Bitter Inheritance (12 page)

Sally found that she was more cheerful as the winter went on. The whole world was brighter, because she sometimes saw Marcus and she knew that he was making an effort to see her.

‘Your butter sells faster than any!’ Emma remarked brightly one cold day. And it was true; the old customers had come back and Sally’s butter was appreciated by the Ripon housewives for tasting as it should and lasting a long time. A quick sale meant that the girls had just a little time to spare to look round the town, before they plodded back to Thorpe and the evening chores. And when Marcus joined them he was very happy to show Emma the historical side of the little city, with its ancient cathedral.

‘It’s important to see you,’ he said quietly to Sally, one day when Emma went on ahead. In spite of the feud, the attraction was still there and they both felt it. Sally agreed. She thought about Marcus more often than she should perhaps, but time with him was precious, even time in public and walking in the town.

‘Let’s go down Kirkgate, Emma would like that!’ Sally said one day. They only had a short time; they had to get Jed and the trap back to Thorpe before dark. So they strode out briskly, talking as they went, admiring the ancient buildings.

Afterwards Sally would think of those times in Ripon as the happiest of the winter, as she and Marcus talked easily about history and gardens, and anything that came into their heads. Because Emma was there it was not possible to discuss the problems of the Radford-Mason quarrel, or even their own feelings. But this liberated them, Sally thought. They came to appreciate each other on an everyday level and put the future to the back of their minds.

‘I sometimes think,’ said Sally dreamily, as they walked back to the trap in the fading light, ‘that living in the present is best!’

And Marcus, smiling at her, agreed. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’

And then Sally said for Emma’s benefit, ‘Those folks who lived in the little medieval town must have had a hard time, I always think.’

‘But they didn’t know anything else.’ Emma was practical, as always. ‘So they probably didn’t find it was hard.’

Thick snow fell in February and Thorpe was cut off for a while from the outside world. Trips to Ripon stopped; even the carrier stayed at home. The snow muffled the usual village sounds, wrapping
the cottages in silence, even muting the Sunday church bell.

There was always plenty of food in the larders to last through the winter and the villagers were used to being self-sufficient. But normal work was impossible, so the young lads turned to digging tracks along the street, down to the pond. Thorpe pond was frozen hard and it was time for skating.

‘Can you skate, Emma?’ Sally asked her helper. ‘We’ve an old pair of my skates that might fit you.’

Emma said she’d never tried and looked rather doubtful.

Most of the village went to the pond that night. The blacksmith gave candles which were arranged round the pond in jars, giving a pretty effect. Young people skated, laughed and teased each other while the older folks looked on. Someone played a mouth organ and Martha cooked hot chestnuts over a fire. It was a sort of impromptu village festival, all the better because Thorpe was isolated by the snowdrifts. Only Thorpe people were there and that was a good thing, Sally told Emma. ‘Kirkby hasn’t got a pond and Kirkby folk would be here for the skating if they could, getting in the way!’

Being cut off was a sort of relief for Sally. She knew that there was no hope of seeing Marcus until the roads were clear; she could settle down and stop being restless. There was still no word about the tenancy but with her usual optimism, she decided that no news was good news.

‘You can watch from the window, it’s too cold outside. It’s quite a pretty scene!’ Sally told Simon, as she made up the fire in his room before she went down herself to skate on the pond.

‘You look charming tonight, Sally. How I love the colour of your hair!’ Simon was gazing at her again, speaking softly in his educated voice with only a hint of the West Riding accent that was so different from the Thorpe dialect.

‘Goodness me, you artists do make personal comments! Have you plenty to read?’ Sally asked him in a matter-of-fact way, blushing slightly. ‘We’ll be back in time for supper.’

Sally and Emma made their way over the green and Robin spotted them from the far side of the pond. ‘Come on, Sal, we always skate together!’ Robin grabbed her and off they went, holding hands as they circled the ice, going faster and faster as they gained
momentum. They were laughing, Sally was breathless and just for a minute or two she felt happy, caught up in the moment.

Emma watched from the bank but was afraid to go on the ice. ‘Next time I’ll try it,’ she promised.

Robin and Sally glided towards her and one on each side supported Emma on to the ice. ‘Come on Emma, trust us!’ Sally wanted the girl to enjoy skating as much as she did. She managed a few yards with their support, but then Emma fell down and Robin picked her up and took her to the bank. ‘That’s enough, you’ll be bruised, poor lass. I’ll take you home.’

‘No, please go round again with Sally. You skate so well together! I’ll have a chestnut with Martha.’ Emma went off and Robin took Sally’s arm again. This time the pair went over to where there were fewer skaters and tried some more complicated figures on the ice.

‘We’re pretty good, considering we’ve had no practice since last winter!’ Robin said as he caught Sally round the waist and took off again, looping and swerving, dodging in and out of the beginners.

‘You’re showing off!’ laughed Sally.

All too soon, it was time to take off their skates. Laughing and talking they crossed the green to Badger’s Gill. Emma put the kettle on the range for supper and Robin sliced a big teacake his mother had made. Sally ran lightly upstairs to see what Simon would like to eat and knocked on his door. There was no reply.

‘Simon!’ Sally called. Perhaps he was asleep? But the room was silent. Heart thumping, Sally walked into the room. Simon was slumped in the chair by the open window, cold and unconscious. His lips were blue. Terrified, Sally flew downstairs to tell the others, and they raced upstairs with her.

‘I’ll go for the doctor!’ Robin’s reaction was immediate. ‘Cover him with a blanket, he feels cold.’

It was a long wait until the doctor arrived. Sally sat in a chair beside Simon, watching his shallow breathing and wondering if there was anything else she could do for him. After about half an hour Emma brought Sally a cup of tea and as she drank it, she saw a movement of Simon’s head. Gradually he opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘That was a bad one.’

He must have had attacks like this before, Sally thought.
Perhaps we shouldn’t leave him alone for too long. She felt guilty now, for having fun on the ice. ‘Oh Simon, I wish I could help you! What caused this, do you think?’

‘You don’t really want to know.’ The grey eyes closed again. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes, I do. So we know how we can look after you better.’ Sally turned towards him.

Simon sighed, reached out and took her hand. ‘You caused it. Skating with Robin down there, happy, carefree … and me up here peering out at you like an old man.’ He shook his head. ‘I was jealous, Sally, and got upset, and I’m not allowed to get upset.’

‘Poor lad!’ Sally’s eyes filled with tears of sympathy.

‘I might as well tell you what the problem is. I’m head over heels in love with you, Sally, my dearest. So now you know.’ Simon lay back, exhausted.

The door opened suddenly and the doctor bustled in. Sally was thankful for the diversion and went downstairs, her thoughts whirling. Was Simon really in love with her or was it just a case of his condition? This complicated the situation considerably. She didn’t want to lose a valuable paying guest who was also a pleasant enough companion. But Simon might not wish to stay.

‘Sally, we might not be able to keep him if he’s really ill.’ Emma was evidently worried about the threat to their livelihood as well as being concerned for Simon.

What if he were really in love with her? If she rejected him it might make his health worse. But in all honesty, Sally couldn’t pretend to a love that she didn’t feel. She knew now just how love felt, knew that this gentle regard she had for Simon was nowhere near the real thing.

The doctor came down and was given water to wash his hands. He looked grave. ‘Absolute rest for a week in bed I’m afraid,’ he pronounced. He was a locum, deputizing for their usual Dr Bishop. ‘I have given him a dose of opium to make him sleep – he seems agitated. And now,’ he lowered his voice and drew Sally aside, ‘I have advised the young man to make a will, I said I would ask you to make the necessary arrangements. He may live for another fifty years of course. But I have my doubts.’

‘Well, if it isn’t young Mr Radford! Come your ways in, sir! What will you have to drink?’ Sol Bartram’s fat face creased into a smile as he waddled forward eagerly.

Marcus Radford had meant to go back to Thorpe before now, but work and the snow had prevented the journey. Thorpe had been on his mind for weeks … and now it was nearly spring. Stooping to go through the inn door, he took off his gloves and went to the fire. He’d better have lunch before doing business.

‘I’m here instead of my father. He has a few concerns about the Thorpe farms and wants to know your views. It will soon be Lady Day.’ He glanced out of the window at the cold March sunshine. ‘But he can’t spare the time to come over here himself.’ This was more or less true; Marcus had offered to go to Thorpe on behalf of Oliver the last time they had met. To his surprise his father had been pleased to let Marcus visit that part of their estates. He’d refused in fact to go to Badger’s Gill to see for himself the state of the farm.

‘I really don’t want to meet the woman!’ Oliver had seemed quite agitated. ‘And as I said before, I would rather you kept away from Masons too. But I’ll leave it to your judgement as to what to do about the tenancy. I probably shouldn’t, but you’re old enough now to take some of the responsibility. You know my views.’

Marcus was actually wondering what the old boy’s thinking was. Did he secretly want Sally to stay on the farm, or did he want her to leave? It was odd that he’d left the decision to Marcus.

Sitting in the bar with a mug of the Crown’s home brewed beer, Marcus reflected that Sol Bartram was not the man he would have
chosen as their agent in Thorpe if he’d had the responsibility years ago, when Sol had wormed his way into the job. In the weeks since he had rescued Sally from the snowdrift on the moor, Marcus had thought carefully about the situation. It was, he told himself, weak of him to give up too easily. His memories of the girl had a sort of radiance and they all increased his admiration for her approach to life, reinforced by the meetings in Ripon. Sally hadn’t complained after the accident, where other women would have had hysterics. She’d been bruised and trapped for some time, but she made light of her injuries. She worked hard, she sold butter to make the farm pay and the customers loved her. The young lady was obviously running the farm very well and Marcus had told his father so. The brief twilight tour of the farmyard had been enough for his experienced eye to see that Sally and her ‘staff’ knew what they were doing.

And then their kiss in the stable had told him that she responded to his warmth until she remembered that he was a Radford. It always came back, in the end, to the problem of the feud. Marcus sighed and attacked his pork pie. Could that problem ever be solved?

Sol came back to clear his plate away and Marcus asked him to sit down. ‘How are things in this part of the world?’ He started with an open question to see what would come up.

The agent lit his pipe, sending clouds of acrid smoke to the stained ceiling. ‘Well, Mr Marcus, the Camp Hill tenant’s a good lad. Seems to be framing well. But he wants to see you, needs a shed repaired. And old Brownlee over at Biggin, he’s talking about retiring.’

Marcus leaned back on the settle and waited.

‘But I have to say that Badger’s Gill’s run down. Getting worse every day. A young lass can’t run a farm of course, we all know that. I told yer father, she’ll have to go.’

‘What’s wrong at Badger’s Gill?’ Marcus was non-committal.

‘Why, everything! Sheep’s out in village, walls down, weeds everywhere. Cattle starving, so she’ll surely not manage to pay rent. It’s a bad job.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Best thing for her and you is to clear her out.’

Marcus looked at the fire, thinking. Should he call Sol a liar or
go along with the fiction? Sally’s cattle were sleek and well-fed. He looked up and saw the man was watching him closely. ‘Who’ve you told about this?’

Sol laughed. ‘It’s common knowledge, round here!’

‘I see.’ Marcus looked hard at the agent. ‘And what do you suggest we do with the farm if the tenant leaves next month?’

A crafty expression crossed Sol’s face. ‘I can take it off your hands if you like, to oblige. Save you looking for somebody else. With my experience place’ll soon improve. I could buy stock off her, save her the trouble of a farm sale. Won’t be worth much I can tell you.’

‘Thank you, Sol.’ Marcus looked at the man with distaste. His motive was obvious; he’d thought that Sally would be easy to push over and that his argument about women farmers would clinch the matter. But Marcus didn’t intend to make an enemy of the man. Not yet. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘That we’d better leave Badger’s Gill as it is for the time being. My father can come over and inspect.’ He saw Sol wince at this. ‘We will give the tenant another year to see how she goes.’

‘You’ll rue the day, mark my words!’ Sol was openly disappointed. ‘But it’s up to you, boss. Thought you’d be glad to see the back of Masons!’

This gave Marcus an opening. ‘I suppose you’d be too young to remember what happened between Radfords and Masons? I’ve never really understood.’ He made his voice casual.

‘Nay, my old father had some newspaper cuttings, but wife threw them out years ago. I understood that young Mason murdered yer grandfather and then denied it. He got away with it, too!’

‘Nobody seems to know what really happened,’ Marcus murmured as indifferently as he could. It was time to change the subject and talk about grain prices, but Sol had given Marcus a slender clue. If there had been a newspaper report of the death he might be able to find it in the archives at the
Clarion
. He would visit the newspaper offices the next time he was in Ripon.

He was tempted to visit Sally while he was in Thorpe, tell her she was to keep the tenancy and see her face light up. But that would be a mistake. Marcus didn’t want her to know that he’d had
anything to do with that decision. Their relationship, if they ever got so far, would be one of equality. A modern idea and no doubt one that Oliver would laugh at. The other reason for avoiding Badger’s Gill was that he wanted to find out more about the ‘murder’ before he saw Sally again.

Leaving the Crown, Marcus deliberately turned his back on the Ripon end of the village where Sally lived. But he was looking out for a redheaded young lady until he was half way to Masham.

Marcus left the newspaper offices the next week feeling distinctly weary after hours of dusty searching through old yellowed papers of fifty years ago. He pulled back his aching shoulders out of habit and strode down towards the town centre. Too much time had gone by and he wanted to see Sally before she left the market.

At least the time hadn’t been entirely wasted, he thought as he shouldered through the market crowd. In the end the big bound folders had yielded a few paragraphs about the presumed death of William Radford, Billy, to his neighbours. Marcus had copied them out, rather than rely on memory.

The newspaper reported the mysterious disappearance of Mr Radford, a well-respected farmer in the prime of life. One thing that Marcus gleaned was from the tone of the piece: there was no breath of blame attached to the other victim, Samuel Mason, who had been ‘fortunate to survive’. Mr Mason had been interviewed, no doubt reluctantly, but he had agreed to talk to the
Clarion
. He said that he had been extremely ill after the event and that ‘everything was blue’. He could remember nothing of what happened except that he had found himself alone at night several miles from home, three days after they had gone into the wood.

Where had they been for those missing three days? And what did ‘blue’ mean? The journalist must have written it down without understanding it. Was it metaphorical, meaning that he was sad? And why was he ill?

The redhead was visible to someone who was looking for her, half way across the square. And Emma, the young helper, was with her. As Marcus got nearer he saw that Sally was selling her last pound of butter. The tall man strode straight up and was greeted with a radiant smile. Sally was prettier than ever, he thought.

‘Hoped I might find you here … I’ve been reading old newspapers. …’ And he told her briefly what he had discovered. ‘Nothing definite, but at least I could see that Mason wasn’t blamed, publicly at least.’

‘Thank you, Marcus. I wish we could find out more!’ Sally felt happy to know that the mystery meant so much to Marcus. Their occasional Thursday meetings were no doubt noticed by the gossips and the curious, but no comments reached Sally. If the three of them walked across the square or down to the cathedral, talking all the time, they were not so noticeable as if Marcus and Sally were alone together.

Leaving Sally, Marcus collected his horse and headed out of Ripon. But half a mile out of the town he had a thought that made him turn back. Although he had been warned never to ask Grandmother about the death, he would go to see her. Serious investigators – Sherlock Holmes came to mind – went over a story many times, picking up different pieces of the puzzle until they could make a pattern. He would do the same, treading softly so as not to upset the old lady.

Grandmother Radford lived quietly in a small house in Ripon, attended by an ancient maid. The family called to see her as a duty but Marcus had not been there for some time, he thought guiltily as he tied his horse to the rail.

The maid met him at the door with the usual grim face and led him into the parlour, which was extremely hot. Grandmother had large fires winter and summer. Sweating, Marcus sat upright on a slippery sofa, eating seed cake which he disliked and drinking scalding hot tea. I am suffering for my sins, he thought wryly. There was small talk and the old lady questioned him closely about the family. His brother Tom was studying in Edinburgh and he had to report on the lad’s progress. Next, Grandmother wanted to know all about Oliver’s doings. She was always more interested in Oliver than in anybody else.

‘My father was a very good horseman I believe, when he was young?’

A spate of stories about his father followed. ‘You boys were never as good as Oliver! Left without a father, he was determined to succeed in everything he did.’ She smoothed her black dress
with wrinkled hands.

Marcus knew that Billy’s brother, Walter, had taken over the farms and run them until Oliver was old enough to take over. Walter had no children and so Oliver was the sole heir. A convenient arrangement, which seemed to have worked well enough.

‘But he had a good uncle, had he not?’

‘Of course, his uncle was there. My chief worry for Oliver was always his health. He did too much. I was so afraid that he had inherited his father’s weak heart, but time has shown that this was not the case.’

The old girl is still sharp, Marcus thought. ‘I didn’t know we had heart problems in the family! What exactly was the trouble?’

Grandmother sat upright, shoulders back, staring at him and suddenly Marcus had a thought. I look just like her. Oh, dear, how grim I must look!

‘No trouble.’ She was scornful. ‘Radfords are very healthy! Billy was perfectly able to live a normal life. But he was told by doctors that his heartbeat was slow and it could have developed into an illness. He was warned not to over-exert himself and fortunately we had plenty of labourers, so that was not necessary.’

Marcus leaned forward. ‘Grandmother, I hate to ask you this. But – do you remember anything about Grandfather’s death?’

The old lady stood up with the aid of her stick and turned to the fireplace, looking away from Marcus. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘We never discuss it. You are very wrong to ask.’ She swung round to glare at her grandson. ‘But yes, I know that he was murdered. By Samuel Mason, who should have been hanged. That man robbed me of my husband, my youth and my happiness. I shall never forget.’

After that, it was back to small talk again until the old lady recovered. After about quarter of an hour Marcus decided that it was time to leave, and pecked Grandmother on the cheek as he went out.

‘Tell your father to come to see me!’

Grandmother always left Marcus with a feeling of coldness. His other grandmother had been warm and cuddled him, but that was long ago. She was dead, as was his dear mother. And he was a grown man … but a little affection, a little less acid, would have
been welcome. However, his grandmother might have given him another tiny clue: the weak heart. It might mean nothing. Marcus jogged home in the moonlight, thinking about the events of fifty years ago. There were only two more things he could do and nothing made sense as yet. He could visit the wood where Billy Radford disappeared. And he could talk to his father. He was due to see Oliver that week and had intended to ride over to Nidd Grange. But on the table waiting for him at home was an invitation, in the familiar spiky writing: ‘Time you got out and stopped moping. We’ve been invited to Mrs Russell’s, on Masham Square. Be there at 5 p.m. on Thursday for dinner. And wear a clean shirt. O.R.’

Clean shirt indeed! Marcus knew that he didn’t dress so well as Oliver, who always looked elegant and was measured by the best tailors for expensive tweeds. But Marcus was extremely clean and neat; the difference was that he preferred plain unobtrusive clothes.

Marcus was in Masham on time. The two men stabled their horses at the King’s Head, not far along the street from Mrs Russell’s house and Marcus decided to book a room at the inn for the night rather than face another long ride home. To his surprise so did Oliver. ‘Not so young as I was,’ the older man admitted.

Mrs Russell had been a friend of his mother’s and Marcus knew her quite well. She was a widow in comfortable circumstances, he supposed. Her husband had been a substantial farmer, but there were no sons and after his death the farm had been sold. Mrs Russell’s house was stone built and double fronted, with lighted windows looking on to the square. As the men approached a maid drew the heavy curtains, but not before Marcus had seen the dining-room ablaze with candles, silver and polished wood.