Bitter Inheritance (18 page)

‘I don’t believe in guilt. I’m a pagan, you see. Pagans believe in life!’ The old voice had a ring to it. ‘In trying to preserve life in others, I caused the death of young Radford. In a way he helped me to help others. But he had a defective heart … congenital. How’s your heart, young man?’

Almost broken, thought Marcus wryly. ‘Normal, I believe. But how do you know?’

‘I performed a post-mortem examination, of course. Found great restriction of the heart, which was why my treatment killed him.’

‘But you didn’t report the death – evidently it was accidental – and free Mason from blame!’ Marcus felt revulsion. This man was inhuman.

‘The pagan way. My life, my survival. It was of course most irregular to experiment on people like that. To confess would probably have ruined my career, but it wouldn’t bring the man back to life. So I made sure that Mason could remember nothing. He was heavily drugged for three days, you see.’

‘And then?’

‘I took off for a while, put some distance between me and Foxholes. I put the body down a mineshaft on Pateley moor, there are plenty round there as you’ll know, and went off on Radford’s horse to Liverpool. It was the long vacation. And nobody knew I’d been here.’ He looked at Marcus. ‘I owe you a horse, young man.’

Marcus let out a long sigh. ‘You have freed us from the old quarrel, Professor.’ His analytical mind took over. ‘Would you like to tell me precisely what happened?’

The other man stood up stiffly and put another piece of wood on the fire. ‘I think we need a cup of coffee, after all this. Well, I was working at the time with two drugs that could be grown here, in the wood. Aconite and foxglove, to give them their common names.’

‘But aconite’s monkhood, isn’t it? A deadly poison?’

‘Of course. Many useful medicines are also poisons, Radford.’ The professor paused with the kettle in his hand. ‘Both drugs affect the heart, which was my specialization, you see. Foxglove is also the antidote to aconite, but it’s slow to act. Oh, it’s been known for centuries, but I felt there was more to be learned and I grew the plants here. I tried them on animals, with varied results. And then I decided to experiment on people … and I met the two young men as they rode through the wood. It was near to the summer solstice, I recall.’

Again, Marcus caught the gleam of fire in the old man’s eyes. He was trying to imagine the scene: Mason and Radford, on their way to buy sheep, met this man in the wood. Why would they agree to take his potions? But then, he’d just eaten the rabbit stew! He could easily have been poisoned, himself.

‘It was a warm day and I’d made some nettle beer. I invited
them into the cottage. And to be honest, I then asked them if they would take part in an experiment, which I described as harmless.’ The professor shook his head. ‘Radford might still be alive, if he’d had a normal heart. How was I to know that I’d picked the wrong man?’

My grandfather, dying here from poison, thought Marcus … he’d wanted the truth, but it was ugly.

‘And so,’ the professor continued, ‘I decided to change my outlook. The death affected me, shocked me. I made up my mind that Radford’s memory would be honoured by my career. Instead of going for fame and fortune, I decided to be a true pagan, truly life affirming. I worked for nothing if patients couldn’t pay. And I put my utmost into research, worked with the top men in the field. We’ve moved a long way in the last fifty years.’ He gestured at the kettle, but Marcus shook his head.

‘You haven’t described what actually happened.’

The professor looked at him. ‘You wouldn’t understand the medical terms. But simply, I dosed them with aconite and observed the effects and then gave them foxglove, which among other things makes the patient see the world coloured blue.’

Here was the proof Marcus had been looking for. The newspaper report had mentioned that Mason said, ‘everything was blue’. He had been recovering from the dose … after missing three days. ‘So my grandfather was badly affected?’

‘He went into a coma. I was horrified by what I’d done. No guilt, I have no time for guilt. But I am pleased that you came here, Radford. It’s too late to vindicate Mason; I believe he died some years ago. But it is important for you to know the truth.’ The professor leaned back wearily.

Marcus wondered how many other people had unwittingly died in the name of science. And he felt a deep gratitude for the knowledge that Radford and Mason had both been victims. There was no need after all for a feud between the families. Mason had suffered for the rest of his life for a crime he did not commit, but reproaches were useless now and the less said, the better. He sighed and stood up; it was time to go back to the normal world.

‘You can go now Radford, I wish to sleep. And you can tell your
family what you have learned, on condition that it goes no further. And the Mason lady, of course.’

Marcus picked up his coat and went outside, glad to be in the fresh air. After the storm the sky had a clean, swept look and the wet leaves of the wood glistened in the sun. Odin was still tied to his tree, none the worse and fairly dry. He seemed to be as glad as Marcus was to creep back to the track and then to go swiftly out of the wood and back into the everyday farming world again.

Marcus didn’t know what to think. The professor’s story had cleared Samuel Mason from blame, putting at rest the nagging feeling that he and Sally would always have that shadow between them. But there were many problems left. The fair young man, for one, he’d probably got himself engaged to Sally by now. And the fact that she was so devoted to her farm that she’d probably never want to leave it.

As he rode up to Greystones Marcus wondered how his father would take the news. But for the next week he was not able to share the secret with anyone, although he thought about it a great deal. He was tied up with work, first at Greystones and then at his base in Colsterdale and was not able to see Oliver. Surely, he thought, Father won’t want to carry on the feud after this? The Masons are not homicidal liars after all. Samuel, with his life blighted, was almost as much of a victim as poor Billy. There was of course still the old boy’s reluctance to meet Sally. But even so, as the days went by and he was able to digest the strange story, Marcus found himself feeling more hopeful. If only Sally were still free!

One day his friend Harry came up to see him and Marcus questioned him about what poisonous plants may be grown in cottage gardens and their possible effect on the heart.

‘Many an old herb woman could tell you, my boy. But who d’you want to poison?’ Harry laughed.

Marcus said hurriedly that it was an academic interest, some detective story he’d read. And he led the conversation round to aconite and foxglove, and what he heard confirmed the professor’s statements.

‘You’ve got foxgloves growing wild round here beside every stone wall! Can’t avoid ’em! I believe the gypsies use them to make
a potion to liven up their parties, but I wouldn’t fancy it myself.’

‘And is it used in medicine?’

‘As digitalin, yes. It’s very useful. Increases muscle activity, contracts arteries, raises blood pressure. It was scientifically established long before my time of course. That prof I used to quote to you was involved in the later research.’

Marcus decided not to mention the fact that he’d met the prof himself. ‘I wonder whether the foxglove plant would poison sheep? We sometimes have mysterious deaths, when there’s not much grass about.’

The two friends enjoyed a walk over the moor and a good dinner and Marcus began to feel more normal than he’d felt all summer. He went whistling into the kitchen one day and Jeanie remarked on it. ‘Got our spirits back again, have we? That’s the way, Mr Marcus! No good being old and grumpy before your time!’

‘Who says I’ve been grumpy?’ Marcus demanded irritably, and then laughed. ‘Well, we’ve been busy ever since winter, haven’t we? And it will soon be winter again!’

That was the core feeling on the High Side, the reason that few people were light-hearted. Winter always came again; the brief summer was full of toil before another winter. But sometimes in autumn there were golden days when the pressure eased a little and folks could enjoy the fairs and shows, and find a little joy in life, after all. There was plenty of good food, fruits and vegetables in the gardens. Marcus believed that a good diet affected people’s spirits considerably. But then, so did a little hope for the future.

The chance to move things along came quite soon, when Marcus was asked to visit his father at the end of the week. He would stay at Nidd overnight and have another talk to Oliver.

Sally Mason and Emma Wakefield attended Simon’s funeral in their best black, travelling by train to Bradford, apprehensive about meeting his parents again. Sally wished passionately that she had sent for them earlier. She knew what it was like when someone you loved died without saying goodbye, and they had arrived too late.

It was a relief to find that although they were sad, the Drury family had been prepared for this. ‘In one way, I feel guilty, because we gave you the responsibility,’ Mrs Drury said to Sally. ‘But we did it for Simon, of course. He wanted to feel more independent but then, he couldn’t travel, or live on his own. Your farm was the best solution and he was happy. That’s what matters.’

Sally was surprised at the depth of her grieving for Simon. He’d only been at the farm for a few months after all, but he was a part of their lives, and the house seemed empty without him. Whenever she saw a beautiful tree or a typical country scene, Sally found herself thinking of Simon and how he would have enjoyed the late summer days. For a while, Sally almost lost her enthusiasm for the farm but with an effort, she decided to do something different. This year, they would compete in the Kirkby Agricultural Show.

‘It’s about time Badger’s Gill showed some stock again!’ George chided her one day, when he delivered a load of turnips for winter feed. ‘Your pa was always keen, sometimes he won a prize. And your ma used to do well with the butter, remember. Is there ’owt worthwhile in that cowshed of yours?’

Sally was sure that George was just trying to cheer her up, but
she went in with him to where Joe was tying up the cows for evening milking.

‘Aye, of course we have some good home bred stuff. That there cow,’ Joe indicated Primrose with a nod of his head, ‘she’s a real winner. It’s just my opinion, of course. And she’s that quiet, I could walk her to Kirkby for the show. Let’s have a go, miss. Enter her for any class you like.’ Joe was as loyal to Badger’s Gill as if he’d worked there all his life.

Primrose was a Shorthorn, a roan cow with a sunny disposition and a huge appetite. When Emma heard the talk about the show, she asked to see this potentially prize-winning animal. ‘What’s so special about Primrose?’ she asked, standing at a respectful distance. Emma was still not sure about cows, Sally noticed.

‘Just look at her from the side, she’s a perfect wedge shape!’ Emma could see the potential now that Joe pointed it out. Primrose had horns with an outward, even curve; she had smooth, silky skin with a dappled effect of white and brown. Her head was small which she carried proudly and she had large, clear eyes.

‘A picture of a cow,’ was George’s verdict. ‘But then, we don’t know what she’ll be up against.’

‘She’ll need teaching to walk round on a halter. I’ll do that,’ Joe offered promptly. ‘I’ll make a new halter for the lass.’

Sally was surprised how the prospect of the show brightened them up, made them keen to succeed. Competition must be good for you, she decided. But she wasn’t too hopeful; there were many experienced breeders in the large parish of Kirkby. And then there were a few landowners who could afford to buy the best cattle in the county and proceed to take the credit.

The grain harvest was under way at Badger’s Gill; the oats had been stooked and were standing out in the fields, allowing the grain to ripen. ‘They have to hear the church bells three times, that means they’ll be in the stocks for three weeks to dry out,’ Joe reminded Sally. There was time to get the oats in before the show, unless the weather changed. Oats were never sold, they were kept to feed all the farm stock through the winter. But the quality was important, especially for horses.

‘The Kirkby Show’s timed to follow the harvest and come before the cold weather, when the work is easing up a little before
the winter,’ Sally explained to Emma. And she suggested that the methodical Emma might like to try making a batch of butter for the show, to be judged against the High Side’s best. ‘There is a number on each brick, so the judges don’t know whose they are. Why not have a go?’ Sally was keen for Emma to be involved.

Robin added his encouragement to Sally’s, when he heard of the idea. ‘Middle of September, we’ll all have finished harvest by then. You’ll enjoy the day out, Emma, and if your butter doesn’t win a prize, you might learn something from the one that does!’

Robin and Emma, Sally noted, were gradually drawing together as allies. Sally admired the way in which Robin was quietly influencing the girl, without any dramatic declarations. It wouldn’t be proper for him to spend much time alone with her, but he was often at Badger’s Gill. Sally admired his mature attitude. It’s a good job I got over him or I’d have been jealous, she told herself. Robin had always been her friend, but he’d never been so thoughtful and attentive to Sally as he was to Emma. The girl was growing up and perhaps Robin was too, Sally thought as she watched them together. And Robin’s father was investigating the whereabouts of Emma’s inheritance.

Without Simon, Sally felt the old loneliness returning, as it had after her father died. Especially since Marcus had now disappeared. But this time, Robin and Emma were a comfort to her. Their very youth made her feel lighter in spirit, less weighed down by responsibility.

While the corn was ripening, Sally and Emma turned to the guesthouse again. They turned out the main bedroom and changed the furniture round in the dining-room, where Simon’s painting now hung above the mantelpiece. Sally felt an urgent need, as before, to change things, to look to the future rather than dwell on the past.

‘We need another paying guest. Let’s advertise!’ Sally said, when all was ready, including a high polish on all furniture. She didn’t want another critical woman finding fault with the housekeeping. In fact, when she thought about it, she didn’t much like the idea of another stranger coming to live in her house. Emma and Simon had both become her friends and had changed her life. The next arrangement, she was sure would be merely a commercial one.

A week passed and then one morning the postman delivered a letter from Bradford. Sally pounced on it. ‘A new paying guest, maybe!’ She carried it into the kitchen where Emma was making toast. ‘It’s from a solicitor … oh!’ She looked up from the letter and the room seemed to be whirling round. From a long way off, she heard Emma’s voice, full of concern.

‘What’s wrong, Sally?’

With great effort, Sally spread the letter on the table and read it again. ‘This letter … oh, Emma, he was so thoughtful!’ And she felt the hot tears on her face. Simon, generous Simon, had remembered her in his will. On that rainy day when Mr Scott had come to help him draw up his will, Simon had arranged his affairs and Mr Scott had recorded his wishes. He had left some of his money to Sally, ‘Because I know she wants to buy the farm’. Three thousand pounds! Quite enough money to buy back Badger’s Gill and leave some over for future security. It was a huge shock; it changed everything.

It took time to sink in, but over the next few days, Sally realized that her money worries were over. ‘But I’d rather have Simon back, alive! And anyway, I don’t deserve all this!’ So much money was almost a burden.

‘How very good of him! And now, if you don’t want to take another guest, you need not!’ Emma, practical as ever, tried to comfort Sally. ‘Simon was so happy here. He told me so. And so am I! You deserve the money, Sally!’

There was no message from Simon, although she looked for one. But then Sally realized that he’d already told her everything he wanted her to know. She remembered Simon’s last day and the way he’d taken her hand and placed it on the picture frame, symbolically giving her the farm. She understood that, now.

‘But what about his family? What will they think?’ Sally was torn between joy and sadness. It would be quite natural for them to resent her.

Once the money was in the bank, Sally decided, she would write to Mr Radford again and make him an offer for the farm. The Scotts would know what it was worth. But she hardly dared to hope that Badger’s Gill would ever be hers. Oliver Radford would not want to be cheated of his revenge. He might enjoy twisting the
knife and refuse to sell the farm even when she could afford to buy it.

The next day, a letter arrived from Mrs Drury and Sally opened it with trembling hands. But it was as kind and generous as Simon himself. ‘We are pleased that you were included in Simon’s will … he was able to leave the bulk of his fortune to his family, and no one was left out. Thank you for looking after him so well.’

Simon must have been a very wealthy young man, thought Sally. But he’d never talked about money.

It was time for one of those letters to Mr Radford. But this time she had power on her side, the power of money. Sally sat down after work that night, pen in hand.

Sally couldn’t rest until the letter was safely in the postbox outside the post office. This time, the reply came back swiftly. There was the familiar cream envelope, with the thick, spiky writing in black ink.

‘Right! He can have his two thousand pounds. It’s a high price I believe….’ Sally showed it to Mr Scott.

‘It is high, but I suppose that’s inevitable, given the type of man you are dealing with.’ The Scotts had always sided with the Masons. ‘The annoying thing about this is that the farm is worth so much because your family has managed it so well!’

Sally wrote back to agree to Radford’s price and soon received another letter, which made her dance with joy and rage, all at the same time. She felt the familiar fizzing inside and ran down the street to show the letter to the Scotts straight away.

The main thing was that the man had agreed to sell the farm. But … was he saying that Sally had to choose between Marcus and Badger’s Gill? Did he know that she knew Marcus? Or was it just the old quarrel that made him so keen to sever any ties between them? This must be the last letter from the old rogue. And a good job, too.

That night, Sally took down the little china shepherdess from the mantelpiece in her bedroom. Carefully, she wrapped the
figure in a soft cloth, and put it away, deep in a drawer. She would forget all about the Roman soldier. With a father like that he must be horrid, deep down, she told herself firmly. All her instincts, all her deep feelings, must have been wrong when it came to Marcus Radford.

Marcus, meanwhile had discovered that he could not forget about Sally, but he now had hopes of a solution. Saturday came and he rode over to see his father, to report on progress as requested.

Choosing his time carefully Marcus waited until after dinner to talk about what was really important to him, the discovery in Foxholes Wood. He waited until all the farm business had been discussed and the family news exchanged.

‘I have something to tell you Father, that I found out the other day. About the affair of Grandfather’s death.’

Oliver moved restlessly on his chair. ‘I don’t want to hear about it. All that is over now. And I hope you won’t mention it to Mrs Russell. I dine there again next week. I am … reaching an understanding with Mrs Russell.’ The older man sat back to observe the effect of this statement.

‘Do you mean to say you’re going to get married?’ Marcus tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Oliver smirked. ‘Why not? If you would hurry up and get yourself a wife, you could look after the Grange here and I could go off with Mrs Russell – Dorothy – and enjoy myself a little! We thought of a European tour next spring.’

So the old boy had his future all worked out. Well, he was sprightly enough, why not? The trip abroad didn’t sound like Oliver; it was probably the Mrs Russell’s idea. Thank goodness he seemed to have forgotten about linking his son up with her daughter.

‘You will understand that raking up the past at this juncture would be inappropriate, to say the least.’ Oliver glared at Marcus.

‘But please let me tell you this; that I have proof that Samuel Mason did not kill Grandfather. He died by accident, from an overdose of an experimental drug.’ Marcus tried to keep his voice level and unemotional.

Oliver closed his eyes. Marcus pressed on, determined to have
his say. ‘I met Professor Vernon, of whom you may have heard. He admitted that he killed Grandfather by accident and drugged Samuel Mason enough to destroy his memory.’ He described the death briefly and then there was silence for a while.

‘Why did he not come forward at the time, and admit what had happened?’ Oliver seemed interested, in spite of himself.

‘He was at the start of his career and very ambitious. He said that a confession would not bring Grandfather back. But he seems not to have considered the effect on his family and on the Masons. The scandal would have ruined his life’s work, he said.’ Marcus thought back to that extraordinary day in the wood, and the deep impression that the professor had made on him. A complex character, but not evil, he thought ‘He’s very old now, of course, but extremely alert. I believe he has the ruthlessness of an ambitious man. But he has done a great deal of good.’