The Other Cathy (21 page)

‘Oh? What have Aunt Jane and Uncle Paget been saying?’

‘No more, really, than you have told me yourself, that your
Aunt Chloe has been concerned about him calling upon you.
She is more concerned, I think, than you realise.’

‘She has no cause to be!’

‘Are you sure?’ He gave Emma a challenging look that
brought a bright flood of colour to her cheeks. ‘I tried once
before to warn you that Sutcliffe is not a man of whose be
haviour you could ever approve. I think that now, perhaps, I had better be more specific.’

‘As you please,’ she said, with an attempt at indifference.
Under the table her hands were clenched so tightly that her
fingernails bit into the flesh.

‘Very well, though it is extremely distasteful to me. One
evening recently when I was dining in Wyke with a medical friend of mine, Sutcliffe was also in the restaurant, though he didn’t happen to see me. Emma, it was a most disreputable
sort of place.’

‘You were there too, Bernard!’

It was his turn to flush. ‘Frederick thought it would be amusing to dine there, but that’s not the point. It is an
establishment where – women of a certain type flaunt them
selves. Sutcliffe was with such a one. I saw him leaving with
the woman on his arm.’ He leaned forward, his voice insistent, ‘I am speaking the truth, Emma. You must believe me.’

All her instincts cried out in protest, but she knew Bernard
was incapable of inventing such a story. Excusing herself she hastily withdrew to her bedroom, overcome by a feeling of
desolation. In bed she could find no rest. At some point in the
endless hours of the night Cathy, sleeping beside her, cried
out in sudden sharp anguish,
Heathcliff! Do come to me,
Heathcliff!
Emma’s heart lurched, and she fell to wondering again about the strange confused fancies of her young cousin’s mind. But what about herself, were not her own dreams as
irrational? If she ever cried out in her sleep, Emma knew
whose name would be on her own lips.

She slept eventually,
and wakened in the morning to find that a resolution had formed in her mind which, curiously, gave her a renewed
sense of purpose. Whatever she might think of Matthew Sut
cliffe, however shamefully he might have used her, he was still
entitled to justice if he had been wrongly condemned for the death of her father. Despite everything, Emma felt strangely
convinced that, about this, at least, he had told her the truth. Regardless of the pain and heartache it might bring her, she would help him establish his innocence by any means avail
able to her. Somehow, she would arrange to meet him as soon
as possible after her return to Bracklegarth Hall. She would
question him about the pedlar, and would listen to what he
had to say. And then—? Her thoughts would carry her no further.

Carefully, Emma worked out a plan. She dared not try to
use Seth as her messenger again, so the best thing was to
send a letter by post from York. If she waited till they were
home, it would mean extra delay. Besides, there was no
pillar box as yet in Bythorpe so she would have to hand in
the letter at the post office, and the clerk would see to whom
it was addressed. The letter did not take her long to write. In
essence it was identical with the one Uncle Randolph had
intercepted, except that the time she named for their meeting
was forty-eight hours hence.

The appointment with Sir Charles Grierson was at eleven
o’clock. The great man examined Cathy with gentle thorough
ness. His manner was charming, and his tone of conversation so bright and cheerful that Emma felt a surge of optimism. Perhaps, after all, there was to be a miracle and Cathy would
be saved. But the expression on Bernard’s face when he
emerged from his professional consultation with the physician
destroyed her hopes in an instant. Sir Charles’s advice, he
said in a low voice when they could speak for a moment alone,
was that Miss Hardaker should remain at home in the bosom of her family for the little time that was left to her. In his
considered opinion, a stay in a Bavarian sanatorium would
serve no useful purpose whatsoever. Furthermore, the exhausting journey to the continent might well prove too much
for her surviving strength, and hasten her death rather than
delay it.

It was a stifling day. With the sun hidden above dense layers
of haze, the sky was a brazen dome emitting a harsh, hot glare. Emma wore her lightest walking dress, a pale lilac
muslin of ankle length. Even so it clung to her body damply
before she had walked half a mile. She had not dared ride
Kirstie and risk getting Seth into further trouble for letting
her go unaccompanied. Neither could she have brought Seth
with her. Slowly, pausing now and then to regain her breath,
Emma climbed the steep slope of the valley and reached the
moorland plateau. It was utterly still and silent; no birds were
winging in the hot air and the black-faced sheep stood motion
less in the heather. The stunted cottongrass in the boggy
patches was like a hanging cloud of vapour, and Black Scar
Rocks thrust up stark and sullen against the pitiless sky. At
the foot of the crags she saw a movement and a tall figure came into view, arm raised in greeting. Against her will,
against reason, excitement stirred within her. Matthew had come, just as she’d asked. She hurried on, then slowed down
as he drew near. When they met she searched his eyes for the
answer to her unvoiced question.

Matthew said at once, ‘What is it you want me to tell you, Emma?’

‘The truth! You must conceal nothing from me.’

‘Then ask me what you will. I have nothing to hide.’ Now the moment had come Emma wished desperately that
she had not arranged this meeting. She wished she was else
where, anywhere, rather than here, confronting Matthew.

 She
had given much thought to the questions she would put to
him, wanting to be tactful, anxious not to seem accusatory.
But now the painfully chosen phrases fled from her mind.
Stumbling over the words, she burst out, ‘The man who was
killed – the pedlar! You were talking to him, arguing with
him, I saw you, down by the river the afternoon before he
died.’

‘You saw me?’

‘I had taken Seth’s grandmother home in the trap,’ she explained, ‘and I was driving back. How did you come to know
that man, Matthew? What was he to you?’

He did not answer at once but stood looking at her with
shadowed eyes, taking slow deep breaths as if the very act of
breathing was a skill he had not yet mastered.

‘Emma, what you’re saying, what you are suggesting, is that I might have been his murderer. Then aren’t you afraid to meet me alone on the moor? Do you not hesitate to throw such a challenge at me?’

She shook her head. To be afraid was to put a value upon
life, she told herself. And if Matthew should admit his guilt,
if he was in fact a murderer, then life and living had no more meaning for her.

‘You don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed joyfully. ‘You could
not believe it of me. Admit that, Emma!’

‘I
want
not to believe it.’

‘Then don’t, for I swear to you it isn’t true. I will tell you everything about my encounter with the man that day. I had
never seen him in my life before, but he knew who I was. I had ridden into Bythorpe in the morning, and as I was re
turning home I found him waiting on the road near the gates of Oakroyd House. He accosted me, demanding to know if I
was the man who had done a lagging in Australia. I confirmed
the fact, and asked him who he was and why he wanted to
know. But he merely gave an unpleasant smirk and said he’d
answer that when I produced fifty pounds. He claimed he
could tell me things worth that much and more. I laughed in
his face, and asked him if he took me for a fool – at which he
turned on his heel and began to walk away, calling back that he’d be at the spot near the river where you saw us, Emma, in the afternoon. Bring fifty gold sovereigns with you, he said,
and you’ll learn what you’ve longed to know ever since you got the boat – he meant since I was transported.’

‘So you went to meet him with the fifty pounds?’

‘No! It might have been a trick to get me alone in a quiet
spot with money in my pocket, where I could be set upon by
his accomplices. I went with no money, and challenged the
man to give me proof of his good faith. At the very least, I
insisted., he must indicate what it was he had to reveal before I’d be prepared to consider handing over such a large sum.
Eventually he told me he could put a name to the killer of
Hugh Hardaker.’

Emma caught her breath. ‘He really said that?’

‘He did! I admit I tried to put the fear of God into him
with mention of taking him to law, but to no purpose. He said he would deny everything. So in the end I promised to
bring him the money the following day, and said he should
have it if he could convince me that his information was true.
’
Matthew sighed. ‘The rest you know. Someone killed
him that same night.’

Emma said faintly, on a breath, “Who, Matthew – who?’

‘I wish to heaven I knew! If there’s any truth in what he
claimed, it’s unlikely he was a complete stranger to Bythorpe, as is believed. The man must have had some sort of link with
these parts.’

‘He was no stranger,’ Emma confirmed. ‘Ursly knew him,
she recognised him. His cart was pulled up by the roadside and he was lying down in the bracken. He called out some
surly remark as we passed. Ursly couldn’t see him properly,
being so near-sighted, but she recognised his voice. She called
him Johnny Gone-tomorrow.’

‘What did she tell you about him?’

‘She was reticent, merely saying she knew him from a long
time ago. And she obviously disliked him very much; hated
him, I think. She reckoned he was up to no good here, and
said that clearing out of Bythorpe before was the best day’s
work he ever did. But I couldn’t persuade her to tell me any
more.’

Matthew’s eyes were narrowed in thought. ‘As I recall,
Ursly is a tiny woman, and must be quite old by now. Surely
she couldn’t have —’

Shocked at the idea, Emma protested, ‘No, no, it’s out of the question!’

‘Nevertheless, she can tell me more about this fellow. I shall go and see her.’

‘Ursly’s a stubborn old woman, Matthew. If she doesn’t want to talk, she won’t talk, no matter how hard you press her. I know her.’

‘Well then, there must be other people who could tell me
something about the man, now that we know what he was
called.’

Emma caught his arm in sudden panic. ‘But you can’t ad
mit to knowing his name,’ she said, ‘or anything else about
him. If it came out about your rendezvous with him, would your story be believed? You might put yourself in serious danger.’

He acknowledged the truth of this. For a moment they remained motionless, her fingers still touching his sleeve; then slowly Matthew’s hand came up and he slid it over hers. This
simple gesture made Emma aware of the surging emotion
within her and, afraid of it, she drew back from him abruptly.

Studying her face and trying to penetrate her mind, he said,
‘There’s something else, isn’t there? You demand complete
honesty from me, Emma, but I must know your questions
first. Tell me what disturbs you, and I will answer frankly.’
When she did not reply, he grew insistent. ‘Please, Emma –
something concerning me is causing you distress. I have to know what it is.’

‘Blanche! ‘ The name slipped out against her will, and she flinched back from Matthew’s quick frown.

‘Blanche! What about her?’

‘You and she – Uncle Randolph talks as if there’s some
thing between you – an understanding.’

‘That’s utter nonsense!’

‘Blanche doesn’t seem to think it’s nonsense.’

‘Has she said something to you?’ he demanded.

‘No, not to me. But from the way my uncle was talking, it
is clear that Blanche is making no attempt to deny a relationship between you.’

‘You already know what there is between us, Emma. I still
believe it’s a possibility that Blanche’s husband killed your
father, but so far I’ve been unable to obtain any clear evidence. My attempt to track down his missing greatcoat was
a total failure, as also was my search for gaming houses where
William Hardaker might have been known. Fifteen years is a long time ago and things have changed in the gambling
world – I gather that a recent Act of parliament has almost put
such places out of business. Accordingly, I went back to
Blanche as my only source of information. I became all the
more curious, indeed, when you told me yourself that Blanche
must be considered the most likely person to have forced
open your deed box. I have seen her on several occasions now;
trying, as casually as possible, to get her talking freely. As yet,
though, nothing further has come to light.’