Tales of the West Riding (25 page)

“Pity.”

“Would you like to come over and have a look at him? Elizabeth may be wrong, you know.”

“I might at that,” said Morcar thoughtfully. “But only if he doesn't know what I've come for. Otherwise it's useless.”

“How could he possibly guess?
I
shan't tell him, you may be sure.”

“Have you mentioned anything at all about the merger to them?”

“Harry,” said Hardaker soberly. “I give you my word I haven't said a word of it to a living soul. It crossed my mind this morning, when they both seemed so uneasy, that they might have heard a word of it from your side—”

“No!”

“—so I told them I was coming over to see you this afternoon. Just to see their reaction, as it were.”

“Well?”

“There wasn't any. They showed complete indifference. Didn't even ask me what I was coming to see you about. They dismissed it as just one of old grandfather's—”

“Ploys.”

“Exactly.”

“All right, I'll come. Tomorrow, eh? Because if it's not to be a Ramsgill merger, it will have to be somebody else, you know, John. I want to get a good man settled here and working under me to learn my ways, as soon as possible.”

“I understand. Come about half past three and we'll all have our cup of tea together.”

“And no mention of a merger or anything of that kind, to a soul.”

“You have my word,” said old Hardaker stiffly.

* * *

The wintry twilight was just sinking into dusk when the sound of a car travelling up the steep winding lane towards them came to the ears of the two men as they stood at the edge of the moorland road. It was the dead time of the afternoon; the mills were still at work, but the traffic out here had dwindled as car-owning men made for home. At a turn in the lane the black car now appeared for a moment, far below.

“Here he comes,” said Edward to Lucius, grimly.

They watched in silence as the black car wound round the folds of the hill towards them. The wind blew cold; the turbulent landscape of rocks and heath had now lost almost all its colour; the road was mercifully empty; dark grey clouds drove furiously across a pale watery sky.

“Suppose he doesn't stop?”

“Don't you know him better than that?”

Edward climbed into the car which had brought them—Elizabeth's as usual—which stood on the grass verge of the main road, and drove it obliquely halfway across the first bend in the lane; then dismounted.

“Hadn't you better put on your lights,” suggested Lucius, “in case it looks odd without them?”

“Losing your nerve again?” jeered Edward. Nevertheless he reached into the car and turned on the side lamps. He then opened the boot and drew out the jack lever. “Here; take this.”

Lucius trembled as the cold iron touched his hand.

“Make to take off the wheel,” said Edward, handing him the jack.

Obediently Lucius stooped and tried to place the instrument for this purpose. But he could not find the proper position; the bars of the rear axle and the jack seemed to swell and diminish and become entangled. At least, however, in his stooping position he was spared a view of the black car's approach; only heard the scrunch of the wheels as it drew up behind him.

“Anything wrong?” called old Mr. Hardaker's voice. “Can I help?” He opened his door, dismounted. “You!” he said, surprised. “What are you two doing here?”

This was the point of no return, for he had recognised them. Lucius sprang up, whirled round, found himself face to face with old Hardaker. Behind him loomed Edward, his face livid, his mouth open, distorted; he cried: “Now!” and struck Hardaker's head with a spanner. Blood spurted and flowed. A most extraordinary look of childish fright came over the old man's face; his eyes widened, he put out gloved hands and stumbled forward.

“Strike, damn you!” yelled Edward.

Lucius lifted the lever. Even now he could not bring himself to strike at the face, but hit hard at the shoulder. A bone cracked and Hardaker fell sprawling in the road. Then Lucius remembered all the dangers and frustrations and jealousies to which this old man's existence exposed him, and he struck savagely, over and over again, not knowing what he was doing, until Edward laid a hand on his arm, saying: “That's enough.”

They lifted the body between them and wedged it at the wheel in Mr. Hardaker's black car, then pushed the car across the lane, across the rough grass verge, over the rocky edge. Suddenly it slipped from their hands, sprang down the steep slope, stumbled, hit a rock, overturned and burst into flames. It seemed to Lucius that for one very brief moment he saw a body thrown into the air as the petrol tank exploded.

“Well, that's that,” said Edward. “Let's get away from here.”

They threw their weapons into the boot and jumped into their car. After an uncomfortable moment Edward, swinging the wheel and accelerating hard, got them up out of the sheltering curve and on to the main moorland road. A lorry passed, but it was travelling swiftly and the driver could have had but the barest glimpse, if any, of their number plate. Edward drove fast; after a few minutes they left the moor behind them, and came to fields, the church, Ramsgill village.

It was now quite dark, and suddenly in the valley below and on the distant hills long chains of lights sprang into existence, marking the roads, punctuated by blocks of lights here and there—the mills. Smaller and dimmer gleams came up in scattered houses on the upper slopes. At a turn in the road the lights of Hudley could be seen reddening the dreary sky. From this height there was, indeed, a superb industrial panorama, a West Riding nocturne. It was so beautiful and so friendly, so familiar to Lucius and so well-loved, that tears of fond sentiment stood in his eyes. He was glad to be away from the cold wild moorland, with all his problems solved and left behind him. He could scarcely believe that he would never see his grandfather again. Poor old thing! But what a relief! He lived through the murder again.

“Edward,” he said suddenly: “I have a feeling I saw—the body—thrown clear of the car.”

“What does that matter?”

“Perhaps we ought to have gone down to make sure?”

“Good heavens, no! It was sure enough.” Edward paused, and added with meaning: “There were plenty of rocks.”

“To account for the injuries, you mean.”

“Exactly. Though you let yourself go, rather.”

“You struck the first blow,” said Lucius in a heavy menacing tone.

“We're both in it together—we know that,” said Edward impatiently.

“Yes, we are.”

“All we have to do is to stick together and tell the same story.”

“Oh, I agree.”

“Well, here we are,” said Edward, driving through the arch
way into the Ramsgill Mills yard. “Don't forget: we've been to call on Butterworth the merchant in Annotsfield—where you were very convincing, I must say, Lucius, about our new spring ranges; an admirable performance—we've been to Butterworth's in Annotsfield and we've come back by the usual Denbridge Road.”

“
Not
over the moors,” said Lucius.

“Why on earth should we have come over the moors?” said Edward irritably. “Of course we didn't come by that roundabout route. Don't forget, Lucius: we didn't know where Mr. Hardaker had gone and so of course we couldn't know which way he would be coming back.”

“You surprise me,” said Lucius sardonically.

“Nobody knows that we knew, so we didn't know,” said Edward with emphasis. “For heaven's sake remember that; it's our alibi.”

“I shan't forget,” said Lucius.

* * *

They drew up by the office door.

Carol came running down the steps.

The two men gazed at her almost stupefied. After the frightful crisis through which they had passed, they were unable to return to normal life so promptly.

“Ed,” said Carol, laying her hand on her brother's arm as he dismounted. “I've been waiting here a clock hour for you. If you want to save your home you must go up there at once. Elizabeth rang me up in a terrible state. She's thinking of leaving you.”

“Good God! Why?”

“That's for you to say, Ed,” said Carol soberly. “But she's serious, I can tell you that. You must go at once.”

For a moment Edward actually experienced relief. To be free of his dreary wife, he thought, would be splendid. Then he suddenly remembered that at this particular moment he could not possibly afford to appear to be on bad terms with any member of the Hardaker family. He sprang back into the silvery car and drove off at once to Ram's Hey.

* * *

“Elizabeth, this is all nonsense,” said Edward severely. “You're upsetting the child.”

Edmund was indeed screaming his disapproval; he did not like being lodged in his carry-cot and laid down on the floor of the Ram's Hey hall. Elizabeth made no reply to her husband; she opened the front door, carried out the cot, opened the back door of her car and wedged the cot on the seat.

“You love me, Elizabeth,” began Edward.

“I used to love you,” said Elizabeth, returning for her suitcase.

“If I had known how much you cared about the room business, Elizabeth,” began Edward again.

“Don't humiliate me any further, Edward,” said Elizabeth coldly. “It's quite unnecessary, believe me.”

She opened the boot of the car and threw in the suitcase, then climbed behind the wheel.

“Must we really part, Elizabeth?” said Edward incredulously. “Won't you think it over? Why this sudden decision?”

“Carol knew you never loved me; she knew when we were first engaged.”

“Carol knows nothing of my feelings. Where are you going now?” said Edward with dignity. “I have the right, I think, to know where you are taking my son.”

“To grandfather's, of course.”

We can pass it off to the outer world by pretending she went to support her mother, thought Edward in a flash; old Hardaker's burnt-out car will be found soon, Mrs. Hardaker will be in hysterics—yes, it will appear quite natural.

“Well, I shan't attempt to stop you, Elizabeth. I shan't attempt to exercise my authority over you, that's not my idea of how to behave,” he said with a noble air. “You're tired out with nursing Edmund, you don't know what you are saying; I shall hope you'll return home tomorrow afternoon—” she'll have had enough of her mother by then, he thought—“and we'll forget all this and be happy together.”

He stooped to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head sharply aside. Offended, he stepped back, and gave her a small stiff bow as the car drove away.

It was only after its sound had died away in the distance that he remembered: the blood-stained spanner and jack handle lay
in the boot of the car she drove. If her case became stained—if Mr. Hardaker's body should be intact—

Frantically he leaped into his own car and drove after her to Ramsgill House. But he was too late.

* * *

Extract from the
Hudley Weekly News:

To Woollen and Worsted Manufacturers, Cloth Finishers, Dyers and others,

Re
Messrs. J. L. Hardaker, Ltd.

(In Voluntary Liquidation after the Recent Sad Events)

By order of the Trustees for the Shareholders

Messrs. X, Y and Z

have been instructed to offer for SALE BY AUCTION, on the premises, on Tuesday –th, 196–, at eleven o'clock precisely All those Extensive Freehold Manufacturing Premises known as

RAMSGILL MILLS, Ramsgill, Hudley.

The works, which have been well laid out, occupy a commanding position on the main Hudley-Annotsfield Road, with a

GROUND AREA of 14,000 square yards.

The buildings, which are of substantial construction and in good condition, contain a

FLOOR SPACE of 75,000 Square Feet.

Also, on the four following days at 10.30 a.m. each day, piecemeal

The whole of the MANUFACTURING PLANT AND MACHINERY, comprising the following lots …

Phyllis Bentley was born in 1894 in Halifax, West Yorkshire, where she was educated until she attended Cheltenham Ladies College, Gloucestershire.

In 1932 her best-known work,
Inheritance
, was published to widespread critical acclaim and commercial success. This was in contrast to her previous efforts, a collection of short stories entitled
The World's Bane
and several poor-selling novels. The triumph of
Inheritance
made her the most successful English regional novelist since Thomas Hardy, and she produced two more novels to create a trilogy;
The Rise of Henry Morcar
and
A Man of His Time
. This accomplishment made her a much demanded speaker and she became an expert on the Brontë family.

Over her career Bentley garnered many awards; an honorary DLitt from Leeds University (1949); a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (1958); and an OBE (1970). She died in 1977.