The Shade of Hettie Daynes (18 page)

‘What about my ancestor’s remains?’ asked Christa. ‘I want to arrange a proper burial for them, but I
don’t
want to remove evidence which might be important later.’

‘No,’ said Fox. ‘I think we need the bones to lie where they were found, Ms Midgley. For now anyway.’

‘But what if somebody
else
stumbles across them – the workmen, for instance?’

‘I think that’s unlikely. Steve tells me they’re under a cairn, one of several at the site, and the work is to the western end of the reservoir. There’s a slight risk, I suppose, but it’s one we’ll have to take.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘There’s one thing you
can
do, Ms Midgley.’

‘Oh – what’s that?’

‘See that the kids stay away. Some stickybeak notices
them
poking about, he’ll wonder what the big attraction is.’

‘They won’t be poking about,’ promised Christa. ‘They’ll be lucky if they set foot on a pavement outside school hours.’

‘Glad you’re not
my
mum,’ chuckled Fox. ‘I’ll keep you posted. ’Bye.’

SEVENTY-THREE

MONDAY TEA TIME
. Christa preparing the meal, Bethan helping. Harry came through the door.

‘Mum.’

‘What is it, Harry?’

‘Something to show you.’

‘I’m rinsing rice, love, hands’re wet, can it wait?’

Harry shook his head. ‘You’ll want to see this.’ He dumped his pack on the floor, rooted through it. ‘Look.’

Christa looked. ‘What is it?’

‘Old diary.’

‘Old diary that can’t wait.’ She looked at him. ‘Who wrote it –
Hitler
?’

‘Stanton Farley Hopwood.’

His mother frowned. ‘Hopwood – is he one of the . . .?’

‘It’s 1885. Rob says it’s Carl’s great grandad.’

Christa nodded. ‘Sounds about right. So how do
you
come to have it, and why would
I
be interested?’

Harry looked at his mother. ‘I think you better sit down, Mum, while I read you something.’

‘
Harry
,’ sighed Christa. ‘I’ve just got in from work, I’m trying to cook, I haven’t
time
to sit down and be read to.’

‘It’s OK, Mum,’ interrupted Bethan. ‘I’ll see to the rice.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Christa pulled out a chair, sat down, looked at her son. Harry opened the diary and read:

‘October thirteenth: . . .
H threatening to tell her mother unless I name the day. Silly little fool surely can’t imagine Father’s plans for me include marriage to one of his hands
.’

He looked up. Christa’s lower lip was caught between her teeth. She didn’t say anything.
‘There’s
other stuff,’ he said, ‘but I’ll cut to October nineteenth. It says:

‘
Desperation. We’re to meet at the mill at nine p.m. tomorrow when, God willing, all will be resolved
.’

‘At the mill,’ murmured Christa, staring at her hands on the table.’ She looked up. ‘Is there more?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, Mum. The next day he writes:

‘
It is done. I do . . . bla, bla, bla . . . but she drove me to it. Soon the rising waters will conceal my crime
 . . .’

He broke off, looked at his mother. ‘It goes on, but . . .’

Christa nodded. Her cheeks had paled, her hands were fists on the table. ‘That’s enough, Harry. Thank you.’ Her voice was husky, almost a whisper. ‘You didn’t tell me how you come to have the diary.’

‘Carl brought it to school, Mum. He left it in the boys’ lavatories by accident and Rob found it. He thought you should see it.’

His mother nodded. ‘Yes, well.’ She stood up, gazed through the twilight window. ‘Obvious
who
H was, I think.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better phone Fox at the
Echo
. Hope he’s not gone home.’

SEVENTY-FOUR

MONDAY, SEVEN P.M.
As the Rover crunched off down the drive, Carl trailed along the corridor to the conservatory, where his mother was trimming palms.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, Carl?’

‘I’ve done something. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but I don’t know what to do.’

Felicity sighed, dropped the secateurs into her pinny pocket. ‘Why don’t we sit down, Carl, and you can tell me all about it?’ She led him to where a glass-topped table stood
between
a pair of wicker armchairs, letting a handful of shrivelled leaves fall into a bin in passing.

‘Now,’ she said when they were seated, ‘tell me what you’ve done that’s so terrible.’

Carl shook his head. ‘It’s not funny, Mum. I don’t even want to tell you, but I have to ’cause I daren’t tell Dad. He’d
kill
me.’

His mother arched her brow. ‘Not
kill
, darling, surely?’

‘Yes,
kill
. I’ve dropped the family in it, and you
know
what he’s like about the family.’

His mother sighed. ‘Well, come along –
tell
me about it. I’m sure it’s not
nearly
as awful as you imagine.’ She looked at him. ‘Things always get sorted out you know, in the end.’

Carl snorted. ‘Not
this
, Mum.’

He told how he’d trespassed in the office. Rooted through the archive. Found his great grandfather’s diary. Forced its lock. Read the faded entries. ‘That bit about hands, Mum – you said it sounded Victorian – it’s in the diary. And there’s more.’

His mother listened silently as he outlined the later, terrible entries. When he told her he’d
lost
the diary at school her cheeks paled. And when he’d finished they sat tense and unhappy under the palms, waiting for Dad to come home.

SEVENTY-FIVE

‘NEWSROOM.’

‘May I speak to Mr Fox? My name’s Midgley.’

‘Hang on.
Stan – lady for you. Name of Midgley
.’

‘Hi, Ms Midgley. How can I help you?’

‘You talked about the need for evidence, Mr Fox. Hard evidence. I have it for you.’

‘You
have
? Uh . . . in what form, Ms Midgley?’

‘It’s a diary. I know now that the bones at the old mill belong to Hettie Daynes, and that she was murdered. I also know who killed her, and why.’

‘Wow! Seems you’ve beaten me and Steve to it,
Ms
Midgley. Can I come round straight away, take a look at the diary?’

‘Of course, that’s why I rang. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Bethan’s eyes shone. ‘
I
’ll do the kettle, Mum.’

‘And I’ll plate up some choccy bikkies,’ volunteered Harry. He grinned. ‘I can’t wait to see Councillor Hopwood’s face when he looks at this week’s
Echo
.’

Their mother shook her head. ‘This isn’t a celebration, you know. Reginald Hopwood’s grandfather ruined an ignorant young girl, then destroyed her like an unwanted dog. We’re looking at real-life tragedy, not a TV soap.’

Fox must have broken several records and a couple of laws, driving up from Rawton. He accepted tea from Bethan, a biscuit from Harry and the diary from Christa.

‘Stanton Farley Hopwood,’ he mused. ‘The councillor’s grandfather. Sat in the council chamber for years – a churchgoer, a pillar of the community, a fornicator and a murderer. Nobody knew. Unless . . .’

Christa looked at him. ‘Unless . . .?’

‘Well.’ Fox shrugged. ‘I suspect the family
knew
, else why has my pal Reginald been so keen to keep everybody away from the reservoir since the water level dropped?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘and why did Carl say
get on the wrong side of a Hopwood and you’ll find yourself in deep water?
Or is that a coincidence, Mr Fox?’

SEVENTY-SIX

TEN AT NIGHT
. The Rover screeched to a stop outside the Hattersleys’ home. Rob had just gone up to bed. His parents were watching the news. Reginald Hopwood hurried up the path, banged on the front door.

‘Who the heck’s
that
, this time of night?’ Mr Hattersley hoisted himself out of the easy chair, grumbled his way to the door.

Rob looked out of an upstairs window and recognized the councillor. ‘Oh-oh,’ he murmured, ‘bet I know what
he
’s after.’ He headed for the stairs.

Mr Hattersley opened the door. ‘Yes, what can . . .?’

‘My name’s Councillor Hopwood. Is your son in?’

‘Y . . . yes, he’s gone to bed. Is something wrong?’

‘Yes, something’s wrong.’ Hopwood’s eyes stared, his shiny face was purple. ‘Your son stole something belonging to my son. This morning. At school. I want it back.’

Rob’s father shook his head. ‘I don’t think my lad . . .’

‘It’s OK, Dad.’ Rob joined his father in the doorway, looked Hopwood in the eye. ‘Yes, Councillor, I took your granddad’s diary.
Read
bits of it as well – the interesting bits.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t wonder you want it back.’

‘You’ll give it back
this instant
, or I’ll call the police.’

Rob shook his head. ‘Not a good career move, Councillor. Anyway, it’s not here. I passed it to the family of the murdered girl.’

‘
Rob?
’ His father plucked at Rob’s sleeve. ‘What’s all this about?
What
murdered girl – it’s like something on the telly.’

‘Family –
what
family?’ roared Hopwood, trying to barge his way past the pair, who stood
firm
. ‘There
is
no family. She was nothing but a—’ He broke off.

Rob finished the sentence for him. ‘Nothing but a hand.’

Mrs Hattersley appeared between husband and son. ‘What’s all this
shouting
?’ she cried. ‘You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood.’

‘It’s all right, Mum,’ soothed Rob. ‘The councillor’s just leaving.’ He looked at the apoplectic Hopwood. ‘The family’s seen the diary,
and
the skeleton at the mill. She was nothing but a mill girl, but they—’

‘
Skeleton?
’ croaked Hopwood. He swayed, grabbed the lintel to keep from falling. ‘There’s a—’ He pointed a shaking finger at Rob. ‘You . . . I’ll settle you later, boy, you can depend on it. Not now though . . . matters to attend to. Priorities.’ He turned, lurched towards the Rover.

Mrs Hattersley called after him, ‘I really don’t think you should drive, Mr Hopwood.’