Master of the Moor (24 page)

The two policemen were back in the lodge. Stephen began heading in the direction of the path that led up on to Chesney Fell and Foinmen’s Plain. Up there somewhere he would find a hole, a rabbit warren, a small cavern lipped by a stone, wherein to bury the book. He was approaching the Hall gates when a car came slowly down the drive. It stopped just inside the gates, the driver’s door came open and Professor Schuyler got out and hurried back to the house.

Plainly he had gone back for something he had forgotten. On the back seat and floor of the car were a tumble of books, folders, two battered briefcases, a mass of manuscript held together with a clip. Stephen looked round quickly to make sure he was unobserved and then he pulled
Muse of Fire
out from the breast of his jacket and tossed it lightly among them. It made him chuckle. There was even another of the professor’s own works among the books, a glossy jacketed memoir of Ford Madox Ford.

After that Stephen climbed the crinkle-crankle path with a light step, almost joyously. No one followed him. They wouldn’t have the stamina, the lung power, to follow him up here or anywhere over the steep crests of the moor. He laughed as he climbed, throwing out his arms as if to embrace with wide heavens, the foins, the green fells. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills …

There was no evidence of any kind against him. All they knew was that he had been twice to Thirlton by car during the weekend. They would look stupid when they had wasted time and manpower searching his house only to find nothing. Perhaps he should get himself a lawyer, though. Why? Why spend money on
that, money down the drain, when there was no evidence against him? When he got home he would check on the car. There might be a hair or two in the car that by some scientific process they could tell wasn’t Lyn’s.

When they had finished with it, perhaps he would sell the car. What was the use of a car to him now he wasn’t going to work any more? He wouldn’t want to go anywhere but up here on the moor. The car was a useless encumbrance that would be as expensive to keep as a horse that never got ridden.

He came over the crest at the top of the path and stood looking across the plain to where the standing stones, the curious converging procession of them, stood out dark against a sky that was peach-pink and flecked all over with feathers of gold and blue. It was almost too gorgeous, too photogenic, too much of nature copying art, and art in this case the
Echo
calendar. A flock of birds passed overhead, flying very high, a hundred tiny black commas in formation. Stephen came slowly across the turf towards the gate in the railing. He thought he saw something move behind the Giant, but when he looked again there was nothing.

As he opened the gate he thought he smelt tobacco smoke. The air was heavy and humid. If someone had been up here smoking during the afternoon perhaps the smell would linger on that air for many hours. The two great comb-shaped shadows lay spread, between the stones and out beyond. Stephen walked along the shadow and caught it again, the whiff of smoke. The feeling of being alone up here had left him and now he turned back sharply to see who was following him.

The plain was deserted. Stephen blinked and closed his eyes against the dazzlement of the sinking sun. He turned away again and looked with screwed-up eyes towards the far end of the avenue and as he did so a figure
moved out from behind the broad protection of the Giant and stood against the sky, the sun’s rays gleaming on it with a brassy sheen. It was the figure of a very tall man with a bush of dark hair, a bearded man who wore dark trousers and a white or very pale sweater that the sun had dyed a fiery gold.

Stephen remained still. The man took the cigarette from between his lips, but instead of dropping it and treading it out, pinched it in his fingers and put the end into his pocket.

He began to walk down the avenue, between the bars of shadow. Stephen drew in his breath in a hiss. He went forward to meet the advancing figure, the godlike, bearded, golden figure, who was coming towards him down the aisle of a druids’ cathedral.

The voice rang out like a bell. ‘Stephen!’

It was part of the ritual, the magic, that this man in the pale loose aran, this man who was taller than Ian Stringer, taller even than Dadda, should know his name and address him by it. But Stephen himself couldn’t speak. He simply stared and walked.

‘I thought it was you. I reckon I still know your walk after all these years.’ A long brown hand went up to the mass of disguising beard, the curly hair. ‘You don’t know me, do you, under all this? Peter. Peter Naulls.’

They sat
on the Altar, watching the sun go down. It lay like a crimson ball on the horizon but only after it had sunk did the sky turn red, as red as the heart of a fire. Peter lit a cigarette, pushed the wooden matchstick deep into the earth.

‘I used to dream about Vangmoor while I was on my travels,’ he said. ‘It gets you that way if you’ve been brought up here. I’ve been all round the world, walking mostly, going on buses, getting lifts, but the longer I was away the more I got to thinking about the moor and — well, missing it.’

‘How long were you away?’ Stephen asked.

‘Years. I lived in Kathmandu, in the place they call Freak Street, for two years. I was a freak, I was all spaced out, I can tell you. There was a doctor there, he
reckoned I’d die if I went on the way I was, so I came home. I’ve even got a job.’

‘Here?’ Stephen hazarded.

‘In London. Hospital porter. Christ, Stephen, I sometimes wish I’d been bred up to a trade like you. What use is an English degree?’

Stephen looked at him in wonder. ‘When did you come back from — Kathmandu?’

‘Christmas, it must have been.’

‘They’ve taken your picture away at Uncle Leonard’s. Last time I was there it was gone.’

‘Like I’m dead to them? You didn’t think I stayed with them when I came up here, did you?’

‘You could stay with me,’ Stephen said.

‘You’re married, aren’t you?’

Stephen shook his head vehemently. ‘I’d like you to stay with me. I’ve got a big empty house, all those empty rooms. Whenever you want to come up to the moor you can always stay with me.’

It was a sidelong glance Peter gave him, one eyebrow raised. ‘I’ve got a place to stay.’

‘With me it wouldn’t cost you anything. You could come and go as you liked, you’d be free.’

Peter didn’t really answer that. He said, ‘There’s a girl I know in Loomlade, we’ve known each other since we were kids. It’s her I come up to see.’ He got up. ‘Let’s go. It’ll be dark soon and I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.’

‘But we’ll meet again, won’t we?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

They walked along the avenue together. Stephen asked when Peter was going back. Sunday, not till Sunday. He wanted to ask about the girl, he wanted to ask if she had long fair hair, but he didn’t quite dare so he asked her name instead.

‘Stella. Stella Crane. Her dad keeps the electrical shop. You and me, when we were kids, we went in there once and bought a torch battery. Remember?’

Did he remember! Stephen’s heart was full. He began to laugh with joy. He had to stand still and hold his sides, he was laughing so much.

‘What’s so funny?’ Peter was looking at him oddly again, looking him up and down.

‘I’m so happy,’ Stephen gasped. ‘Lord, I’m so happy it just makes me laugh, I don’t know why. It’s so terrific to see you, it’s amazing. It’s what I
needed
, d’you understand me?’

‘I don’t know that I do.’ Peter closed the gate, stood at the point where the path divided, one branch descending the fell to Chesney, the other curving away over Foinmen’s Plain. He said rather awkwardly, ‘It’s been good seeing you, Stephen.’

‘Ring me before you go back? Say you will. I’m in the book.’

‘Sure. Sure, I will, Stephen.’

‘We mustn’t lose sight of each other again.’ Stephen put out his hand. He didn’t know quite why he had done this, whether he expected Peter to shake it or hold it, and perhaps it was as well Peter didn’t seem to see that outstretched hand in the gathering dusk. For a moment, though, it seemed to him that he had put out his hand in order to hold onto Peter and stop him going away. ‘Good night,’ he said, and wistfully, repeating himself, ‘We’ll meet again?’

Walking away, Peter laughed. His voice came very clear in the windless twilight. ‘You know where to find me. Good night.’ He looked back once and gave Stephen a wave. Stephen watched him until he was out of sight, and that was for a long time, for the Plain stretched more or less fiat to the east of Ringer’s Foin
and in the dusk Peter’s white sweater showed up as a moving glimmer.

They hadn’t mentioned the mine or Apsley Sough. That was because they hadn’t needed to, Stephen thought, or because what it meant to both of them was too deep for words at this their first meeting. Besides, Peter
had
referred to it. He couldn’t have done so more delicately and subtly than by speaking of the day they had bought that torch battery in Crane’s shop, the very day, Stephen remembered and knew Peter remembered too, when they had found the entrance to the mine. Perhaps Peter had been wise in refusing to come and stay in his house. Houses only trammelled people like them. It was up here in the open that such as they must meet. Probably Peter would phone him tomorrow. He would phone and then they would go to the mine together.

With nightfall the rain began again. It was a slow steady fine rain. Stephen went up to his bedroom, remembering that ‘first thing’ in the morning the police were due to search the house. On the foot of his bed, on the turned-back covers, was Harriet Crozier’s handbag.

Slowly he emptied everything out of it onto the sheet. Every object was quite small, the largest item being Harriet’s notebook and that was no more than six inches by four. Stephen reflected. He couldn’t burn the things, there were no fireplaces in the house. Nor would he dare put the things in his dustbin. Lyn had probably asked her mother to send the rest of her clothes on to her but as yet Mrs Newman hadn’t put in an appearance to do this and a great many of Lyn’s possessions remained in the house. Stephen hesitated for a moment longer and then he put the empty handbag with Lyn’s three handbags, the lipstick and eye liner in
the drawer with Lyn’s make-up, and the coins with the loose change in his own trouser pocket. Why not carry the rest of the things on him tomorrow? They would search the house but they wouldn’t search him.

He slept soundly but he was awake early and up by seven. The police’s ‘first thing’ was 8.30 and Stephen thought Troth seemed impressed by the sight of him standing at the sink washing up his breakfast dishes. A guilty man wouldn’t be washing up when the police came to search his house for evidence to convict him of murder. From time to time, though not in the presence of Troth and the others, he patted his pockets and nearly giggled when he felt there Harriet Crozier’s purse and notebook and cheque book and credit card.

But after an hour or two he felt so triumphantly certain they hadn’t found anything and weren’t going to find anything — after all, what was there to find? — that when he watched them poking about with his clothes and crawling about the floors it made him start giggling. Troth, picking at a pustule with the fingernail of his little finger, asked him where his wife was and Stephen said he didn’t know, she had left him.

Troth’s wedge face sharpened and his eyes came even closer together. It was all Stephen could do to suppress his amusement. He could see the way Troth’s mind was working, the conclusion he was fast jumping to.

‘
I
don’t know where she is,’ Stephen said, ‘but my mother-in-law does. You’ve only got to go across the road and ask.’

The look on Troth’s face, guarded disappointment, was such as to make Stephen let out a roar of laughter. It was very satisfying that Troth didn’t seem to despise him any more. He looked as if he were scared of him or at least wary. They finished with the house by half past twelve and more or less put things back where they had
found them. Troth said nothing about wanting to see him again or to expect a visit later in the day. He went into the Newmans’ house but he was only there ten minutes.

Rain was still falling lightly. It had been raining all night and all the morning. The house felt defiled as a house is said to feel after burglars have been in it, but Stephen didn’t feel like rearranging everything or getting the vacuum cleaner out again. He went into his study and composed an advertisement for insertion in the
Echo
, offering his car for sale. He put the advertisement into an envelope and a stamp on the envelope but he didn’t like to go down to the post with it in case Peter phoned. Peter was bound to phone today or tomorrow because on Sunday he had to go back to that hospital porter’s job of his.

What was he, Stephen, going to do about a job for himself? On the other hand, did he have to have one? The little bit his articles for the ‘Voice of Vangmoor’ brought in would be enough to buy his food, and without a wife, a car, without even perhaps a house …? A new life was beginning for him and the prospect of it filled him with excitement. He wrote
For Sale, £1,200
on a piece of card, added
o.n.o
. for ‘or near offer’ and stuck the card in the rear window of his car with Scotch tape. There was just a chance of selling it that way before next week’s
Echo
came out.

In spite of the rain, it was warm and he longed to be out on the moor. But he went back into the house and had some lunch and thought about the police finding blonde hairs all over his clothes and in his bed and in the car and reluctantly having to admit they were Lyn’s hairs. He thought about Troth calling up some telephone number Mrs Newman would have given him. The idea of Troth expecting the person who answered
to say he or she had never heard of Lyn, but in fact being answered by Lyn herself, made Stephen laugh again. He roared with laughter, shaking his head at the stupidity of the police.

In the afternoon the rain let up and when the sun came out everything outside began steaming. Stephen opened the french windows. Who would do the garden now Lyn was gone? A house and garden, he thought, were liabilities, more trouble than they were worth. If the phone didn’t go by seven he would walk or take the car to Loomlade and find Peter at Crane’s shop. He sat by the french windows, eating dry roasted peanuts and drinking tea. The phone rang at half past four. He answered it in his pleasantest voice, giving the number and then, ‘This is Stephen Whalby speaking.’