The Drowned Village, page 22
‘What did happen to Jessie, Pa?’ Stella asked quietly. Surely now he could tell her the truth. She was about to ask what was in the tin and what on earth the Pendletons had to do with it all, when she spotted Aunt Winnie returning to the visitors’ hall.
‘Not a word to your aunt, now. She wouldn’t understand. This has to be between us. When you find the tea caddy, write and tell me, and I’ll write back and tell you what to do.’
‘All right.’ Stella didn’t understand why Aunt Winnie wasn’t to know or why the tin was so important. But Pa seemed to think it would save him, and that was enough for her. She resolved to go to Brackendale the very next day. She could tell Aunt Winnie she was spending the day with a school friend. If Pa needed the tin she would find it for him.
But the snow continued all that day and all night, and Stella awoke the next day to two feet of it covering the street outside, drifts against Aunt Winnie’s front door, and the wireless news announcing that all bus services from Penrith were suspended. She spent the day sitting in the front room, reading, and every now and again glancing out of the window to see if the snow had begun to thaw. Aunt Winnie tried to persuade her to go out to play, digging out an old toboggan from the cellar, but Stella did not want to. It felt wrong to be out enjoying the snow, when the snow was stopping her from doing what Pa had asked, no, begged her to do for him.
There was more snow during the day, and the next night. Herbert visited, tramping through the deep snow with bread, pork chops and milk for them. He ended up staying the night as the snow worsened and Aunt Winnie would not let him go out again.
Stella remembered how she had always loved snow in the Brackendale valley. The way it made the mountains sparkle. There’d never been any hope of getting to school when it snowed heavily, so she’d stayed home, playing out in it as much as possible, loving the feeling of her little village being cut off from the outside world yet still managing to be self-sufficient. Everyone had looked after everyone else. Farmers with dairy cattle had called round, delivering their milk to everyone in the village as there was no hope of getting it out of the valley to the usual markets. The chickens had continued laying, and there were fresh eggs each day. There’d be meat enough, hung in the outhouses, which would last. And the villagers were in the habit of buying flour and potatoes by the sack-load, so there were plenty of stores. Not like here in the town, where Aunt Winnie usually went every day to the shops to buy food in small amounts for that day and the next.
But now she resented the snow. Hated it. As the days wore on and it showed no sign of melting, she grew more and more restless. The streets of Penrith had been cleared enough to allow people to get around locally, but bus services further afield were still suspended.
It was not until after Christmas, a subdued affair with just Aunt Winnie, Herbert and herself sitting around the little table in Aunt Winnie’s kitchen, that the thaw set in at last. As soon as the buses began running once more, Stella announced to Aunt Winnie that she was going to visit a school friend, who lived in a village outside Penrith. She got the feeling Aunt Winnie was only too glad to see her get out of the house at long last. She knew she’d been morose since the last visit to Preston, but she had not been able to make herself snap out of it.
It had been months since she had last made the journey to Brackendale, and she gazed out of the bus window with interest, noting everything that was different. Her last visit had been in late summer, in the borrowed van with Aunt Winnie and Herbert, when the leaves on the trees had been just beginning to turn to golden yellow and orange. Today, with the trees bare of leaves, snow still piled along the sides of the road, and grey, overcast weather, it was all very different. At last the bus reached the turning circle beside the dam, and Stella got off, checking with the driver the times for the return trip.
As soon as the bus was out of sight she checked behind the shelter, but the bicycle she had dumped there so long ago was gone. There was no choice but to walk, though without a heavy suitcase it would be easy enough. Anyway, she reminded herself, she had always walked in the past, from her primary school at Beresford in the valley just downstream of the dam. Today would be the first time she had walked this route since that fateful day at the end of the summer term, the day Jessie had gone missing and Pa had been arrested. That day felt as though it belonged to another lifetime.
As she set off, she could see the dam was doing its job. The water level on the upstream side was surprisingly high – so much higher than the last time she had been here. The old road, in the valley bottom, was completely submerged so she had no choice but to use the new road. Across the valley she could see a couple of demolished farm buildings, the lake now almost reaching to the ruins. What would Brackendale Green be like? The shape of the valley and the twists of the road kept it hidden from her until she reached the crest of a little rise in the road. From there, she knew, she would be able to see the whole village laid out before her. She steeled herself to be prepared for the sight – the demolition crew had already begun work when she had last visited, so she knew the whole village would have been knocked down by now. She had been praying that she would still be able to reach the fireplace in Grandpa’s room, and that it would not be covered with rubble.
When she reached this spot she gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth. The scene before her was not at all what she had imagined – never had she thought it would look like this. The entire village was underwater. Here and there the tops of broken-down walls or remains of chimney breasts could be seen just poking above the water level. The lane leading from the new road into the village only reached about thirty feet before disappearing underwater.
Stella slumped down onto the wet earth at the side of the road, and stared at the grey, forbidding waters of the lake. There was no way she would be able to reach her old cottage. She couldn’t even tell where it was. And even if she could reach it, the tin box Pa wanted was hidden under the floorboards, under at least three or four feet of freezing water, and possibly covered by rubble as well. He’d said it contained something that would prove his innocence. But she could not get it for him. She could not help him. She could not save him. Her tears fell unchecked. It was the end of everything. She had failed him, and what that would mean for their future she could not tell.
Chapter 23
LAURA
As Tom drove along the road towards the dam, Laura wondered what state the lake would be in after all the downpour of the previous day. Thankfully the forecast had been correct, and the rain had stopped overnight. The morning had dawned grey and overcast, but the clouds were high and no rain was forecast.
They passed the dam, and could see that the reservoir was still very much depleted.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Laura said.
Tom smiled. ‘You didn’t think it would refill after a day’s rain, did you?’
‘Not completely, obviously, but enough to make things hard for us. We won’t know the state of it until a bit further along the road anyway.’
They fell silent as they negotiated the twisting road, and then finally, as it crested a small rise, there was a view across to the old village.
‘Oh my God,’ Laura said, as she stared at the sight laid out before her.
‘Hmm,’ was Tom’s only comment.
The village was still exposed, but in places the lake had encroached on it once more. Everywhere there were puddles and ponds. Gone was the dried, cracked earth of their previous visits, and in its place was a sea of mud.
‘Will we be able to get across?’ Laura said. As they drove on she was trying to pick out Gran’s cottage, but from the road it was hard to work it out.
‘We can have a go. At least, I can, even if you find it too hard with your bad knee.’
‘I’ll try.’ She had to try. She owed it to Gran.
They parked the car, and Tom helped Laura get out. She debated using her crutches, but in the end left them in the car and used a pair of walking poles instead. She was able to put weight on her bad leg today, and just needed a little extra support. They had the valley to themselves – the car park was deserted.
It was easy enough walking back along the road, but as she left it and crossed the line of shingle that marked the reservoir’s usual high point, she found the going much harder on the lake-bed. The mud was slippery and sucked at her boots and sticks with every step.
‘Follow my footprints,’ Tom said. He carefully picked a route, trying to keep to the firmest-looking ground, skirting around the sizeable puddles, and gradually they made their way across to the nearest end of the village.
Laura found it hard going but she got into a rhythm and the pain from her knee was just about bearable. She would not let this defeat her.
‘Can you remember which cottage it was?’ Tom had stopped in what had once been the lane through the centre of the village.
‘Further up. Near the other end,’ she replied. Some cottages’ remains had what looked like several inches of water on their floors. She hoped Gran’s was still dry enough. There was a loose floorboard by the fireplace, Gran had said. It would be one thing to dig through mud, but if it was also underwater that would make the search very difficult.
‘Watch yourself here,’ Tom said, skirting round a particularly deep puddle in the middle of the lane. Laura inched along beside what was left of a wall, one stick in the water to steady herself.
At that moment she felt a drop of rain. And another, and another. She looked up. The sky had darkened and the clouds lowered since they’d left the campsite, and now it was obvious that more rain would fall, despite the forecast. Tom turned to look at her.
‘Hopefully only a short shower,’ he said, but his worried tone told her he didn’t really think so, and indeed, the rain quickly began to fall steadily. Laura cursed herself for not bringing a mac. Her clothes were soon sodden and her hair plastered to her head.
‘We should go back,’ Tom said.
‘No. I must at least try,’ she said, pushing a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. ‘This is our last chance. If the rain continues it’ll only get worse and the village will flood again. You go back if you want.’
‘No chance. I’m staying with you,’ Tom replied, and she nodded her thanks.
Laura continued picking her way through the mud, along what had once been the main street of the village. At last she reached the right cottage, with the workshop behind.
‘It’s this one,’ she called out, and Tom lent her a steadying hand while she negotiated a large puddle in the doorway. Her trainers were soaked through. Should have put walking boots on, she thought.
‘I think you’re right. Where did your gran say the tin was?’
‘Through there, in that back room. Right-hand side of the fireplace, under a loose floorboard.’ Laura followed him through, and perched herself on a piece of wall. The rain was beginning to fall heavily now. Shame the cottage had no roof, she thought, flicking a wet strand of hair out of her eyes.
Tom knelt down in the mud and began investigating the ground beside the remains of the fireplace. He grunted as he shifted a few loose stones that had once been part of the wall of the house. Thankfully here there was not too much rubble. In other corners it was piled high. It was obvious that bulldozers had simply pushed down walls, allowing roofs to collapse, and had stopped as soon as everything was no more than about waist or chest high.
The rain was coming down in sheets now. Tom stopped scrabbling at the rubble and tugged a mac out of his day sack. ‘Bit late I suppose but do you want to put this on?’
She shook her head. ‘No point. Let me help.’ She eased herself down to the ground, wincing at the pain in her knee. She couldn’t kneel but could sit in the mud and help move rubble from there.
Tom shook his head but didn’t try to stop her. The rain was growing heavier by the second and the floor of the cottage was almost entirely underwater.
Laura scrabbled at the mud and stones, pushing them out of the way. ‘I can feel floorboards. You’d think the wood might have rotted after all this time.’
‘Depends how much oxygen was in the water here. Being under a layer of stones and mud would have preserved it.’ Tom reached into the hole she’d made and felt around. ‘Definitely floorboards. We need to move a few more stones before we can see if any are loose.’ They kept working, and a little while later Laura was able to get her fingers through a gap in the boards and tug. ‘It’s coming . . . it’s coming up . . .’
‘Let me,’ Tom said, and Laura moved aside so he could pull at the floorboard with all his strength.
The board suddenly gave way, sending Tom crashing backwards, slipping in the mud. ‘Now my bum matches my knees, in a fetching shade of mud,’ he commented, as he hauled himself back to his feet. ‘Anything in there?’
Laura was bending over the gap he’d exposed. ‘Yes, there’s something, in the mud.’ She ignored the screaming pain in her knee and reached into the hole, pulling out a package wrapped in tarpaulin. ‘This must be it!’ Tom grinned at her, rain dripping off the end of his nose.
Laura could barely breathe as she unwrapped it. The oilcloth was stiff with age and caked with mud but came away easily enough even though it had been tightly folded at the ends and twisted back on itself. Inside was a tin – and she gasped to see it was indeed a tea caddy, decorated with images of women in saris picking tea. It seemed undamaged from being underwater for eighty years. The tarpaulin had been wrapped tightly enough to make a waterproof seal.
‘Go on then, open it,’ Tom said. ‘I have to know what’s in it.’
‘Not in this rain!’ Laura said. ‘Whatever it is has survived this long. I’m not risking ruining it now. Maybe I should take it home so Gran can be the first to open it?’
‘I’d bloody murder you if you did that,’ he said. ‘The suspense is killing me. Let’s get back to the car and you can open it there. Depending on what’s inside, you can work out how best to tell her about it.’
‘You’re right. It might not provide the answers she wants.’
Laura wrapped the tea caddy back in its tarpaulin, and with Tom’s help hauled herself to her feet. Just the small matter of getting back across the mud to the road now.
It was a long and painful hobble through deepening mud, with the rainwater soaking through to her skin and running down her back, but finally they reached Tom’s car. He threw an old blanket across the seats and gestured for her to get in. They used a sweatshirt that had been left on the back seat to dry themselves off a little.
At last Laura was able to unwrap the tin again. She shook it experimentally. Something moved around inside. It was definitely not empty. She dried her hands on a corner of the blanket, carefully prised off the lid with her fingernails and looked inside. There were a number of folded pieces of paper, and a small leather box. She took out the little box, and opened it. Inside was a sparkling butterfly brooch, made of gold and set with stones in many colours – sapphires, emeralds, rubies and diamonds.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Tom, as she held it up to him. ‘That is some piece of jewellery.’ He frowned. ‘Where have I heard something about a butterfly brooch before? Recently, I mean . . .’
Laura thought, and then it came to her. ‘At the museum. That robbery, where a load of jewellery was taken and then found years later in your ancestor’s grave, when they exhumed it from here. It said just one piece was never recovered – a butterfly brooch.’
‘And this could be it. In your ancestor’s cottage.’
Laura remembered something else from the museum visit. An Isaac Walker had admitted to putting the jewels in the grave. She had not made the connection at the time – but Walker was Gran’s maiden name. Isaac must have been Stella’s grandfather. ‘I think it was Gran’s grandpa who was the gravedigger and had been questioned about the robbery. Oh God. Looks like he was definitely involved somehow, then, if he not only put the jewels in the grave but also kept one of the pieces.’
‘Is this what your gran was hoping we’d find?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, it can’t be. She’s hoping there’s something that would prove her father’s innocence regarding the murder of her little sister. I mean, this is fascinating stuff but looks to be the solution to a different mystery, not the one we’re investigating.’
‘What are those papers?’ Tom said, gesturing to the bundle of documents.
She began to pull the papers from the tin but a drip of water from her hair fell on them, and she quickly put the lid back on, shivering. ‘I think we need to be warm and dry before we go any further with this.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Come on then, let’s go back to the campsite, change, and then go to the pub to investigate them properly. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.’
Laura nodded, holding the precious tin on her lap. Her knee was throbbing. She’d probably overdone it, but at least they had found the tin. She took out the brooch again and inspected it closely. ‘If this really is the one from the Brackendale House burglary, does that mean we would need to hand it in to the police?’
Tom glanced sideways briefly as he negotiated the twisting road along the lakeside. ‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Not after so many years. That burglary was in what, eighteen ninety-something? There’d be no one left alive who was even a child of the victims. It probably counts as treasure trove. I think you can keep it. It was in your ancestors’ cottage, anyway.’
‘Hmm. Well, I’ll give it to Gran.’ Had Gran known it was there? Was it what she’d really wanted Laura to find? As soon as she’d gone through the documents in the tin, she’d ring Gran and find out.
A little later, in dry clothes and with the rain easing off once more, they were back in the pub near the campsite. Laura felt strange going in there, for the first time since being assaulted by Stuart. One of the bar staff recognised her and Tom, was delighted to see her up on her feet and insisted they have their first drinks on the house.
