as to whether this one will spread beyond the boundaries of Wilton, and of the present century, to issue from the mouths of persons totally ignorant of the circumstance out of which it arose.
Steve Wood scribbled a note, closed the volume and replaced it on its shelf.
Events in the village a few years ago
. He sighed.
I wonder why they didn’t make the local paper, these events?
SIXTY-ONE
THE FEATHERS, THURSDAY lunch time. Councillor Reginald Hopwood and journalist Stan Fox at their usual table. Fox lifted his tankard. ‘Cheers, Councillor.’
‘Cheers, Stan.’ Hopwood sipped his ale, feeling nervous. Would his companion mention the reservoir, his threat to the photographer,
Hettie Daynes?
Was he going to ask awkward questions, or had he not noticed anything unusual?
Curiosity Fox noticed
everything
, including the councillor’s unease. He had questions, but didn’t know quite how to put them.
‘So, anything new?’ he began. It was the one question he always asked.
‘Don’t think so, Stan.’ Hopwood kept his tone and expression neutral. ‘Quiet, I’d call it.’ He smiled. ‘
Too
quiet for you, probably – I know how you guys like a bit of sensation.’
‘We
do
, Councillor.’ Fox gazed into his tankard. ‘Especially me.’ He looked up. ‘I make no bones about it.’
Was it his imagination, or did his companion pale slightly at those last words?
As Fox and Hopwood fenced at The Feathers, Steve Wood ploughed through old census rolls at Rawton town hall till he found this:
Prince’s Street. No. 8
.
Ebor Daynes, textile operative
.
Alexis Daynes (wife) spinner
.
Children: Albert, 17 yrs. Carter’s mate
.
Hettie, 16 yrs. Textile operative
.
Henry, 11 yrs
.
Margaret, 10yrs
.
Mary, 8yrs
.
Harold, 6 yrs
.
Dorothy, 7 months
.
The historian smiled and nodded, jotting in his notebook:
Hettie, 16 yrs. Textile operative
.
SIXTY-TWO
FRIDAY MORNING, STEVE’S phone played a bar from the 1812 Overture. He thumbed the green stud. ‘Hi, Avril.’
‘Morning, Steve.’
‘How’re you?’
‘I’m OK. I pinched some lab time last night, ran the tests.’
‘Great. And . . .?’
‘The bones’re a century old, give or take twenty years or so. And the skeleton’s female.’
‘Tremendous! That plonks it right where I hoped it’d be. Thanks, Avril, I mean it.’
‘There’s something else, Steve.’
‘What?’
‘Well – one of the bits we picked up Sunday . . . it’s not part of her, whoever she was.’
‘Not part of her . . . what d’you mean?’
‘It belongs to an infant. A very young infant.’
‘You mean
two
people drowned?’
‘Sort of. I can’t remember exactly where this particular bone was in relation to the skeleton, but I think the child was in the womb.’
‘Ah.’
‘I could probably confirm this by taking another look on site.’
‘OK, Avril. Tomorrow or Sunday, whichever’s best for you.’
Rawton Secondary School. Afternoon break. To avoid going outside in the drizzle, Carl Hopwood hid in the boys’ lavatories.
Carl liked to read on the lavatory. A lot of guys do. He fished from his pack the diary he’d found in the archive at home, and settled on the seat.
The diary had a lock, which Carl had forced. Its jacket was of scuffed leather, red once, now faded to a brownish pink. The year 1885 was embossed on it in tarnished gilt. On the first page in a fine copperplate hand, were these words:
The Journal of Stanton Farley Hopwood
.
Stanton Hopwood had been Carl’s great grandfather. He had died in 1939.
A musty smell rose as Carl turned the thin, foxed leaves, looking for October 6th. He’d read the entry a couple of times before. It was the one that had got his attention in the first place:
Accosted by H. this afternoon while crossing the yard. Strident. Told her be quiet, I was making plans and would speak to her soon. Plans! I have no plans. Would that I had
.
Boring stuff followed, until this on the thirteenth:
Waylaid again, this
Steve Wood scribbled a note, closed the volume and replaced it on its shelf.
Events in the village a few years ago
. He sighed.
I wonder why they didn’t make the local paper, these events?
SIXTY-ONE
THE FEATHERS, THURSDAY lunch time. Councillor Reginald Hopwood and journalist Stan Fox at their usual table. Fox lifted his tankard. ‘Cheers, Councillor.’
‘Cheers, Stan.’ Hopwood sipped his ale, feeling nervous. Would his companion mention the reservoir, his threat to the photographer,
Hettie Daynes?
Was he going to ask awkward questions, or had he not noticed anything unusual?
Curiosity Fox noticed
everything
, including the councillor’s unease. He had questions, but didn’t know quite how to put them.
‘So, anything new?’ he began. It was the one question he always asked.
‘Don’t think so, Stan.’ Hopwood kept his tone and expression neutral. ‘Quiet, I’d call it.’ He smiled. ‘
Too
quiet for you, probably – I know how you guys like a bit of sensation.’
‘We
do
, Councillor.’ Fox gazed into his tankard. ‘Especially me.’ He looked up. ‘I make no bones about it.’
Was it his imagination, or did his companion pale slightly at those last words?
As Fox and Hopwood fenced at The Feathers, Steve Wood ploughed through old census rolls at Rawton town hall till he found this:
Prince’s Street. No. 8
.
Ebor Daynes, textile operative
.
Alexis Daynes (wife) spinner
.
Children: Albert, 17 yrs. Carter’s mate
.
Hettie, 16 yrs. Textile operative
.
Henry, 11 yrs
.
Margaret, 10yrs
.
Mary, 8yrs
.
Harold, 6 yrs
.
Dorothy, 7 months
.
The historian smiled and nodded, jotting in his notebook:
Hettie, 16 yrs. Textile operative
.
SIXTY-TWO
FRIDAY MORNING, STEVE’S phone played a bar from the 1812 Overture. He thumbed the green stud. ‘Hi, Avril.’
‘Morning, Steve.’
‘How’re you?’
‘I’m OK. I pinched some lab time last night, ran the tests.’
‘Great. And . . .?’
‘The bones’re a century old, give or take twenty years or so. And the skeleton’s female.’
‘Tremendous! That plonks it right where I hoped it’d be. Thanks, Avril, I mean it.’
‘There’s something else, Steve.’
‘What?’
‘Well – one of the bits we picked up Sunday . . . it’s not part of her, whoever she was.’
‘Not part of her . . . what d’you mean?’
‘It belongs to an infant. A very young infant.’
‘You mean
two
people drowned?’
‘Sort of. I can’t remember exactly where this particular bone was in relation to the skeleton, but I think the child was in the womb.’
‘Ah.’
‘I could probably confirm this by taking another look on site.’
‘OK, Avril. Tomorrow or Sunday, whichever’s best for you.’
Rawton Secondary School. Afternoon break. To avoid going outside in the drizzle, Carl Hopwood hid in the boys’ lavatories.
Carl liked to read on the lavatory. A lot of guys do. He fished from his pack the diary he’d found in the archive at home, and settled on the seat.
The diary had a lock, which Carl had forced. Its jacket was of scuffed leather, red once, now faded to a brownish pink. The year 1885 was embossed on it in tarnished gilt. On the first page in a fine copperplate hand, were these words:
The Journal of Stanton Farley Hopwood
.
Stanton Hopwood had been Carl’s great grandfather. He had died in 1939.
A musty smell rose as Carl turned the thin, foxed leaves, looking for October 6th. He’d read the entry a couple of times before. It was the one that had got his attention in the first place:
Accosted by H. this afternoon while crossing the yard. Strident. Told her be quiet, I was making plans and would speak to her soon. Plans! I have no plans. Would that I had
.
Boring stuff followed, until this on the thirteenth:
Waylaid again, this
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