though nothing had been said, it being hardly proper for me to go out alone in a boat with a man. Secretly, I hoped that he would not come with us, and I could not help feeling a little disloyal at the thought. It occurred to me that I could quite easily ask him about his intentions, but the clattering and bumping, just as in our ride from Malton, put paid to any attempt at conversation.

  We rattled down the hill toward Little Beck, and the sea disappeared from view. Then we were climbing again over Fylingdale’s Moor. Soon the sea reappeared, this time to stay, as it was now all downhill from the top of the moor to Robin Hood’s Bay. I could just make out a number of dots lying about a mile off Ness Point. Their sails were down, and I supposed them to be the Whitby cobbles waiting for the slack water between tides when the fish always seem to feed. Far out toward the horizon was a beautiful sight: a big three-master was ploughing her way north under full sail. I tried to look at these sights through my field glasses, but the vibration was such that I found it impossible either to focus or to hold them steady.