Bitter Inheritance Read online

  This gave Marcus an opening. ‘I suppose you’d be too young to remember what happened between Radfords and Masons? I’ve never really understood.’ He made his voice casual.

  ‘Nay, my old father had some newspaper cuttings, but wife threw them out years ago. I understood that young Mason murdered yer grandfather and then denied it. He got away with it, too!’

  ‘Nobody seems to know what really happened,’ Marcus murmured as indifferently as he could. It was time to change the subject and talk about grain prices, but Sol had given Marcus a slender clue. If there had been a newspaper report of the death he might be able to find it in the archives at the Clarion. He would visit the newspaper offices the next time he was in Ripon.

  He was tempted to visit Sally while he was in Thorpe, tell her she was to keep the tenancy and see her face light up. But that would be a mistake. Marcus didn’t want her to know that he’d had anything to do with that decision. Their relationship, if they ever got so far, would be one of equality. A modern idea and no doubt one that Oliver would laugh at. The other reason for avoiding Badger’s Gill was that he wanted to find out more about the ‘murder’ before he saw Sally again.

  Leaving the Crown, Marcus deliberately turned his back on the Ripon end of the village where Sally lived. But he was looking out for a redheaded young lady until he was half way to Masham.

  Marcus left the newspaper offices the next week feeling distinctly weary after hours of dusty searching through old yellowed papers of fifty years ago. He pulled back his aching shoulders out of habit and strode down towards the town centre. Too much time had gone by and he wanted to see Sally before she left the market.

  At least the time hadn’t been entirely wasted, he thought as he shouldered through the market crowd. In the end the big bound folders had yielded a few paragraphs about the presumed death of William Radford, Billy, to his neighbours. Marcus had copied them out, rather than rely on memory.

  The newspaper reported the mysterious disappearance of Mr Radford, a well-respected farmer in the prime of life. One thing that Marcus gleaned was from the tone of the piece: there was no breath of blame attached to the other victim, Samuel Mason, who had been ‘fortunate to survive’. Mr Mason had been interviewed, no doubt reluctantly, but he had agreed to talk to the Clarion. He said that he had been extremely ill after the event and that ‘everything was blue’. He could remember nothing of what happened except that he had found himself alone at night several miles from home, three days after they had gone into the wood.

  Where had they been for those missing three days? And what did ‘blue’ mean? The journalist must have written it down without understanding it. Was it metaphorical, meaning that he was sad? And why was he ill?

  The redhead was visible to someone who was looking for her, half way across the square. And Emma, the young helper, was with her. As Marcus got nearer he saw that Sally was selling her last pound of butter. The tall man strode straight up and was greeted with a radiant smile. Sally was prettier than ever, he thought.

  ‘Hoped I might find you here … I’ve been reading old newspapers. …’ And he told her briefly what he had discovered. ‘Nothing definite, but at least I could see that Mason wasn’t blamed, publicly at least.’

  ‘Thank you, Marcus. I wish we could find out more!’ Sally felt happy to know that the mystery meant so much to Marcus. Their occasional Thursday meetings were no doubt noticed by the gossips and the curious, but no comments reached Sally. If the three of them walked across the square or down to the cathedral, talking all the time, they were not so noticeable as if Marcus and Sally were alone together.

  Leaving Sally, Marcus collected his horse and headed out of Ripon. But half a mile out of the town he had a thought that made him turn back. Although he had been warned never to ask Grandmother about the death, he would go to see her. Serious investigators – Sherlock Holmes came to mind – went over a story many times, picking up different pieces of the puzzle until they could make a pattern. He would do the same, treading softly so as not to upset the old lady.

  Grandmother Radford lived quietly in a small house in Ripon, attended by an ancient maid. The family called to see her as a duty but Marcus had not been there for some time, he thought guiltily as he tied his horse to the rail.

  The maid met him at the door with the usual grim face and led him into the parlour, which was extremely hot. Grandmother had large fires winter and summer. Sweating, Marcus sat upright on a slippery sofa, eating seed cake which he disliked and drinking scalding hot tea. I am suffering for my sins, he thought wryly. There was small talk and the old lady questioned him closely about the family. His brother Tom was studying in Edinburgh and he had to report on the lad’s progress. Next, Grandmother wanted to know all about Oliver’s doings. She was always more interested in Oliver than in anybody else.

  ‘My father was a very good horseman I believe, when he was young?’

  A spate of stories about his father followed. ‘You boys were never as good as Oliver! Left without a father, he was determined to succeed in everything he did.’ She smoothed her black dress with wrinkled hands.

  Marcus knew that Billy’s brother, Walter, had taken over the farms and run them until Oliver was old enough to take over. Walter had no children and so Oliver was the sole heir. A convenient arrangement, which seemed to have worked well enough.

  ‘But he had a good uncle, had he not?’

  ‘Of course, his uncle was there. My chief worry for Oliver was always his health. He did too much. I was so afraid that he had inherited his father’s weak heart, but time has shown that this was not the case.’

  The old girl is still sharp, Marcus thought. ‘I didn’t know we had heart problems in the family! What exactly was the trouble?’

  Grandmother sat upright, shoulders back, staring at him and suddenly Marcus had a thought. I look just like her. Oh, dear, how grim I must look!

  ‘No trouble.’ She was scornful. ‘Radfords are very healthy! Billy was perfectly able to live a normal life. But he was told by doctors that his heartbeat was slow and it could have developed into an illness. He was warned not to over-exert himself and fortunately we had plenty of labourers, so that was not necessary.’

  Marcus leaned forward. ‘Grandmother, I hate to ask you this. But – do you remember anything about Grandfather’s death?’

  The old lady stood up with the aid of her stick and turned to the fireplace, looking away from Marcus. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘We never discuss it. You are very wrong to ask.’ She swung round to glare at her grandson. ‘But yes, I know that he was murdered. By Samuel Mason, who should have been hanged. That man robbed me of my husband, my youth and my happiness. I shall never forget.’

  After that, it was back to small talk again until the old lady recovered. After about quarter of an hour Marcus decided that it was time to leave, and pecked Grandmother on the cheek as he went out.

  ‘Tell your father to come to see me!’

  Grandmother always left Marcus with a feeling of coldness. His other grandmother had been warm and cuddled him, but that was long ago. She was dead, as was his dear mother. And he was a grown man … but a little affection, a little less acid, would have been welcome. However, his grandmother might have given him another tiny clue: the weak heart. It might mean nothing. Marcus jogged home in the moonlight, thinking about the events of fifty years ago. There were only two more things he could do and nothing made sense as yet. He could visit the wood where Billy Radford disappeared. And he could talk to his father. He was due to see Oliver that week and had intended to ride over to Nidd Grange. But on the table waiting for him at home was an invitation, in the familiar spiky writing: ‘Time you got out and stopped moping. We’ve been invited to Mrs Russell’s, on Masham Square. Be there at 5 p.m. on Thursday for dinner. And wear a clean shirt. O.R.’

  Clean shirt indeed! Marcus knew that he didn’t dress so well as Oliver, who always looked elegant and was measured by the best tailors for expensive tweeds.
But Marcus was extremely clean and neat; the difference was that he preferred plain unobtrusive clothes.

  Marcus was in Masham on time. The two men stabled their horses at the King’s Head, not far along the street from Mrs Russell’s house and Marcus decided to book a room at the inn for the night rather than face another long ride home. To his surprise so did Oliver. ‘Not so young as I was,’ the older man admitted.

  Mrs Russell had been a friend of his mother’s and Marcus knew her quite well. She was a widow in comfortable circumstances, he supposed. Her husband had been a substantial farmer, but there were no sons and after his death the farm had been sold. Mrs Russell’s house was stone built and double fronted, with lighted windows looking on to the square. As the men approached a maid drew the heavy curtains, but not before Marcus had seen the dining-room ablaze with candles, silver and polished wood.

  ‘Come in, Mr Radford! And Marcus dear! Come to the fire, it’s a cold night. Now, can Maggie fetch you a glass of sherry?’ Mrs Russell was plump and pleasant, and her daughter Maggie, in her late twenties, had obviously tried to make the best of herself with an elaborate hairstyle and an expensive dress a little too small for her and Marcus amused himself by trying to imagine how Sally would look in a dress like that. It was dark green and would have suited Sally’s colouring and her slim little figure.

  Meanwhile, Oliver and Mrs Russell shared the local news. Marcus tried to enter into the spirit of the thing, but it was difficult. Maggie Russell asked Marcus whether he hunted – no – and whether he was a cricketer – no. He admitted to being interested in local history but Maggie could find nothing to say on the subject. She was looking round rather desperately, trying to find a suitable topic of conversation when dinner was served.

  Marcus had to sit next to Miss Russell but as there were only four of them, the conversation was general. It was sustained very well by Oliver, who appeared to be enjoying himself. Time went by, measured every fifteen minutes by the silvery chimes of the mantelpiece clock. Making an effort, Marcus told them news of Colsterdale, but as little happened in his secluded retreat that was soon exhausted. The fish was excellent and beef followed, after a long interval. Marcus tried not to wriggle on his hard dining chair. Time went by, very slowly.

  After dinner they went into the parlour and Oliver suggested music. Marcus had played several instruments at school and was a good pianist, but he rarely played on occasions like this. But starved of music as he was, he agreed to perform for them on the Russells’ new piano.

  Marcus played a few chords, appreciating the beautiful tone. What should he play? For Oliver, ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ and a few other drawing-room pieces, as he called them. To finish the recital, Marcus played for Sally. He imagined she was sitting beside him. All his hopes, his sadness for what might have been, he found in the music. There was silence when he finished; the others did not know what to say. Then Maggie obliged by playing in her turn and Marcus was allowed to think his own thoughts for a while. He wondered how soon he would be able to find the time to visit Foxholes Wood and whether fifty years after the event, he would be able to find information that had eluded all the people who had searched the wood at the time.

  Miss Russell delivered a rather plaintive Scottish song about calling sheep, which she hoped they would like. Meanwhile Marcus reminded himself that unless the mystery of his grandfather’s death was solved, and by a Radford at that, there was little hope of ending the feud.

  ‘You look sad, Mr Marcus,’ Maggie remarked as she rose from the piano.

  ‘It was a sad song, was it not? Very affecting.’

  Walking back to the King’s Head Oliver said how much he had enjoyed the evening. ‘But you were rather quiet, I thought. You should get out more, meet new people. You’ve been up in that dale by yourself too long. But you can still play the piano, my lad.’ He laughed.

  It was too late to ask questions that night, but the next morning the Radfords breakfasted together in the dining-room at the King’s Head beside a cheerful fire. This might be the best time to ask about the incident, Marcus thought, waiting until his father had enjoyed a plate of ham and eggs and several cups of coffee.

  Before Marcus could speak Oliver took the initiative. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time, Marcus. Now listen to me. Your old father knows what’s good for you. Don’t you think it’s high time you got married and had some children? Think of posterity, and carrying on the Radford name. I know you were upset when Elizabeth died, but life must go on, you know.’

  Marcus busied himself with buttering his toast, while Oliver went on eagerly. ‘Your brother won’t settle down, not for a long time yet. It’s up to you and in my opinion, you could do worse than Miss Russell. What did you think of her?’

  Marcus felt his heart sink. So there was a hidden agenda to last night’s dinner. He was to be married off to a plump farmer’s daughter, just to please the family. And even worse, if he hadn’t met Sally he might have obliged! He could hardly say so, but Marcus had thought that Miss Russell was good-natured, reasonably pretty and monumentally boring. But her chief sin, he was quite aware, was that she was not Sally Mason. Oliver was waiting for a reply.

  ‘Oh, Father,’ Marcus said wearily. ‘How about you? Why don’t you marry Mrs Russell? You’ve been on your own for five years now.’

  Oliver grinned, pouring coffee. ‘I might do that,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You never know. We get on quite well.’

  Well! That was rather unexpected. But Marcus kept his mind on his task. ‘Speaking of posterity and family, have you any old records of the family? As you know, I’m interested in local history, and there could be something interesting.…’ Marcus tailed off, conscious that his father was looking at him hard.

  ‘Marcus, I am surprised at you. If you are speaking of the murder, no I have not, and I’ll thank you not to go dragging up the past! Your grandmother told me that you’d mentioned it to her and that is something we never do. I have told you to keep away from the Masons and that should be enough!’

  Marcus waited a few moments and poured another cup of coffee. He looked round quickly, but they were still alone in the big dining-room.

  ‘Father, you seem agitated. The Masons worry you more than one would expect. Is there another problem that you haven’t told me about? I realize that it must have been a terrible shock at the time, but … it’s a long time ago. There must be something more recent?’

  Oliver fiddled with his napkin and seemed at a loss for words. Then he said abruptly, ‘Well, you are right. There are things that one does not discuss.’ His mouth shut tight.

  Well, Marcus thought, I got nowhere with that. But it was important to press on.

  ‘While we’re on the subject, you sent me to see Bartram and I told him to give Miss Mason another year at Badger’s Gill. I hope you agree.’ He spoke firmly.

  His father stood up. ‘Very well, it was your decision. I am indifferent. And now I will call the waiter. My horse was to be ready for eight.’ And he strode to the door.

  That night, the owner of Nidd Estates wrote yet another letter to his recalcitrant tenant at Thorpe.

  Madam,

  It has been recommended to me that you should be granted a Lease At Will for the next year for Badger’s Gill Farm, rent to be paid quarterly as before. This is entirely against my better judgement, I would like you to know, but I have agreed.

  My agent will be checking to see that you comply with his requirements with regard to walls, fences and gates and maintain a proper crop rotation. I trust that your understanding of farming is sufficient for you to appreciate what is necessary, although I am not very optimistic on this point.

  I should be grateful if you would refrain from further correspondence, which is tiresome in the extreme, and deal exclusively with my agent in Thorpe.

  Oliver Radford

  A small, ironic smile twisted Oliver’s mouth as he blotted the letter. Was he enjoying this acrimonious correspondence? He rather thought
he was. And he knew she’d still write back. She was nearly as bad as he was.

  THIRTEEN

  Marcus went straight home from Masham, saying goodbye to Oliver as they left the square, and the big horse made good time. He had decided to go round all their Colsterdale farms in turn to check that the lambing was going well. After that, he’d go to Foxholes Wood. He was committed to trying to solve the old mystery and wanted to start as soon as he could. But bad news was waiting for the young farmer in his own kitchen.

  ‘Oh Mr Marcus, thank the Lord you’re back! We didn’t know what to do! Poor Daniel’s tumbled down a mine shaft and bust a lot of bones, and there’s five hundred ewes to lamb over at Slapestones!’ Jeanie Brown twisted her hands in her apron, much distressed.

  Marcus snapped back into the present and took the cup of tea she offered him. ‘Where is he now, Jeanie? He was lucky to get out alive. The poor lad might not know all the shafts on the moor, it’s his first lambing time with us. Did anybody show him the maps?’

  ‘Aye, that’s what Jesse said. Bob from next door saw him and fished him out. He likely didn’t know it used to be all lead mining up there. They took him down to Ripon hospital in a cart and there he’s to stay for a while they say, poor lad. His mother’s that worried … but what’s to become of the sheep?’

  ‘I will go up to Slapestones and keep an eye on the sheep. We’ve no shepherd that can be spared at the moment.’ Damn, thought Marcus, frowning as he drank the tea. That means I won’t get a chance to visit the wood for another month or so. Jeanie was still watching him and after a while, Marcus said, ‘What’s the matter, Jeanie?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I hope you don’t mind, but my Jesse went up there last night, to check ewes of course and he’s to light fires and make up a bed for you. Nobody’s lived at Slapestones for years, as you know. Daniel lodged at next farm. And I’ve cooked up some pies and things for you to take.’