The Shade of Hettie Daynes Read online

  ‘We don’t employ watchmen, Councillor. We’ve never found it necessary. Warning notices, plastic tape. They work.’

  ‘Barriers, Forgan. I’ve some influence with the water company, I don’t want to have to tell ’em we’ve no confidence in you.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for that, Councillor. If you insist, I’ll see you have barriers, and I’ll get back to you on the watchman thing.’

  ‘D’you know Forgan, I knew you’d understand. Goodbye.’

  TWENTY

  ‘YOU GOT A picture?’ gasped Rob. It was Monday morning, just before the bell.

  Harry nodded. ‘Bethan did. It’s in her camera.’

  ‘Crikey! What’s she gonna do with it?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘She wants to investigate. Reckons the ghost is trying to tell us something. Her mate Alison thinks it’s Hettie Daynes.’

  Rob frowned. ‘Who is this Hettie Daynes? Name keeps cropping up, never heard of her.’

  Harry had just outlined the story his mother had told when the bell rang. ‘Later,’ said Rob. They joined the kids crowding into school. Registration was barely over when a note came round from the Head. Hezzy, real name Miss Tate, cleared her throat to get the year’s attention.

  ‘Note from Mr Woollard. It concerns us all, but particularly those of you who live in Wilton, because it’s about Wilton Water.’ She scanned the single sheet. ‘Apparently the reservoir is undergoing renovation, and the powers that be are concerned that people might be tempted to go sightseeing there while work is in progress. Mr Woollard points out that this could be highly dangerous, and expects all students of this school to stay well clear throughout the four months it will take to complete the project.’ She folded the note, handed it back to the kid who brought it, scanned the class. ‘Is that quite clear to you all?’

  It was. Harry would be sightseeing regardless, but he grunted and nodded like everybody else. The Head’s reputation as a disciplinarian had earned him the nickname ‘Well ’ard’, but he lived a long way from Wilton Water. If a couple of kids went roaming its shores on dark winter evenings or foggy Saturday afternoons, how the heck was he going to know?

  TWENTY-ONE

  AS MISS TATE was reading out the Head’s note at Rawton Secondary, Bethan’s teacher clapped for attention at Wilton Primary. ‘Listen, everybody.’ The hum of voices faded, all eyes were on Miss Newbould.

  ‘Hallowe’en is a week on Friday. That’s only twelve days away, so it’s time to start thinking about our costumes for the Hallowe’en Hop. There’s to be a competition, with a valuable prize for the most original outfit.’ The teacher paused, then went on. ‘Remember, I said the most original. You’re not likely to win if you come as a witch or a wizard or a skeleton or a vampire, because that’s what most people tend to come as.’ She smiled. ‘The challenge is to think up something a bit different. Our Chair of Governors will be judging the competition, and that’s what he’ll be looking for.’

  ‘Miss?’ Alison Crabtree raised her hand.

  ‘Yes, Alison?’

  ‘Miss, is it all right if I come as—’

  ‘Whoa!’ Miss Newbould broke in. ‘Don’t tell us, Alison, or somebody might copy your idea. Keep it to yourself, ask your mum to help with the sewing, surprise us all on the night. All right?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Morning break. Bethan and Alison strolled round the edge of the playing field, talking. Bethan looked at her friend.

  ‘So what’s this brilliant idea for a costume, Aly? I won’t copy, honest.’

  Alison smiled. ‘I know you won’t, silly.’ She put her lips near Bethan’s ear and whispered, though nobody was close. ‘Hettie Daynes.’

  ‘Hey, brilliant!’ Bethan grinned. ‘You know Hettie’s an ancestor of ours, of course. Mum says she used to tear her clothes. You could get a long skirt from the charity shop and rip great holes in it. You could mess up your hair and put muck on your face. And I know – you could come barefoot, that’s dead original.’

  Alison nodded. ‘I know. You don’t mind, do you? With her being an ancestor, I mean?’

  Bethan shook her head. ‘Course not. I’ll mention it to Mum, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ She smiled. ‘At least you won’t need to practise looking barmy, Aly – you do already.’

  She skipped sideways to avoid a slap.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MONDAY, FIVE FIFTEEN. The Midgleys round the table, eating spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce. Bethan looked across at her mother. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘You know the Hallowe’en Hop?’

  Christa nodded. ‘I know of it, yes. Week on Friday. You’ll need a costume of some sort.’

  ‘Yes, only I haven’t decided what to go as.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘Isn’t that what the Americans call a no-brainer, sweetheart? I mean, girls go as witches, right?’

  ‘Well yes, Mum, but you see it’s a competition, to see who can come up with the most original costume. A witch outfit might be original at somebody’s wedding, but not at a Hallowe’en Hop.’ She pulled a face. ‘There’s a totally awesome one, but Aly bagged it.’

  ‘Alison Crabtree?’ Christa sounded surprised.

  Beth nodded. ‘Yes, she’s going as Hettie Daynes.’

  Christa set down her fork and whispered, ‘She’s going as who?’

  ‘H . . . Hettie Daynes.’ Bethan could tell by her mother’s expression, the softness of her voice, that this had not gone down well. She gulped. ‘What’s up, Mum?’

  Christa gazed at her daughter, spoke softly. ‘What’s up, Bethan? You know what’s up. I told you Hettie Daynes was my great, great auntie. She was an actual person, not somebody out of a silly tale. She lived here in Wilton, just like you and me. Something terrible happened to her, and she lost her mind. She wasn’t something to dress up as, in the hope of winning a competition. It’s like dressing up as one of those poor starving toddlers in Africa, or somebody who’s been maimed by a bomb. You just don’t do that sort of thing, Bethan. It’s . . . it’s in bad taste.’

  ‘But, Mum . . .’ Bethan looked stricken. ‘Aly was so excited when she told me – how can I tell her she’s got to forget the whole thing?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘You must just tell her, Bethan. Unless you’d rather I told her.’

  ‘Uh . . . no thanks, Mum – I’ll see to it.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  FIRST THING TUESDAY morning, Bethan found her friend in the yard. ‘Hi, Aly.’

  ‘Hi yourself.’ Alison studied Bethan’s face. ‘What’s up – you look like you lost a solid gold bangle or something.’

  Bethan sighed. ‘It’s worse than that. Listen. I’ve something to tell you, and a favour to ask.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Bethan told her friend what happened yesterday tea time. When she’d finished, Aly said, ‘Oh heck – I can see why your mum’s upset. You’re going to ask me to drop the idea, aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Bethan shook her head. ‘I was awake half the night thinking, and you won’t need to drop it – just change it a bit.’

  ‘Change it how?’

  ‘Well, you think the ghost is Hettie, don’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘So don’t go as Hettie Daynes, just go as the ghost.’

  ‘That’ll make a difference?’

  ‘ ’Course it will. Mum doesn’t believe in the ghost – says it’s only a tale, so if you go as the ghost she’ll have no objection.’ She gazed at her friend. ‘Do it, Aly – for me. It’ll still be original.’

  Alison was quiet for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Yes, OK.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’ll need a long black skirt instead of a torn one, and lots of white make-up instead of dirt.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll be like a Goth. And I’ll stand pointing down like she does. It’ll be dead dramatic.’

  Tea time, Bethan said, ‘Mum, I talked to Aly. She’s changed her mind, she won’t go as Hettie Daynes. She’s going as the ghost of Wilton Water.
’

  Christa nodded. ‘That’s much better, Bethan. And what about you – what will you go as?’

  Harry grinned. ‘She could go as herself, Mum – scare everyone to death.’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Bethan, ‘or I could go as you – I don’t think anyone’s been as the village idiot before.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  NOTHING MUCH HAPPENED in the next few days. Thursday, Harry and Rob took a detour on the way home to check out Wilton Water. The level was down a bit, but the main change was that the footpath round the reservoir had been sealed off at both ends by high mesh fences.

  ‘Bummer!’ growled Rob, hooking his fingers through the mesh and shaking it. ‘I was dying to see what’s left of Hopwood Mill. Now we can’t get near.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t know why old Well ’ard bothered sending that note round, it’s like a flippin’ prison camp. Only needs towers with lights and machine guns.’

  Rob pulled a face. ‘Probably putting them up tomorrow.’ He hacked at the turf with the toe of his shoe. ‘We could tunnel under though – the mesh doesn’t continue underground.’

  Harry tried a bit of hacking himself. He grinned. ‘Sound idea, my friend. Got to get in somehow – I promised my sister an adventure.’ He gazed through the fence at the darkening water. ‘The Phantom of Wilton Water, starring Harry and Bethan Midgley. Best supporting actor, Rob Hattersley.’

  ‘Clown.’ Rob turned to leave, and groaned. ‘Oh no.’

  Carl Hopwood was leaning in the gateway with his hands in his pockets, watching them. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘What do you scruffs think you’re doing? Didn’t you get the Head’s note?’

  ‘We’re just looking,’ growled Rob.

  ‘Yeah,’ sneered Hopwood, ‘and I’m just looking at you.’ He nodded towards the fence. ‘My dad had that put up. He didn’t go to all that trouble just so losers like you could do criminal damage to it.’ He eyeballed them. ‘We’re a long way from school. Old Woollard might not be able to keep an eye on Wilton Water but we can, and we will. Me, Shaun and Nigel. We catch you here, we’ll shove you into that mesh so hard you’ll come out the other side as chips.’

  The pair watched the bully depart. ‘No wonder they haven’t bothered with lights and machine guns,’ muttered Harry.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  AFTER TEA, HARRY pulled Bethan into his room, closed the door and asked, ‘Have you been past the res lately?’

  Bethan shook her head. ‘Saturday was the last time, when I took the snapshot. Why?’

  ‘It’s fenced off, you can’t get on the footpath.’

  Bethan frowned. ‘Who’s done that? Why would they want to . . .?’

  ‘Carl reckons his stupid dad got it done, for safety. And Carl’s made himself chief of the reservoir police. He caught me and Rob there just now.’

  ‘What the heck’s it got to do with him, the red-faced creep?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘You know what he’s like, just because his dad’s a councillor. Probably thinks nobody should get a look at the old mill ’cause it used to be theirs.’

  Bethan looked at her brother. ‘So what are you saying, Harry – that we should just forget about our investigation? Our first genuine adventure?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’ He grinned. ‘Think about it, Sis. It’ll be a bigger adventure, won’t it, high steel fences and Carl’s performing cave trolls to watch out for. We’ll have to be ice cool, totally focused.’

  Bethan smiled. ‘So we go for it?’

  Harry nodded. ‘When d’you want to start?’

  ‘Well . . .’ His sister thought for a moment. ‘I think we ought to wait till after the Hallowe’en Hop. I haven’t made my costume yet, and I won’t be able to focus on anything else till it’s done.’

  ‘That’s eight days,’ said Harry. ‘With a bit of luck, they’ll have got the water level right down and there’ll be something to see. What’re you going as, by the way?’

  Bethan shrugged. ‘I’m thinking of going as a witch’s familiar. A black cat. It’s a dead simple costume to make – black leotard, tail, mask with ears and whiskers, maybe a broomstick to ride on. It doesn’t matter really – Aly’s bound to win as the ghost. Hey.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe the ghost’s guarding a treasure chest. We could end up millionaires.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  FRIDAY EVENING, HOPWOOD House. The family at dinner: Councillor Reginald Hopwood, his wife Felicity and their son, Carl. The dining room is large, the table long. At one time, staff cooked and served all meals eaten here, but this enviable way of life began to fade when the waters closed over Hopwood Mill, and died altogether in Reginald’s grandfather’s time. Now, meals are Felicity’s job. Today she’s cooked pasta, and the portraits of old Josiah and his wife scowl down in disapproval at the food and the domestic arrangement generally.

  Carl sliced open a sachet of ravioli, watched the mince ooze out. One day, he promised himself, I’ll do that to Harry Midgley.

  ‘Carl?’

  ‘Y–yes, Dad?’ Reginald bullied his son, which encouraged Carl to bully others.

  ‘You are keeping a lookout at the reservoir, as I asked?’

  Carl nodded. ‘Yes, Dad. I scared two scruffs off yesterday, and today there was nobody.’ He looked smug. ‘They might not take much notice of old Woollard, but they don’t mess with me.’

  His father nodded. ‘Good lad.’

  Felicity frowned. ‘I don’t understand your interest in keeping people away from the reservoir, Reggie.’ She resented his using Carl as a watchman.

  Reginald bullied his wife as well as his son. ‘There are lots of things you don’t understand, Fliss,’ he grated. ‘Things about my family, my village. You’re not required to understand them, and neither is Carl. I’m the councillor – I’ll do the understanding. Your role is to support me by doing exactly as I say.’

  ‘Yes, Reggie,’ murmured Felicity. She knew she ought to assert herself, but it never seemed quite the right time.

  The time was at hand, though she didn’t know it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘NOW THEN, COUNCILLOR.’ Stan Fox greeted Reginald Hopwood as he plonked two tankards on the table. The councillor nodded and sat down. It was Saturday lunch time. The Feathers was busy. ‘You wanted to see me?’ said Fox.

  Hopwood nodded. ‘I’m a bit concerned about the reservoir job, Fox. Public safety.’

  ‘Safety?’ The reporter looked surprised. ‘When I walked past this morning the place was like a fortress. Steel fencing, big red notices. I think Forgan’s got safety pretty well covered.’

  ‘Yes, but all the same.’ Hopwood took a pull at his pint, set down the tankard. ‘A piece in the paper wouldn’t do any harm. You know – heavy machinery, treacherous mud. That sort of thing.’

  Fox grinned. ‘Not to mention ghosts.’

  Hopwood glanced up sharply. ‘Ghosts?’

  The reporter nodded. ‘Some chap rang the newsroom Sunday morning, reckoned his daughter’s friend had captured the ghost of Wilton Water on camera. Wanted a reporter round to have a look.’

  ‘Did you send someone?’

  ‘No, it was Sunday, only one man in. I might have sent a junior round Monday but the same guy rang back, said it was a mistake.’

  ‘Ah.’ The councillor relaxed. ‘Where’d he live, this chap?’

  ‘Oh – Trough Lane, I think.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, Trough Lane. Name of Crabtree.’

  Hopwood grunted. ‘Nutter, by the sound of it.’

  Fox nodded. ‘Maybe. I like to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ The councillor frowned. ‘I shudder to think what’d happen if you ran a story like that, Fox. Take more than steel fencing to keep folk out then.’

  ‘Yes well, it isn’t going to happen.’ The reporter lifted his tankard. ‘Drink up, Councillor, it’s my shout.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY, HALF PAST twelve. The gaunt young man stepped into the councillor’s path as he was
making his way towards the pub, offered a magazine. ‘Here y’are, sir – Big Issue, top quality at a bargain price.’

  Reginald Hopwood was in an unusually foul mood, even for him. Tomorrow, Wilton Primary School was holding its Hallowe’en Hop, and as Chair of Governors he’d agreed to judge the fancy-dress competition. Hallowe’en Hop, snarled a furious voice inside his head. More like Hallowe’en flop. He didn’t like kids, despised teachers and detested fancy-dress competitions. Aged nine he’d gone in for one, done up as a carrot. He hadn’t wanted to – felt totally daft with those long green feathers sprouting out of the top of his head, but his mother had made the costume herself and was proud of it. The kids laughed and shoved him about, just as he knew they would, and of course he didn’t win. It had taken him weeks afterwards to corner his tormentors one by one and beat them up.

  ‘Buy a Big Issue, sir – help the homeless.’

  With the vendor directly in front of him, the councillor had no choice but to stop. ‘You again,’ he spat. ‘I told you before – get a proper job and stop harassing innocent pedestrians. You’re a disgrace to the village, the country and yourself.’

  ‘I had a job, sir. A good one. Then they made me redundant and I couldn’t find anything else. My wife left me, took the kids. I got depressed, couldn’t go out, lost the house. It can happen to anyone, sir – it could happen to you.’

  Hopwood scoffed. ‘You obviously don’t know who I am, you cheeky young beggar. I’m Councillor Hopwood. My family practically built this village, so you’d better get out of my way or I’ll call the police.’ He smiled twistedly. ‘You’ll be depressed then all right.’