Unholy Rites (36 page)

Danutia nodded. She was trying to fix a map of the mill in her mind, building it from what she had seen herself and from what Roberts had told her on the journey over. Once they arrived, she would have no time to ask directions. She breathed deeply to ease the cramping in her stomach.

The Reward flashed past, the line of cottages ended, the lane narrowed. Wisps of smoke floated past, bringing the smell of burning wood. Kevin radioed in for fire trucks and an ambulance, along with more backup. At last they shot through the stone gateposts. The clock whose hands never moved was dark against the lighter stone of the massive mill.

Smoke poured out of a doorway in the middle of the building.

As the cruiser skidded to a halt, the headlights caught a man in a suit darting from the doorway and heading towards the side of the building.

“That's him, the bastard,” shouted Roberts, leaping from the back seat and chasing after the receding figure.

Kevin slammed his door and started after him. “Dammit, I forgot to secure the safety lock. We can't have Roberts mixed up in this.”

Danutia caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm. “Let him go. We have to find Arthur and Stephen.” They ran towards the smoky doorway, Danutia sick with fear about what they would find beyond it. Flashlight in one hand, she crouched low and darted to the left, towards flames licking up the wall. A broken Coleman lantern had ignited a pile of wood.

“Here's Arthur, tied to a wheelchair,” Kevin called from across the room.

Danutia hurried past an old kitchen chair with a rope beside it. No Stephen. As they heaved the wheelchair upright, Arthur's eyes flickered open.

“Where's Stephen?” she asked.

Arthur was struggling to breathe. “The chute,” he croaked out, nodding towards a far corner of the room. His eyes shut again.

The flashlight penetrated the haze enough to reveal a small opening. Too small for Nuttall. That's why he'd raced around the side of the building. But maybe she could go where the doctor couldn't. “Get Arthur out,” she said to Kevin. “I'll find Stephen.”

Kevin nodded, his face grim. Coughing and choking, Danutia made her way to the chute through the suffocating heat. She heard a loud crack and looked around. A flaming piece of ceiling beam fell near the outside door, narrowly missing the two men. There was no going back.

No time even to shine the flashlight down the chute. The metal rim was already hot to the touch. As she pushed her legs into the opening, she could feel her throat and chest tighten. Roberts had said that the basement rooms interconnected, except for one that was blocked off. She hoped it wasn't the one she was sliding into. She focused her thoughts on Stephen.

After a short and dusty ride, the chute dumped her onto a stone floor. She dug the flashlight out of her jacket pocket. She was in a small room with only a couple of high, tiny windows. On one wall she could see where a doorway had been filled in with concrete. The doorway opposite was clear of obstructions. That's the way Stephen must have gone, hunting a way out.

She ran as fast as she dared, the flashlight making a path through empty rooms, her footsteps echoing in the dusty silence. Hearing voices in the distance, she slowed and clicked off the flashlight. She picked her way forward, the voices louder now, Roberts's rough country tones, Nuttall's cool educated accent. Blank wall ahead, voices to the right, Nuttall saying, “If you come another step up the ladder I'll cut the boy's throat—”

Danutia flicked the switch on her flashlight and caught him in the beam of the light, halfway up a rickety wooden ladder leading to a second-storey loft. Startled, he jerked around, and she heard a rung give way. While he scrabbled for footing, she shone the light upwards. There was Stephen, clinging to the ladder's wooden sides, a broken rung above him, fear and desperation plain in every limb of his body. He was trapped.

From near the bottom of the ladder, Cameron Roberts cast an anguished look upwards.

Clearly Nuttall didn't have a gun or he would have used it. Danutia made her decision. “Roberts, come down. Don't put the child at risk.”

The ladder creaked as Roberts reluctantly descended. Nuttall smiled down at her, that smile she hated, then turned and began to climb upwards, towards Stephen.

“Jump, Stephen!” she yelled. “It's your only chance.”

The boy clung to the ladder, staring down.

Nuttall's hand snaked upwards. Danutia's stomach contracted in fear. “Jump!” she shouted again. She swung the flashlight beam onto Roberts. “Look, Eric has sent the Grand Master to catch you.”

The ladder wobbled.

“Here's your third jump, Dr. Geoff,” Stephen cried, flinging himself past the doctor's outstretched hand. Roberts staggered as the boy fell into his arms.

A second's glance assured Danutia the two weren't badly injured. Tucking the flashlight in her waistband, she ran to the ladder and began to climb. Determination drove her upwards as splinters tore at her hands and her old fear of heights threatened to immobilize her. She kept her eyes pinned to the wall in front of her, looking up and down no more than she had to as she worked her way past broken and missing rungs. The whole thing could collapse at any moment.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she neared the top, then tensed up again. Nuttall's knife could be waiting for her.

Cautiously she raised her head and looked into the building's second storey, a huge empty space once clattering with machines for weaving and spinning. This room, with its floor-length windows, whitewashed walls, and glow from the fire, was not so dark as the space below. She had seen it once before, from the main stairway at the other end, when the search for Stephen had brought her to Monsal Mill. Now the stairway was invisible and inaccessible, blocked by smoke and flame.

She couldn't see any sign of Geoff Nuttall. Had he found a way past the fire? Danutia pulled herself up and slunk towards the center of the room, but still she caught no flutter of movement. Sensing him behind her, she swung round. He must have been pressed into a dark corner near the ladder. Now he was between her and her only route to safety.

His knife glittered in his hand, but he didn't come after her. His head turned as if he'd heard some noise from below. He knelt down at the opening in the floor and wrenched at the ladder with his left hand.

Danutia heard a cracking sound as the ladder gave way and shouting from below. Nuttall gave a grunt of satisfaction, stood up, and moved towards her, knife in hand, forcing her towards the fire. She could feel the boards hot under her feet. Where were the fire trucks?

Nuttall seemed to read her mind. “Fires are such a hazard in these isolated places,” he said, taking another step forward. “The closest stations are Buxton and Bakewell. By the time the trucks arrive, neither you nor I will need a ladder. Your stupid heroics have given me a sacrifice, after all. In fact, two sacrifices, just like I'd planned. Your death and mine will show that the spirit of Monsal Mill can't be destroyed. We will die, but its power will live on.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Danutia, dropping into a crouch and moving sideways, towards the windows. “I don't intend to die.”

Nuttall laughed. “Then you'd better pull out your gun.” He laughed again, goading her. “Don't have one? That's the stupid British system for you. I thought you North Americans were smarter. I guess you'll have to try your martial arts skills on me. I wouldn't kill a defenceless woman, now would I?”

As Nuttall sauntered forward, Danutia could feel the heat of the fire almost burning her back. She couldn't retreat any more. Should she attack? The flashlight was her only weapon, no match for the knife. If only she'd kept Kevin's baton and pepper spray. She focused her mind on the layout of Monsal Mill she'd memorized in the car.

She knew what she had to do. In the absence of force, she'd have to try guile.

Hardly needing to pretend, she coughed as though overcome by the smoke. Straightening up, she unzipped her jacket and slipped out of it, folding it over her left arm, anything to keep Nuttall's attention on her upper body while she slid imperceptibly towards the windows. The one closest to her had lost almost all of its glass, and its frame seemed as weathered as the ladder she'd come up. And she thought, or hoped, she knew what lay below. What would be required for her and her baby to live would be a leap of faith.

Slowly she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. “I can't take this heat any more. I guess you're going to have to kill a defenceless woman,” she said.

His eyes lingered a second too long on her breasts. In that instant, she whipped out the flashlight and threw it at his head. She heard a sickening crunch and curses as it connected, but she didn't waste time checking out the damage. Wrapping her jacket tightly around her arm for protection, she dove through the broken window, taking the frame with her.

The fall seemed endless, and her body tensed in fear, then relaxed as she plummeted down into the mill race. The cool of the water was a balm to her singed body as she swam up to the surface. She half expected that Geoff would follow her, like the monster you could never shake off in a nightmare. She saw Kevin and two uniforms running towards the mill race and knew she had no reason to fear. Nuttall would never let himself be caught. There would be a sacrifice at the mill that day, but, she desperately hoped, only one.

At that thought, she had a powerful yearning to see Arthur and Stephen and know that they were safe. Kevin assisted her from the water and around to the other side of the mill. There she saw Alice Ellison hugging Stephen, with Cameron Roberts standing attentively nearby.

Arthur, on a stretcher, was being loaded into an ambulance. He turned his face towards her, coughed, and held up his thumb to her in a victory sign. She asked Kevin, “Can I go with him?” A paramedic was heading towards her.

“Not only can, but must,” said Kevin with a smile. “You need checking out yourself. I'll bring Stephen and Roberts.”

Danutia felt exhaustion sweep over her, together with pain from cuts and burns she hadn't noticed till then. Most of all, she felt a great happiness as the paramedic led her towards the ambulance. Stephen was safe, her baby was safe, and she was about to talk to her baby's father. Who knew what would come of that? In the light of the gratitude she felt for the gift of life, this traveling together, however brief it turned out to be, was the only thing that mattered.

First and foremost, our thanks to the many well dressers of Derbyshire who answered our questions and let us try out their craft, particularly Paul Fletcher and Elaine Chapman of Tideswell and Karen Heathcote of Wormhill. Karen read portions and Elaine all of the manuscript and made helpful suggestions. Long-time friends Alan and Hilary Taylor introduced us to well dressing years before we had any idea of writing about this custom.

Much appreciation to Chris's cousins Harry Bullock (now deceased) and Joan Bullock, who showed us Lindow Common and told us the story of the Lindow Man (whose remains we later witnessed in an exhibit in Manchester). The Lindow Man brought another dimension to the novel. Similarly, Michael Tacon's memories of Stockport and Millers Dale contributed to our account of Arthur's childhood.

For information about Derbyshire police procedures we are indebted to Wayne Russell, former police officer and now an award-winning actor from Hathersage. Wayne gave generously of his time on our two research trips to the Peak District and also answered our emailed questions with amazing alacrity. We are wholly responsible for any inaccuracies.

We would also like to thank the following for information: Julia Gow, Derbyshire Wildlife Trust; Yvonne Thorburn, Bakewell Register Office; and Buxton Tourism Office.

Our apologies if there are others we've failed to mention.

Housing exchanges in Stockport and Winkleworth made our research easier. Thanks to our hosts, John and Debbie Heaton and Rod and Shirley Grant.

Our writing group helped us clarify our intentions and connect the many threads of the story. For their sharp questions and unwavering support, we are deeply grateful to Bruce Partridge, May Partridge, Carol Redl, and, more recently, Debbie Goodman.

At TouchWood, publisher Ruth Linka has been both calm and accommodating.

Editor Frances Thorsen pushed for historical and procedural accuracy and tight writing.

Our thanks as well to proofreader Lenore Hietkamp, who caught not only typos but also gaps and inconsistencies; to designer Pete Kohut, who has produced another stunning cover; and to photo­grapher Kate Seymour, whose cheerful disposition made smiling for the camera so much easier.

Further Reading

Our fictional village of Mill-on-Wye is based on the Peak District hamlet of Millers Dale, though we have expanded the hamlet dramatically and created all of its inhabitants. Readers interested in knowing more about the places we mention might enjoy Denis Eardley's
Villages of the Peak District
(Amberley, 2009).

Monsal Mill is based on the only-too-real Litton Mill. See
The Dark Satanic Mills: Orphan Child Factory Workers at Litton and Cressbrook Mills
, re-edited by Martin Hulbert (n.p., n.d.).

For a lively account of well dressing, see Peter Naylor and Lindsey Porter,
Well Dressing
. Ashbourne,
UK
: Landmark Publishing, 2002.

And for a current calendar of well dressing festivals as well as over four thousand images of these remarkable panels, see
welldressing.com
.