The Shade of Hettie Daynes by Robert Swindells Page B

everything.’
    ‘And who’s Mr Fox?’
    ‘He’s the chief reporter on the
Echo
, Mum,’ said Harry.
    His mother nodded. ‘Yes, of course. And what about him – has
he
seen the skeleton?’
    ‘He’s seen our snapshots of it.’
    ‘There are
snapshots
?’
    ‘Yes, Mum. D’you want to see them?’
    Christa covered her face with her hands, shook her head. ‘What
I
want, Harry, is for my children
not
to be leading a secret life, involving ghosts and skeletons and reservoirs. I want the
police
to deal with any skeletons that might be around. I want priests or psychic investigators to cope with ghosts. I want my children to lead dull, unadventurous lives
here
, at number eight, Leaf Street.’ She dropped her hands. ‘Since you ask me what I want, Harry –
that’s
what I want.’

SIXTY-FIVE
    SATURDAY MORNING. FOX came out of the
Echo
building and practically bumped into Steve Wood. ‘Now then, Steve.’ Wood had occasional pieces printed in the
Echo
, and was a frequent user of the newspaper’s library.
    ‘Stan.’ Wood grinned. ‘Just off to cover the Rovers match, are you?’ Rawton Rovers were away to Lincoln that day.
    ‘Nah.’ The reporter shook his head. ‘Not my interest, mate. Colleague of mine’s a fan, I let
him
cover the Rovers. I’m poking about in what you might call a local mystery.’
    The historian smiled. ‘Sounds more like my sort of thing.’
    Fox nodded. ‘I suppose it is, Steve. It concerns Wilton Water.’
    Wood looked at him. ‘That’s a coincidence.
I
’m researching a fascinating piece of local history at the reservoir too.’
    Fox smiled. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence, Steve. Would your bit of history involve a skeleton?’
    Wood looked startled. ‘How the heck did
you
know, Stan? I thought it was my secret. Well . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Mine and the kids who found it.’
    The reporter nodded. ‘I met some kids last Saturday in the bus shelter. They had a camera. Showed me snapshots they’d taken of a skeleton, in the old mill.’
    ‘Yeah,’ sighed Steve. ‘That’s where it is.’ He kicked a pebble into the road. ‘I was at your place Monday, looking for stuff on Hettie Daynes.’ He looked at Fox. ‘You know, the mad lass who disappeared? The bones’re about a century old. I thought there was a slim chance they might be hers.’
    Fox nodded. ‘Find anything?’
    ‘Nothing till a couple of years after she’s supposed to have vanished. Then it was just a piece about the saying,
daft as Hettie Daynes
. Didn’t help at all.’ He grinned. ‘Found her in the census records though. Mill girl, lived on Prince’s Street in Wilton. One of seven kids.’
    The reporter shrugged. ‘Not unusual in those days.’ He pulled a face. ‘Anyway, the age of the bones scuppers
my
theory.’
    Wood shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. What
was
your theory?’
    The reporter snorted. ‘Daren’t tell you, Steve, it involved a local resident. Sue the pants off me if he got wind of it.’
    Wood frowned. ‘What made you think . . .?’
    ‘Let’s just say somebody seemed to have a keen interest in keeping nosy parkers away from Wilton Water, so when those kids showed me their snapshots, it occurred to me there might have been a murder.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘A
recent
one, I mean.’
    ‘Ah.’ The historian thought for a moment. ‘There
might
have been a murder though,’ he murmured, ‘a hundred years ago, because’ – he looked at Fox – ‘the skeleton’s female, and the lass was expecting a baby.’

SIXTY-SIX
    ‘MUM?’
    ‘What is it, Carl?’ Felicity slid an enormous steak pie into the oven. Reginald was at the Wilton Community Centre, making himself available to his public.
My monthly surgery
, he called it, and it always left him both ravenous and ratty. The pie would fix the ravenous part: only time would fix the ratty.
    ‘What’s a hand?’
    ‘A hand?’ She closed the oven door and straightened up. ‘Whatever d’you mean, dear? You