The Shade of Hettie Daynes (16 page)

‘Oh,’ continued Christa, ‘and she’s already decided what she intends to go as
next
year – I assume she’s talking about the Hallowe’en Hop. She’s going to go as
our skeleton
, whatever that means.’ She eyed her daughter narrowly. ‘I suppose
you
know what it means, Bethan?’

Bethan hung her head. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well? What is
our skeleton
?’

‘It’s . . . we found it, Mum. At the old mill.’

‘
What
old mill? What are you talking about, child?’

Harry broke in. ‘She means the mill at Wilton Water, Mum. Hopwood Mill. There’s a skeleton. Human. We found it.’

His mother stared. ‘
When
, Harry? When did all this happen, and why am I the last to know about it?’

‘It was last Saturday,’ said Harry. ‘The eighth. We didn’t tell you because . . . because it’s our adventure.’

‘And because we think it’s Hettie Daynes,’ added Bethan.

‘Whoa, just a minute.’ Christa sank onto a chair, gazed at her children. ‘It sounds to me as though you’ve both been practically
living
by that reservoir, in spite of the fact that I’ve asked you to stay away from it, and in defiance of warnings at school
and
in the
Echo
about its being dangerous.’

‘We’ve been really, really careful, Mum,’ murmured Bethan. ‘Mr Wood and Mr Fox
both
told us what to do, and we’ve taken notice.’

Christa looked at her. ‘Does Steve Wood know about this skeleton?’

Bethan shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Mum.
We
didn’t show it to him.’ She tried on a smile. ‘Grown-ups spoil everything.’

‘And who’s Mr Fox?’

‘He’s the chief reporter on the
Echo
, Mum,’ said Harry.

His mother nodded. ‘Yes, of course. And what about him – has
he
seen the skeleton?’

‘He’s seen our snapshots of it.’

‘There are
snapshots
?’

‘Yes, Mum. D’you want to see them?’

Christa covered her face with her hands, shook her head. ‘What
I
want, Harry, is for my
children
not
to be leading a secret life, involving ghosts and skeletons and reservoirs. I want the
police
to deal with any skeletons that might be around. I want priests or psychic investigators to cope with ghosts. I want my children to lead dull, unadventurous lives
here
, at number eight, Leaf Street.’ She dropped her hands. ‘Since you ask me what I want, Harry –
that’s
what I want.’

SIXTY-FIVE

SATURDAY MORNING. FOX
came out of the
Echo
building and practically bumped into Steve Wood. ‘Now then, Steve.’ Wood had occasional pieces printed in the
Echo
, and was a frequent user of the newspaper’s library.

‘Stan.’ Wood grinned. ‘Just off to cover the Rovers match, are you?’ Rawton Rovers were away to Lincoln that day.

‘Nah.’ The reporter shook his head. ‘Not my interest, mate. Colleague of mine’s a fan, I let
him
cover the Rovers. I’m poking about in what you might call a local mystery.’

The historian smiled. ‘Sounds more like
my
sort of thing.’

Fox nodded. ‘I suppose it is, Steve. It concerns Wilton Water.’

Wood looked at him. ‘That’s a coincidence.
I
’m researching a fascinating piece of local history at the reservoir too.’

Fox smiled. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence, Steve. Would your bit of history involve a skeleton?’

Wood looked startled. ‘How the heck did
you
know, Stan? I thought it was my secret. Well . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Mine and the kids who found it.’

The reporter nodded. ‘I met some kids last Saturday in the bus shelter. They had a camera. Showed me snapshots they’d taken of a skeleton, in the old mill.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Steve. ‘That’s where it is.’ He kicked a pebble into the road. ‘I was at your place Monday, looking for stuff on Hettie Daynes.’ He looked at Fox. ‘You know, the mad lass who disappeared? The bones’re about a century old. I thought there was a slim chance they might be hers.’

Fox nodded. ‘Find anything?’

‘Nothing till a couple of years after she’s
supposed
to have vanished. Then it was just a piece about the saying,
daft as Hettie Daynes
. Didn’t help at all.’ He grinned. ‘Found her in the census records though. Mill girl, lived on Prince’s Street in Wilton. One of seven kids.’

The reporter shrugged. ‘Not unusual in those days.’ He pulled a face. ‘Anyway, the age of the bones scuppers
my
theory.’

Wood shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. What
was
your theory?’

The reporter snorted. ‘Daren’t tell you, Steve, it involved a local resident. Sue the pants off me if he got wind of it.’

Wood frowned. ‘What made you think . . .?’

‘Let’s just say somebody seemed to have a keen interest in keeping nosy parkers away from Wilton Water, so when those kids showed me their snapshots, it occurred to me there might have been a murder.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘A
recent
one, I mean.’

‘Ah.’ The historian thought for a moment. ‘There
might
have been a murder though,’ he murmured, ‘a hundred years ago, because’ – he looked at Fox – ‘the skeleton’s female, and the lass was expecting a baby.’

SIXTY-SIX

‘MUM?’

‘What is it, Carl?’ Felicity slid an enormous steak pie into the oven. Reginald was at the Wilton Community Centre, making himself available to his public.
My monthly surgery
, he called it, and it always left him both ravenous and ratty. The pie would fix the ravenous part: only time would fix the ratty.

‘What’s a hand?’

‘A hand?’ She closed the oven door and straightened up. ‘Whatever d’you mean, dear? You know perfectly well what a hand is.’

‘No.’ Carl shook his head. ‘I mean a hand
as
in,
silly little fool surely can’t imagine my father’s plans for me include marriage to one of his hands
.’

Felicity looked puzzled. ‘What’s
that
from, Carl – something you’re reading at school?’

Carl nodded. ‘Yes, Mum, I read it at school.’

‘Well.’ His mother frowned. ‘It sounds to me like Victorian literature.
Is
it?’

‘Yes, it was written in Victorian times.’

‘I don’t recognize it – what’s the title?’

‘A journal.’

Felicity shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it, but in those days factory workers were known as hands.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I suppose that was the only part of them their employers cared about – the part that did the work. Anyway, it sounds to me as though the character in your book is a young man who’s become involved with a girl – a factory hand. His family is probably from a higher class than hers, so his father won’t want him to marry her.’ She smiled. ‘Am I close?’

Carl nodded. ‘Pretty much, Mum, yeah.’ He left the kitchen, went to his room and took the diary out of his backpack. He lay on the bed, propped by pillows, and read on.

October seventeenth:

She weeps around the village: how can it not come out? I contemplate drastic measures. If I’m driven to act on them, she’s only herself to blame
.

October nineteenth:

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

October twentieth (written in a shaky hand):

It is done. I do most fervently wish it had not proved necessary, but she drove me to it. Soon the rising waters will conceal my crime, but will prove insufficient to the cleansing of my soul, upon which the Lord have mercy
.

‘I’ve
seen
you, haven’t I?’ breathed Carl. ‘Bonfire Night, at the res, standing on nothing. No
wonder
you gave me that look.’

He couldn’t stop shivering.

SIXTY-SEVEN

SUNDAY MORNING AT
eight Leaf Street. After a hard week at the minimarket Christa was sleeping late, her dreams haunted by snapshots of bones and spectres. Harry and Bethan crept about downstairs, making breakfast, hoping Mum might wake in a better frame of mind.

The phone rang.

‘Drat!’ Harry strode across the kitchen and picked up. ‘Yes?’ He hoped it hadn’t disturbed his mother.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ A man’s voice.

‘Harry Midgley, who’s this?’

‘Fox, the
Echo
. We met at the bus shelter. Is your mother there?’

‘She’s having a lie-in Mr Fox. Can
I
help?’

‘I really need to speak to your mum, Harry. It’s about the skeleton, and Hettie Daynes.’

‘Mum doesn’t like talking about Hettie Daynes.’

‘I know,’ said Fox, ‘but I fancy she’ll be interested in what I have to say. I know I promised but things have come to light, it’s gone beyond a kids’ adventure. Tell her I’ll call round sometime after two.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Bethan, pouring milk on her cornflakes.

Harry pulled a face. ‘Stan Fox. You know, the reporter? He’s coming to see Mum. Wants to talk about Hettie Daynes and the skeleton.’

‘But . . .’ Bethan slopped milk on the tablecloth.

‘I
know
, I know. He pulled the grown-up act –
you kids don’t understand these things
. Typical.’ He tossed his sister a cloth.

SIXTY-EIGHT

‘MS MIDGLEY – THANKS
for seeing me. And for this.’ Fox raised his coffee cup.

Christa shrugged. ‘I don’t consider I had a choice, Mr Fox. You invited yourself while I slept.’

The reporter smiled ruefully. ‘That’s absolutely true, Ms Midgley. I hope you’ll feel my rudeness was justified when you’ve heard what I have to say.’

Christa frowned at Fox in the other armchair. She’d sent Harry and Bethan upstairs on his arrival. ‘My son tells me it’s to do with my great, great aunt.’ She shook her head. ‘There are
things
in families – highly personal things – which members prefer to keep inside the family. The brief, tragic story of Hettie Daynes is a case in point.’