Shepherd's Cross (3 page)

10.00
am: On approaching Banktop Farm, it soon became evident that nobody was home.
Wilf Blackett’s battered old Land Rover wasn’t parked in its usual spot in
front of the house, and the lack of chimney smoke indicated that the fire
wasn’t lit.

‘Maybe he’s popped into town,’ said
Cara. ‘He shouldn’t be long. He knew we were coming this morning.’

‘We’ll give him ten minutes. Let’s wait
here in the car. Pass the flask – we’ll have a brew.’

Cara smiled:
have a brew
– her
boss’s answer to everything. He unscrewed the lid off the flask and poured them
both a cup. He took a sip, careful not to burn his mouth, and sat back in his
seat with the relieved expression of an addict satisfying his craving. ‘I’m
parched,’ he said. ‘I ended up having one too many at The Fallen Angel last
night. You missed a good evening. Once again, Trivial Pursuit saved the day.’

‘Any gossip?’ she asked, conscious of
the fact that she hardly ever went out anymore.

‘Nothing to write home about. Frank
Gowland was drunker than usual. He was slurring on about a couple of
out-of-towners he’d spotted earlier that day walking into Ted Wilson’s office.
Pulled up in a black Range Rover, apparently. They emerged not long after, Ted
as well. Drove off up the lake road. Most likely wealthy city folk wanting to
buy up land for some sort of tax dodge.’

‘Hmmm…the chance would be a fine thing.
They could push some of their cash my way – Christmas has well and truly done
me in.’

‘Do you need a few quid to see you
through?’ Jennings asked. He was aware of her occasional cash flow problems and
didn’t like to see her struggling to make ends meet. He wasn’t exactly flush
himself, but the full pension coming his way would be enough to see him
through. Besides, he didn’t have anyone else to fuss over. He’d never married or
fathered any children. He’d always wanted to; but as the years had passed, he’d
become too set in his ways and unwilling to compromise; growing comfortable
with the kind of selfish idiosyncrasies that only a single man is allowed to
get away with.

‘Thanks, Sarge, but I’m fine,’ she lied.
‘Actually, I could do with stretching my legs. Why don’t you wait here while I
take a look around?’

Jennings needed no encouragement to
remain in the warm confines of the Police car. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You know where
I am if you need me.’

Cara nodded and opened the car door. It
was clear that Blackett wasn’t at home, but she wanted some fresh air and space
to herself. Closing the door behind her, she looked around, deciding to walk
around the back of the old stone house. The building was typical of the old
‘miner-farmer’ homesteads that were scattered across the Pennines; single
buildings combining cottage, barn and hayloft. Many of the buildings dated back
to the eighteenth century, having been built in the heyday of the North Pennine
lead industry, when over a quarter of all Britain’s lead came from nearby
mines. Rich lead veins meandered through the earth, the ground above them
becoming littered with mine shafts, smelt mills and limekilns. The hills were
criss-crossed by man-made reservoirs providing power to the giant water wheels,
with railways being built to support the ponies that pulled the lead from the
larger sites to the outside world. Many of the walking trails that dissected
the land were once old tracks that had linked the mines to the dwellings of the
workers who came from far and wide to eke out a living in this harsh
environment. While the trails may have survived, many of the settlements had
not been as fortunate, their melancholy ruins standing testament to the rise
and fall of an industry that had flourished and died over the course of a
hundred and fifty years.

Many of the farmers had used mining to
supplement their incomes, but pay and working conditions had been diabolical.
There were only two winners; the Byrne family, who had owned and ruled the
mines with a ruthless disregard for anything but their own wealth, and the
Church, which profited from the money given to it by both Lord Byrne and the
impoverished workers who filled up the pews every Sunday, praying in vain for a
better future for themselves and their families.

Cara continued around the side of the
house, breathing in the cold, refreshing air, the silence broken only by a
ragged brood of clucking hens clawing and pecking at the stony ground beneath
them. This place was still alien to her; the remoteness and isolation being a
far cry from the hustle and bustle of the world she’d grown up in.
Nevertheless, even a city-girl like her could not deny the rugged beauty of the
hills. Much of her four months in The Cross had been spent wandering around
farms like Banktop; following up leads on missing sheep or vandalism,
intentional or otherwise. With only two months of her rotation remaining, it
was highly likely that her next posting would be spent in a more urban and
challenging environment. While she would be ready to welcome the change of
scene, she was keen to appreciate the rest of her time in the ‘back-of-beyond,’
as she called it.

It wasn’t long before the sound of the
chickens was accompanied by the monotonous drone of a Land Rover, growing
louder as it drew closer to the farm. Cara woke from her daydream and returned
to the front of the house to join Jennings. She was surprised to see that he had
already left the comfort of his seat to greet Blackett as he pulled up to the
house. Rex jumped down from the back of the Land Rover and ran to the visitors,
crouching down on his haunches and barking at them, his top lip peeling back to
reveal a line of sharp, pointed teeth.

The two officers slowly and
instinctively backed away. Cara’s hand moved carefully down to her waist, her
thumb flicking open the clasp that secured her truncheon to its belt. ‘If that
fucking dog doesn’t back off, I’ll clobber it,’ she hissed to Jennings.

‘Don’t panic,’ whispered Jennings, his
eyes seeking out Blackett for reassurance. ‘Wilf, get this bloody animal under
control!’

Blackett opened the door, seemingly
oblivious to the discomfort that Rex was inflicting on his visitors. ‘Come away
by, Rex!’ he ordered. The dog immediately ran back to his master, realising
from the tone of his voice that the two strangers were not a threat to him.

‘Bloody hell, Wilf, that dog of yours is
a flamin’ liability!’ said Jennings.

‘Aye, I’m sorry about that, Brian,’ Blackett
replied. ‘He’s been in a right bad fettle all morning. He was up all night whining
away like he’d lost his tail. Mind you, I didn’t get much sleep either. Not
after finding that thing in my field.’ His thoughts returned to yesterday’s
events, still way too fresh for his memory to erase. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘won’t
you come in for a cup of tea before we get going?’

Jennings looked across at Cara; she
could tell by his face that he was keen to accept Blackett’s offer. Unfortunately
for him, she wasn’t as eager; she was scheduled to be on duty over the weekend,
and she needed to get a thousand and one things finished before heading home.
Jennings read her thoughts, nodded resignedly and turned to Blackett.

‘Sorry, Wilf, but we’ve got a lot on
today. If you don’t mind, it’s probably best that we go and see what you’ve
found.’

Blackett mustered a smile, trying to
hide his disappointment. ‘Fair enough. Why don’t you both jump into the Land
Rover and I’ll take you up there now.’

They set off up an uneven, potholed
track that wound its way through a small copse of pine trees, which served to
shield the farmhouse from the worst of the elements. Emerging onto the exposed
moors beyond, the Land Rover climbed steadily upwards, negotiating the larger
rocks and divots that hampered its progress. Jennings stared out of the window,
trying not to focus on his persistent hangover from the night before, his
backside jolting uncomfortably with every bump. A light, sleety shower began to
fall, the wetness adding to the misery of the journey. A dozen or so sheep
huddled together against the wall to shelter themselves from the cold. They
would head later to their walled pens, if the conditions worsened.

‘They reckon we’re in for a nasty few
days,’ said Blackett. ‘Heavy snow coming, apparently. Better batten down the
hatches.’

‘Aye, I heard,’ replied Jennings, his
mind visualising a nice weekend spent in front of the fire with a pot of tea
and a good book. After what seemed like an eternity, the Land Rover pulled up
alongside the inverted cross.

‘There it is,’ Blackett said, his voice
now devoid of any humour or good nature. ‘I haven’t been back here since
yesterday. I didn’t think it would look so bad in the daytime, but it still
scares the bejesus out of me. Have you ever seen anything like this before?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cara. ‘What the
hell
is
that, Sarge?’

‘We better get out and take a look,’
replied Jennings, taking control of the situation. They climbed out of the Land
Rover and walked the few steps to the scene. ‘Would you mind taking some photos
please, Cara?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ She removed a small camera
from a case clasped to her belt and proceeded to take several photographs of
the cross from various angles, as well as the sheep’s head and nearby carcass.
Jennings circled the area, studying the ground for any clue as to how it might
have ended up there. After several minutes of searching, he walked back to the
cross. Putting his hands up against it, he proceeded to try and shake it. It
stood firmly rooted in the ground, stubbornly refusing to budge an inch,
despite the officer’s considerable bulk weighing against it.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, steadying
himself against the cross in order to catch his breath. ‘There’s no moving it.
It must be six feet underground!’

Blackett came in for a closer look. ‘It
can’t be,’ he said. ‘You can tell by the untouched ground around it that it
hasn’t been dug in.’

‘Well, someone’s hammered it in straight
like a fencepost then.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Blackett. ‘The
ground’s far too hard to hammer a post that far in, even with machinery. And
the damn thing’s sticking straight up at least ten feet on top of that. You’d
need a heck of a ladder to get up there.’

‘Well, I can’t see how else it got there,’
insisted Jennings. He looked across at the discarded carcass. ‘The bastards.’

‘Bastards is the right word for them’
said Blackett, staring into the distance. ‘There’s something else…the sheep’s
head. Look…it’s pointing in the direction of Fellside Hall. And there’s someone
there.’

‘There can’t be,’ Jennings said. He
followed Blackett’s gaze towards the Hall, which stood between them and
Shepherd’s Cross in the valley below. ‘What on earth? There’s smoke coming from
one of the chimneys.’

‘Why does that surprise you?’ asked
Cara, having never had anything to do with the Hall since taking up her post.

‘It surprises me,’ replied Jennings, ‘because
nobody has lived in Fellside Hall for over eighty years.’

10.30am:
‘Well, Reuben, what do you think?’ Benedict Blackmoor was staring out of a
narrow, arched window as he questioned the other man, his dark eyes focusing on
a kestrel hovering above the tall, unkempt grass that had once been an
immaculately maintained lawn. A broken wall, which many years ago would have
been whitewashed to compliment the lush green hue of the lawn, stumbled along
the far side of the garden. The wall tapered in the middle to create a small
flight of five steps leading down to a meandering stream, which further along
its journey would gather in pace and stature to become the magnificent River
Derwent.

‘It’s going to need a lot of work, but
there’s nothing here that can’t be mended.’

‘Good. But we need to get started
immediately.’ The kestrel drifted further along the field, scanning the terrain
underneath it for a suitable meal. Blackmoor no longer paid it any attention;
his gaze shifted to the panoramic hills that rose and fell in the distance. He
smiled when he found the target of his search, the faint outline of the
inverted cross that broke the otherwise undulating pattern of the horizon. ‘A
shame to let a building as fine as this go to ruin.’ He turned away from the
window to face his friend. ‘But I suppose nature gets the better of us all in
the end. Did you remember to ask Mr Wilson about reliable tradesmen?’

‘He will be providing me with a list
this afternoon. I informed him that every arrangement must be sanctioned and
supervised by myself, and under no circumstance should anybody approach Fellside
Hall directly without prior consent.’

‘Did he appear suspicious?’

‘Not particularly. Although I’m not entirely
convinced of his ability to keep our business to himself. When we met with him
yesterday, I felt him to be somewhat loose-tongued.’

‘Hmm…perhaps we should tighten his leash
a little. It may be prudent for me to pay Mr Wilson a further visit to clarify
the precise nature of our relationship. We can’t afford any avoidable mishaps
at this stage.’ Blackmoor closed his eyes, pausing to reflect on the work that
lay ahead of them, and the weight of responsibility resting upon his shoulders.
He had been working towards this moment for years; meticulously planning every
detail. He sighed and opened his eyes, his dark, heavily-lined face relaxing momentarily.
‘I shouldn’t worry so much,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to work out fine.’ He
smiled at his friend. ‘Now, to matters in hand. Let us explore this wonderful
house.’

‘Why don’t we start our tour with the
Round Room? I think you’ll find it perfect for its intended purpose.’

‘Good idea, Reuben. Lead the way.’

The two men turned and walked together
across the dusty parquet floor, approaching a pair of solid wooden doors that
stood at one end of what was formerly the grand ballroom. The room stood at the
heart of the Hall, where, in former times it had played host to many a lavish
party. It was now a mere shadow of its former glory, all bar one of the tall
arched windows had either been broken or boarded up. The Hall had never been
fitted with electricity, its previous owners being reliant on candlelight and
oil lamps to illuminate the rooms after sunset. The damp, decaying odour of
dereliction seemed to ooze from every pore of the building, suffocating the air
and remorselessly penetrating every nook and cranny. The extent of the decline
was matched only by the pervading silence; an unnerving, deep silence that
added to the feeling that every move was being watched by some ghostly entity
residing in the fabric of the walls and ceilings. The darkness, decay and
stillness fused to cast an overriding aura of abandonment and death. It was
perhaps no surprise, therefore, that nobody of sound mind had chosen to make Fellside
Hall their home since the demise of its previous inhabitants almost a century
ago.

Nobody, that was, until the arrival
earlier that day of two enigmatic gentlemen from London.