The Shade of Hettie Daynes (7 page)

TWENTY-THREE

FIRST THING TUESDAY
morning, Bethan found her friend in the yard. ‘Hi, Aly.’

‘Hi yourself.’ Alison studied Bethan’s face. ‘What’s up – you look like you lost a solid gold bangle or something.’

Bethan sighed. ‘It’s worse than that. Listen. I’ve something to tell you, and a favour to ask.’

‘Go on.’

Bethan told her friend what happened yesterday tea time. When she’d finished, Aly said, ‘Oh heck – I can see why your mum’s upset. You’re going to ask me to drop the idea, aren’t you?’

‘No.’ Bethan shook her head. ‘I was awake half the night thinking, and you won’t need to drop it – just change it a bit.’

‘Change it
how
?’

‘Well, you think the
ghost
is Hettie, don’t you?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘So don’t go as Hettie Daynes, just go as the ghost.’

‘That’ll make a difference?’

‘ ’
Course
it will. Mum doesn’t believe in the ghost – says it’s only a tale, so if you go as the ghost she’ll have no objection.’ She gazed at her friend. ‘Do it, Aly – for me. It’ll still be original.’

Alison was quiet for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Yes, OK.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’ll need a long black skirt instead of a torn one, and lots of white make-up instead of dirt.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll be like a Goth. And I’ll stand pointing down like she does. It’ll be
dead
dramatic.’

Tea time, Bethan said, ‘Mum, I talked to Aly. She’s changed her mind, she won’t go as Hettie Daynes. She’s going as the ghost of Wilton Water.’

Christa nodded. ‘That’s much better, Bethan. And what about you – what will
you
go as?’

Harry grinned. ‘She could go as
herself
, Mum – scare everyone to death.’

‘Yes,’ snapped Bethan, ‘or I could go as
you
– I don’t think anyone’s been as the village idiot before.’

TWENTY-FOUR

NOTHING MUCH HAPPENED
in the next few days. Thursday, Harry and Rob took a detour on the way home to check out Wilton Water. The level was down a bit, but the main change was that the footpath round the reservoir had been sealed off at both ends by high mesh fences.

‘Bummer!’ growled Rob, hooking his fingers through the mesh and shaking it. ‘I was dying to see what’s left of Hopwood Mill. Now we can’t get near.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t know why old Well ’ard bothered sending that note round, it’s
like
a flippin’ prison camp. Only needs towers with lights and machine guns.’

Rob pulled a face. ‘Probably putting them up tomorrow.’ He hacked at the turf with the toe of his shoe. ‘We could tunnel under though – the mesh doesn’t continue underground.’

Harry tried a bit of hacking himself. He grinned. ‘Sound idea, my friend. Got to get in somehow – I promised my sister an adventure.’ He gazed through the fence at the darkening water. ‘
The Phantom of Wilton Water
, starring Harry and Bethan Midgley. Best supporting actor, Rob Hattersley.’

‘Clown.’ Rob turned to leave, and groaned. ‘Oh no.’

Carl Hopwood was leaning in the gateway with his hands in his pockets, watching them. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘What do you scruffs think you’re doing? Didn’t you get the Head’s note?’

‘We’re just looking,’ growled Rob.

‘Yeah,’ sneered Hopwood, ‘and I’m just looking at
you
.’ He nodded towards the fence. ‘My dad had that put up. He didn’t go to all that trouble just so losers like you could do criminal damage to it.’ He eyeballed them. ‘We’re a long way from
school
. Old Woollard might not be able to keep an eye on Wilton Water but we can, and we will. Me, Shaun and Nigel. We catch you here, we’ll shove you into that mesh so hard you’ll come out the other side as chips.’

The pair watched the bully depart. ‘No wonder they haven’t bothered with lights and machine guns,’ muttered Harry.

TWENTY-FIVE

AFTER TEA, HARRY
pulled Bethan into his room, closed the door and asked, ‘Have you been past the res lately?’

Bethan shook her head. ‘Saturday was the last time, when I took the snapshot. Why?’

‘It’s fenced off, you can’t get on the footpath.’

Bethan frowned. ‘Who’s done that? Why would they want to . . .?’

‘Carl reckons his stupid dad got it done, for safety. And Carl’s made himself chief of the reservoir police. He caught me and Rob there just now.’

‘What the heck’s it got to do with
him
, the red-faced creep?’

Harry shrugged. ‘You know what he’s like, just because his dad’s a councillor. Probably thinks nobody should get a look at the old mill ’cause it used to be theirs.’

Bethan looked at her brother. ‘So what are you saying, Harry – that we should just forget about our investigation? Our first genuine adventure?’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’ He grinned. ‘Think about it, Sis. It’ll be a
bigger
adventure, won’t it, high steel fences and Carl’s performing cave trolls to watch out for. We’ll have to be ice cool, totally focused.’

Bethan smiled. ‘So we go for it?’

Harry nodded. ‘When d’you want to start?’

‘Well . . .’ His sister thought for a moment. ‘I think we ought to wait till after the Hallowe’en Hop. I haven’t made my costume yet, and I won’t be able to focus on anything else till it’s done.’

‘That’s eight days,’ said Harry. ‘With a bit of luck, they’ll have got the water level right down and there’ll be something to see. What’re you going as, by the way?’

Bethan shrugged. ‘I’m thinking of going as
a
witch’s familiar. A black cat. It’s a dead simple costume to make – black leotard, tail, mask with ears and whiskers, maybe a broomstick to ride on. It doesn’t matter really – Aly’s bound to win as the ghost. Hey.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe the ghost’s guarding a treasure chest. We could end up millionaires.’

TWENTY-SIX

FRIDAY EVENING, HOPWOOD
House. The family at dinner: Councillor Reginald Hopwood, his wife Felicity and their son, Carl. The dining room is large, the table long. At one time, staff cooked and served all meals eaten here, but this enviable way of life began to fade when the waters closed over Hopwood Mill, and died altogether in Reginald’s grandfather’s time. Now, meals are Felicity’s job. Today she’s cooked pasta, and the portraits of old Josiah and his wife scowl down in disapproval at the food and the domestic arrangement generally.

Carl sliced open a sachet of ravioli, watched
the
mince ooze out.
One day
, he promised himself,
I’ll do that to Harry Midgley
.

‘Carl?’

‘Y–yes, Dad?’ Reginald bullied his son, which encouraged Carl to bully others.

‘You
are
keeping a lookout at the reservoir, as I asked?’

Carl nodded. ‘Yes, Dad. I scared two scruffs off yesterday, and today there was nobody.’ He looked smug. ‘They might not take much notice of old Woollard, but they don’t mess with
me
.’

His father nodded. ‘Good lad.’

Felicity frowned. ‘I don’t understand your interest in keeping people away from the reservoir, Reggie.’ She resented his using Carl as a watchman.

Reginald bullied his wife as well as his son. ‘There are lots of things
you
don’t understand, Fliss,’ he grated. ‘Things about
my
family,
my
village. You’re not
required
to understand them, and neither is Carl.
I
’m the councillor –
I
’ll do the understanding. Your role is to support me by doing exactly as I say.’

‘Yes, Reggie,’ murmured Felicity. She knew
she
ought to assert herself, but it never seemed quite the right time.

The time was at hand, though she didn’t know it.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘NOW THEN, COUNCILLOR.’
Stan Fox greeted Reginald Hopwood as he plonked two tankards on the table. The councillor nodded and sat down. It was Saturday lunch time. The Feathers was busy. ‘You wanted to see me?’ said Fox.

Hopwood nodded. ‘I’m a bit concerned about the reservoir job, Fox. Public safety.’

‘
Safety?
’ The reporter looked surprised. ‘When I walked past this morning the place was like a fortress. Steel fencing, big red notices. I think Forgan’s got safety pretty well covered.’

‘Yes, but all the same.’ Hopwood took a pull at
his
pint, set down the tankard. ‘A piece in the paper wouldn’t do any harm. You know – heavy machinery, treacherous mud. That sort of thing.’

Fox grinned. ‘Not to mention ghosts.’

Hopwood glanced up sharply. ‘
Ghosts?
’

The reporter nodded. ‘Some chap rang the newsroom Sunday morning, reckoned his daughter’s friend had captured the ghost of Wilton Water on camera. Wanted a reporter round to have a look.’

‘Did you send someone?’

‘No, it was Sunday, only one man in. I might have sent a junior round Monday but the same guy rang back, said it was a mistake.’

‘Ah.’ The councillor relaxed. ‘Where’d he live, this chap?’

‘Oh – Trough Lane, I think.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, Trough Lane. Name of Crabtree.’

Hopwood grunted. ‘Nutter, by the sound of it.’

Fox nodded. ‘Maybe. I like to keep an open mind.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ The councillor frowned. ‘I shudder to think what’d happen if you
ran
a story like that, Fox. Take more than steel fencing to keep folk out then.’

‘Yes well, it isn’t going to happen.’ The reporter lifted his tankard. ‘Drink up, Councillor, it’s my shout.’