Blackstone Fell, page 2
‘Don’t worry, you’re not to blame.’
‘You’ve not been hopping over Blackstone Leap? Those stepping stones are lethal.’
‘Tripped as I was making my way down the Fell.’ The untruth rolled off her tongue with the ease of long practice. ‘Wrecked my tripod, but I’m still in one piece.’
If Carrodus had missed her with the boulder and then failed to run her over, he seemed remarkably sanguine about her survival. He was a bachelor on the right side of thirty whose good humour and faint Welsh lilt contributed to his charm. He lacked the professional gravitas of an elderly physician, but Nell was willing to bet he had an admirable bedside manner. The rector’s wife certainly seemed taken with him.
‘With any luck, you’ve nothing to worry about. Tweaked muscle rather than a sprain. Apply a cold compress and for heaven’s sake, rest up. As for that graze on your cheek, give it a good wash and a touch of iodine, and you’ll be right as rain. I’d offer to take a look-see in the surgery, but I’m late for my weekly clinic at the sanatorium and after that I’ve got a long drive.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, but I’m a quick healer. I’ll be running around in no time.’ She assumed a serious expression. ‘Not like those poor souls cooped up in the sanatorium.’
‘Don’t you worry, they are in the best possible hands. Professor Sambrook is a leader in his field.’
‘So I hear.’
‘Brilliant mind, but his academic papers go over my head. Frankly, I’m flattered that he allows a humble village GP to darken his doors.’ He guffawed. ‘Between you and me, I feel like a Jung pretender.’
He was so delighted with his pun that Nell felt obliged to laugh. ‘I wonder…’
‘Sorry, must dash!’ He waved. ‘And watch your step in future. Cheerio!’
His eyes vanished behind the goggles and he sped off in a cloud of fumes.
*
Watch your step.
Many a true word, Nell thought. Rounding a bend, she spotted Major Huckerby in his shirt sleeves. He was up on a ladder, trimming the holly hedge that separated his garden from the rectory. They’d chatted earlier, as she wandered around on a reconnaissance of the village, taking photographs at every opportunity. He was a widower and she diagnosed loneliness; his pleasantries had an undertow of melancholy. Perhaps she was reading too much into a single conversation. Peggy always said she let herself get carried away too often for her own good.
The major waved his shears in greeting.
‘You’re hobbling,’ he called.
‘Nothing serious.’
‘Young Carrodus didn’t send you flying with that flashy new Lagonda of his?’
She smiled. ‘Turned my ankle on the Fell. My own stupid fault.’
Major Huckerby’s dark hair was liberally flecked with grey. Twenty years the doctor’s senior, he remained a fine figure of a man despite an incipient paunch. Nell had a romantic vision of him striding across a parade ground, immaculate in military uniform, medals gleaming in the sunlight.
‘Glad to hear it. Carrodus is a decent cove, but the way he tears around the country is a damned menace. Anyone would think his name was Henry Segrave.’
‘And look what happened to poor Sir Henry,’ Nell said. ‘Such a shocking waste. There was simply no need to kill himself. Why on earth do people throw away their lives for no good reason?’
The major’s brow furrowed. He lifted the shears as if to shoo her away before resuming his onslaught on the hedge. As she limped past the lychgate of St Agnes Church, Nell wondered if somehow she’d offended him.
Blackstone Tower reared up ahead of her, above an avenue of ancient black poplars. Even on a lovely afternoon, it seemed to brood over the village, menacing and malign. The man who owned the Tower had a demeanour to match. Nell had encountered him that morning. Powerfully built with thinning grey hair and a grizzled beard, he’d strode down the lane as she demonstrated to the major how her camera worked. The major’s friendly greeting was met with a long, hard stare at the pair of them. Nell felt as if she were being hypnotised. Finally, she and the major were dismissed with a brusque nod.
‘Curmudgeonly fellow, Harold Lejeune,’ Major Huckerby had murmured. ‘I suppose one must make allowances. Believe me, grief hits a man hard.’
And not only men, Nell thought grimly.
*
‘Miss Grace!’
Nell was lost in thought. Once she got back to London, should she swallow her pride and try to enlist Rachel Savernake’s aid?
‘Miss Grace!’ The voice became shrill. ‘Did you hear me?’
Nell swore. She’d thought she’d heard disgrace. That was the trouble with using an alias. It was so easy to forget who you were pretending to be.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw the rector’s wife rushing towards her. Nell switched on a smile to compensate for her rudeness.
‘Hello, there! Sorry about that, Mrs Royle.’ The woman glared at her. ‘Daydreaming, don’t you know?’
Judith Royle’s golden curls were tucked out of sight beneath a brown hat as shapeless as her coat. She was as demure as a Madonna, but dressed dowdily, as if to apologise for her svelte figure. Stuck-in-the-mud parishioners no doubt disapproved of her on principle. Nell had pigeonholed Judith as a church mouse, cowering in the angular shadow of the Reverend Quintus Royle, permanently anxious and pathetically eager to please.
Not this afternoon. The delicate features were crimson with anger.
‘Didn’t you recognise your own name?’
Nell took a step back. This combative response was as alarming as it was unexpected.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I didn’t hear—’
‘It must be a peculiar experience,’ Judith Royle said through gritted teeth, ‘to accustom oneself to a false identity.’
It wasn’t in Nell’s nature to remain on the defensive. Over the years, she’d faced down foes much more formidable than a rector’s wife.
‘You must excuse me, Mrs Royle. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s quite simple. You are not Cornelia Grace, are you?’
Nell frowned. ‘Indeed I am. Cornelia is my baptismal name. Though when I’m at home in London, everyone calls me Nell.’
Judith Royle’s mouth set in a stubborn line. In a low voice, she said, ‘I’m not a fool.’
‘Perish the thought. A simple enough mistake for anyone to—’
‘Please, don’t make this any more difficult. You’re not the person you claim to be.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Nell adopted a self-righteous tone. ‘I can only presume you’re labouring under a misapprehension.’
Judith Royle shook her head. Nell was perplexed. This woman wasn’t the sort to say boo to a goose. What was going on? Better find out before matters got out of hand.
‘Listen, it’s chilly now the sun has gone in. Why don’t you come to the Lodge? I’d love to repay the hospitality you showed me yesterday. We can have a natter over a nice cup of tea.’
The rector’s wife wavered. ‘I don’t…’
‘Please. Let me set your mind at rest.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Marriage to the rector, a joyless puritan twice her age, must have accustomed her to giving in. ‘But I can’t be out long.’
‘Then we’d better get a move on.’
Beyond the church, the lane turned and began its descent to the lower village. Nell and Judith Royle crossed over to an unmade track leading to an arched stone gateway. To the left of the arch was a high stone wall, on the right was the gatehouse. Blackstone Lodge was in the Gothic style, irregular in construction and adorned with battlements. The effect was lopsided and disconcerting, as if the architect had indulged in a private joke.
‘I always wondered what it’s like inside,’ Judith Royle said.
Her voice was trembling and so was she. As Nell fumbled in her bag for her door key, she glanced at her companion. Sometimes seeing was believing. The expression on that pale Madonna’s face spoke for itself.
Judith Royle was scared to death.
2
Blackstone Lodge was draughty and smelled of damp. Nell lit the fire in the cramped sitting room before putting the kettle on. The ceiling was low, the floor uneven, the windows so small that even on a fine day they let in very little light. The furniture was cheap, the rough walls whitewashed. In this spartan setting, the only decorative touch was a carved design on the ancient wooden fireplace surround: aabaaabbaabaaababaaaabbbb.
Nell tossed another log onto the blaze. ‘Sorry I can’t offer as much comfort as the rectory. Strange to think, this little place is so old, yet I’m the first person who has ever actually lived here.’
Judith Royle didn’t reply. She’d shrunk into the shabby armchair, as if drained by the effort of confrontation. Her own home was far from cosy, all dark panels and flickering candles, its gloom matching the rector’s austere manner. Judith had called to invite Nell for afternoon tea as soon as she’d arrived. Nell had jumped at the opportunity to quiz the rector’s wife about Blackstone Fell and its inhabitants.
Nell settled down opposite her guest, glad to take the weight off her sore ankle, and stirred plenty of sugar into her tea. She had a sweet tooth, and often reflected that if she didn’t give in to it so readily, she wouldn’t be so heavy and unfit. Her trouble was that self-awareness always came more easily than self-improvement.
‘Now then,’ she said. ‘We don’t want any crossed wires, do we? Not after you’ve been so welcoming. Please let me put your mind at rest.’
She gave a beatific smile. Before setting foot in Blackstone Fell, she’d armed herself with a cover story in case anyone questioned her credentials. While making the tea, she’d rehearsed the familiar lines in her head. They sounded plausible enough to her.
Judith Royle cleared her throat. ‘Your name isn’t Cornelia Grace. And you’re not a photographer, either.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Please don’t prevaricate.’
‘I take a great many pictures,’ Nell said.
‘Not a professional photographer, anyway.’
Nell sighed. ‘Did I give you that impression? Perhaps I was carried away with enthusiasm. I’m just a keen amateur.’
‘Who are you, really? And what are you doing in Blackstone Fell?’
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Nell lied. ‘Though I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this conversation to… anyone else in the village.’
Judith’s expression gave nothing away. ‘This is strictly between ourselves.’
Is it really? Nell asked herself as she took a sip of tea. She didn’t believe she was the only fibber in the room.
‘As it happens, my full name is Cornelia Grace Fagan. I’m a journalist. Over the years I’ve written for several daily newspapers.’
The rector’s wife leaned closer, allowing Nell to breathe in her lavender perfume. ‘What brings a reporter from London to Blackstone Fell?’
‘I’m happy to share my secret with you,’ Nell said. ‘First, though, I’d like to know why you ask. All these questions have come… rather out of the blue.’
Judith pursed her lips. ‘I suppose you’re entitled to know.’
Nell drank some more tea as she waited for the younger woman to compose her thoughts.
‘You see, I received a letter.’
Nell blinked. ‘About me?’
‘Yes, one of those horrid anonymous things. A crude message made out of words and letters cut from a newspaper and stuck on a blank sheet.’
For once in her life, Nell was at a loss for words.
‘You mean… a poison pen letter?’
‘That’s right.’
‘May I see it?’
‘I told you what the message said.’
‘I think,’ Nell said, ‘it’s the least you can do. If someone’s besmirching my good name, I’m entitled to be given chapter and verse.’
Judith hesitated. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in showing you.’
‘No,’ Nell said piously. ‘The damage is already done.’
Judith fumbled in her handbag. She fished out a piece of paper and held it up for Nell to read. Printed letters and words were pasted erratically on the sheet.
‘Cornelia Grace is not her real name. She is an impostor and up to no good.’
Nell sniffed the document, as if to discern the foul stench of libel. Judith Royle raised her eyebrows and stuffed the paper back into her handbag.
‘Why would anyone send this to you?’ Nell asked.
A touch of colour appeared in Judith’s cheeks. ‘It wasn’t addressed to me specifically. Our maid found it on the doormat and brought it in to me while Quintus was out of the house, visiting a sick parishioner in Blackstone Foot.’
‘Why bother the rector and his wife with something so distasteful and defamatory?’
‘Blackstone Fell is a small place,’ Judith said. ‘The church is at the heart of the community. Word gets around fast. Everyone will know you visited the rectory.’
‘Was your husband’s name on the envelope?’
‘There… there wasn’t an envelope. The sheet was folded; you saw the crease.’
‘Then the maid may have read it?’
‘I can’t imagine for a single moment that Myrtle would do something like that.’ Judith sounded as shocked as if Nell had growled an obscenity. ‘She’s frightened… no, in awe of Quintus. I’m sure she wouldn’t dare.’
‘So you read the message and decided to have it out with me?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, it’s an unpleasant business, but you know what they say. No smoke without fire. Nobody would invent such an accusation.’
‘What does your husband have to say about it?’
‘I haven’t discussed it with him.’ As Judith lifted her cup, her hand shook. Some of the tea splashed into the saucer. ‘Or anyone else.’
Nell gave her a hard stare. ‘Glad to hear it. The laws about disseminating a libel apply in the backwaters of northern England, just as they do in Fleet Street.’
‘I thought it best…’ Judith’s voice faltered. ‘I decided to speak to you first and find out what you are up to.’
‘I’m beginning to understand.’
Beginning, yes, but that was all. Nell was sure that Judith Royle had written the anonymous note herself. The real question was: why?
*
Dr Carrodus put the stethoscope back in his black bag. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir.’
Professor Wilfred Sambrook buttoned up his twill shirt. He was a tall, thin man in his mid-sixties, with a high, furrowed brow and a goatee beard. Both his eyes were pale blue, but one of them was made of glass. He would have seemed even taller but for a stoop. Scoliosis, Carrodus reckoned, though the old fellow would have none of it. A lifetime devoted to studying disorders of the mind had left him with minimal interest in matters of physical health, even his own.
‘The headaches and breathlessness I’ve experienced are not significant, in your judgement?’
‘Not in the least, sir. You simply need to remember that you’re not as young as you were. Take it easy, make sure you get plenty of rest, and you’ll outlive us all.’
The professor snorted. They were in his oak-panelled room on the first floor of Blackstone Sanatorium. Framed scrolls and certificates from Oxford, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna covered the wall behind his vast mahogany desk, testaments to his international renown. They dated back upwards of a quarter of a century. Learned tomes crammed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A bronze bust of the great man in his younger days occupied pride of place on the top of a large bureau.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ the doctor said. ‘By all means seek a second opinion if you’re anxious. It won’t offend me in the slightest.’
The older man’s good eye wandered around the room, as if he was bored. ‘I’m not in the least anxious. I merely thought that as you were here in any event…’
‘Quite, quite.’ Carrodus picked up his bag. ‘No trouble at all, sir. I’ll get on my way and let you get back to your work.’
The professor’s gaze settled on the leather-bound volume on his desk. Carrodus gave a small bow and said goodbye, but received no answer.
In the corridor he bumped into Denzil Sambrook. He was a doctor of philosophy rather than of medicine, and even taller and thinner than his father, with the same domed forehead and a receding hairline.
‘How did you get on?’ he asked.
‘He’ll see us all out if he takes proper care of himself,’ Carrodus said cheerfully.
‘The one thing he never does,’ Denzil murmured.
‘Overwork, that’s my diagnosis.’ Carrodus sighed. ‘Don’t want to speak out of turn, old chap, but why does he bother? From what you’ve told me, he hasn’t published anything for decades, and hasn’t given a lecture in donkey’s years.’
Denzil nodded. ‘He’s obsessed with his researches, but they seem to go around in ever-decreasing circles.’
‘Why doesn’t he put his feet up? With all due respect, it’s not as if the sanatorium is overflowing with patients. He could leave everything in your capable hands.’
‘Nothing would please me more. We need fresh thinking. Not just in the sanatorium, but everywhere. Society is in a mess. We could…’ Denzil shook his head. ‘Better not get on my soapbox or I’ll keep you here for hours. Between you and me, my father simply isn’t the man he was. This past few weeks, he’s gone rapidly downhill.’
Carrodus frowned. ‘You think so?’
‘Yes, it isn’t so much these headaches and breathing difficulties. It’s his state of mind. He’s convinced he’s on the verge of some mythical breakthrough in his work. Utter delusion. I’ve begged him to hand over the reins to me, but he’s dug in his heels. He won’t let go.’
A door opened down the corridor and a woman moved briskly towards them. Daphne Sambrook was a foot shorter than her brother. Small eyes peered from behind tortoiseshell spectacles. At close quarters, Carrodus glimpsed the jagged scar on her forehead that thick, curly hair, mousy brown in colour, did not quite conceal.
