Pennyroyal

Dedication

To fellow writers who took me down a Derbyshire lead mine

Chapter One

The man stopped his Land Rover on an area of level shale at the foot of Mam Tor and switched off the engine. He made no attempt to lock the vehicle but left it abruptly, taking the lower stone steps with a long, fluid stride.

His face was grim as he reached a higher flight of steps cut into the side of the steep hill. He had driven hard for eight hours, pushing himself to make the journey from Cornwall to Derbyshire in one day. But he need not have bothered. Miss Ridgeway had not turned up.

“Damn the woman,” he said, gritting his teeth.

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket and tackled the final ascent of the ridge. It had been windy on the way up but as Jake Everand reached the stone cairn on the summit, the fierce gusts nearly threw him off balance. He turned against the gale, his cropped, dark hair flattened, clothes flapping around his big frame with fast, deafening slaps.

The serpentine brown ridges of Kinder Scout were wildly beautiful, more beautiful than any woman. Their majestic stillness in the midst of howling wind took the edge off his anger. He drank in the scenery with the thirst of a parched man. He had been away far too long.

Beyond the dramatic cleft of Winnats Pass lay the small town of Netherdale, rows of grey and fawn stone cottages flanking the main street, mullion-windowed pubs, the ruined castle and Twelfth Century keep perched high on an escarpment above the town.

He leaned into the wind, scanning the wild heathered moorland and sculptured green hills. He knew it was catacombed with tunnels and potholes and vast underground caverns.

Pennyroyal lay below all that rock, one of the oldest lead mines in the area, miles and miles of tunnels burrowed through the limestone. It was an epitaph to the Nineteenth Century miners who had crawled through the blackness on their knees to set the rods of gunpowder that blasted out the rock.

Jake walked round the cairn, remembering the first time he had climbed Mam Tor. He had been eight years old and he could still feel that thrilling moment of achievement. He leaped onto the lower plinth of the cairn, holding on with one hand, the other flung high into the air as he had as a boy.

“Mam…Tor,” he shouted to the wind.

The words were whipped away, hurled in fragments round the Peaks till they were lost in the cloudless hemisphere.

He took the descent more easily. Now he was ready to meet Miss Cassandra Ridgeway and to hell with her fancy ideas from London.

Cassandra Ridgeway threw the fur wrap elegantly over one shoulder and smiled into the camera lens. It was a mysterious smile that barely touched her lips but lay in the luminous depths of her green eyes. They were expensive furs and the photographs were to be featured in an expensive magazine. It was not surprising that Cassy was the model they chose.

She was totally professional about her work and the agency had no trouble in finding her bookings. Cassy’s flawless face and stylishly boyish figure were seen in magazines, on hoardings and television commercials.

Although she obeyed Anton’s instructions to turn this way and that, to vary the smile…winsome, distant, amused…her mind was elsewhere. She had an appointment at two o’clock with a firm of solicitors, Messrs.’ Martlake and Partners, off Gray’s Inn Road, and although she had no expectations, she could not contain a certain excitement and curiosity.

It was nearly six weeks since her grandfather, Thomas Ridgeway, had died, and it had taken some time for the solicitor’s letter to catch up with her. She had moved several times in the last few years, a fact which she had never mentioned to her grandfather.

Their relationship had been strange. She had not seen him for nearly ten years though she loved him and it was only four hours on the motorway to Derbyshire. If he had wondered why, then he never mentioned it. She telephoned him often, bright chatty calls at odd hours from all over the world that he thought were a scandalous waste of money.

“Where on earth are you calling from, Cassy? Don’t you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, Grandfather. Have I got you out of bed? I’m in New York. I’ve no idea of the time difference.”

“You’ve got more money than sense, lass,” he barked, a gruffness hiding his pleasure.

“But it’s my money,” she replied sweetly. “And if I want to spend it on my favourite grandfather, then I will.”

“Don’t you try that London flannel on me. Far more to the point if you spent the money on coming home.”

“One day, Grandfather,” Cassy always replied. “One day when I’m not so busy.”

She hated having to lie to him. She was never going to visit him. She had made a promise she could not break.

When Mrs. Hadlow, his housekeeper, rang with the news that her grandfather had died in his sleep, Cassy was distraught with grief and guilt. The anguish was not easily stilled. She cried bitterly that night, tears of sorrow and regret that she had not seen her grandfather for so many years.

The next day she rang the agency and cancelled her bookings till the following week. She explained that only her feet and hands were fit for photography.

“I could do hand cream or foot deodorants,” Cassy tried to joke. “I look like first cousin to a panda.”

“Take all the time you need, Cassy, and come back when you’re ready. But remember, your face is your fortune.”

“Thanks. I just need a little time to myself.”

She walked for hours, wrapped in thoughts and a raincoat, her long tawny hair hidden by a Gucci silk scarf. She walked through parks she had not realised even existed, along streets she normally travelled by taxi. It rained most of the time but she hardly noticed.

Then out of the blue came the letter from the solicitors, asking her to go and see them. Cassy was surprised. Her grandfather had made no secret of his promise to leave Ridge House to Amy Hadlow so that she would have a home for the rest of her life.

Perhaps her grandfather had left her a memento, some piece of jewellery that had once belonged to Cassandra, her grandmother, something that Cassy could treasure.

“Cassy, darling, do you have to keep looking at the clock? I’m getting a phobia about angles. All my shots are going to have this paranoid time fixation.”

Cassy relaxed into a laugh and Anton caught the moment deftly. It was perfect. He knew he had only to distract her.

“I’m sorry, Anton. Perhaps we could finish the session tomorrow?”

“I’ve finished. These shots are fine. Go and find out if you’re an heiress, I can’t stand the anticipation any longer,” said Anton, starting to dismantle the equipment.

“No chance of that,” said Cassy, slipping the mink off her shoulders. “Grandfather didn’t have any money.”

She arrived at the offices of Messrs.’ Martlake and Partners looking like a million dollars. It came naturally to her, an instinct for putting together a look which was always stunning. A pearly silk shirt was tucked into a tight linen pinstripe skirt, the gathered suede boots emphasising her long slim legs. But she had tied a big shawl casually under one arm, and fastened masses of gold chains round her neck.

James Martlake regarded her with interest. They rarely had such glamorous creatures in the office. It made a change.

“I really am most sorry about your grandfather’s death, Miss Ridgeway,” he said from the other side of the big walnut desk. “He was one of our oldest clients although we rarely saw him. It took a lot to entice him away from his beloved Derbyshire.”

“I know,” said Cassy. “His roots were very deep.”

“Just so. Very deep,” said James Martlake wryly. “Had you seen him recently?”

Cassy clasped her hands firmly in her lap.

She could only be honest about the situation from her angle, without revealing the reasons.

“Unfortunately no,” she admitted. “I haven’t seen my grandfather for almost ten years. It was different when I was a child. My parents worked abroad and I was boarded at a school in Surrey. I spent most of my holidays with Grandfather. They were wonderful times and we were great pals. I was never conscious of any age difference. He was just the best friend I ever had.”

“But you hadn’t seen him for ten years?”

“No…” Cassy hunted round for the right words. “It is heavily on my conscience but my hands were tied. I couldn’t do anything about it, Mr. Martlake, please believe me. I tried to make up for it by phoning him a lot and writing.”

“I’m sure he appreciated it, Miss Ridgeway. In fact, I know he did.” Mr. Martlake cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles and rustled through the papers on his desk.

Cassy waited, a little apprehensively. She had the strangest feeling that something momentous was about to happen.

“I’m sure you know that your grandfather was not a wealthy man,” the solicitor began. “The farmland was heavily mortgaged after the war. Ridge House, which you will remember from your childhood visits, he has left solely to his housekeeper, Mrs. Hadlow, who looked after him for many years. However, he did have one asset which he has left to you, Miss Ridgeway.” He paused. “He has left you a lead mine, the Pennyroyal, one of the oldest mines in Derbyshire.”

“What? A mine?”

“A disused mine, unfortunately. It ran out of lead sometime in the early years of this century, though it’s quite possible that there are vast quantities of ore still remaining untouched deep under High Rake.”

Cassy could not take it in. Whatever had her grandfather been doing with a mine? He had never mentioned it or anything to do with mining. Vast quantities of ore… What did it all mean? She knew nothing about mines except that they were dark and dirty and dangerous.

“I’m going to love having a mine,” said Cassy drily. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“I’m afraid that’s all there is, Miss Ridgeway. I wish I had better news for you. Have you any idea what you are going to do with the mine?”

“I really don’t know,” said Cassy. “I’ll have to think it over. My grandfather must have had some reason for leaving it to me. He never did anything without a purpose.”

“I’ll arrange to have the necessary documents drawn up to transfer the legal ownership to you. I expect you’ll want to inspect your property before long?”

He asked it in a humorous way, hardly expecting the pale vision that sat opposite him to ever go within a hundred miles of Pennyroyal.

Cassy’s mouth curved in a determined smile and her green eyes sparkled.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I want a full survey made of the mine to see if there is any lead left in it. Also I shall want a valuation in case I decide to sell the mine.”

She gathered up her shoulder bag and adjusted the wool wrap. The idea had brought a surge of excitement and a rush of ambitious plans. Her grandfather was opening a door for her.

“Modelling is a very precarious business,” she said as she stood up to leave, “and at nudging twenty-seven, I’m already almost over the hill. I know agency work from A to Z, and before I start losing all my contacts, I want to start my own agency. It’ll be a multi-media agency called Cassandra. Pennyroyal is going to do this for me.”

Mr. Martlake got up to see her out. “Your ambition does you credit, Miss Ridgeway, and I should be delighted to help you in any way. I can put you in touch with one of the top firms of mining engineers in the country. You ought to get their most experienced consultant. It always pays to get the best advice.”

“How kind and thank you. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Ridgeway.”

Cassy paused in Gray’s Inn Road, catching her reflection in a dusty window, a shimmering image that was almost unreal. The cult of youth was incredibly cruel…over the hill. The bloom was still on her flawless skin but Cassy was wise enough to know that her modelling days were numbered. There were dozens of nubile beauties waiting to edge her off the ladder of fame. And Cassy had lasted longer than most.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said simply. “Perhaps this is what you planned. I’m coming home.”

The train taking her to Derbyshire was twenty minutes late leaving London. Cassy had flown in that morning from a photographic assignment in Barbados and her arrival time had already been delayed due to a lightning air traffic control strike. It was a month since Cassy had learned of her unusual inheritance.