“Then — then that interview was true?” gasped the spokesman for the people.
“Every word of it, and this girl you have vilified is your savior. Now, apologize, and make a fresh demand — that she be given city status.”
The people turned from Hurst to look at the girl. So did Clem and Buck. Then they were silent, stunned by the unbelievable as the last piece in the puzzle had evidently resolved itself.
Lucy Denby had vanished — but her clothes remained.
THE HOUSE ON THE MOORS, by John Glasby
“You say you’re the last of the Ingham family?” The innkeeper leaned his elbows on the bar and spoke in a low whisper, evidently not wanting to be overheard by his other customers.
“That’s right.” Charles Ingham nodded. “My uncle, Henry Ingham, died in London last week leaving everything to me.”
“And that’s why you’ve come to Exborough?”
Picking up his change, Charles said, “I understand my family came from this part of Yorkshire some two centuries ago. I believe they lived some distance from the village, out on the moors yonder. I’m sure I caught a glimpse of the Manor on my way here.”
The other rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Reckon you might just have seen the ruins of the west wing,” he remarked. “There’s not much else left to see.”
Charles paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “Ruins?” He looked bewildered. “Nothing like that. This seemed to be quite a splendid building. Very old, of course, but I’d say it was in quite good condition considering its age.”
He was suddenly aware that one of the regulars had approached the bar and was standing beside him, an odd expression on his lined features.
“You say you saw the Manor on your way here?” The man looked to be well into his eighties but his eyes were bright and alert.
Charles nodded, controlling his irritation at this unexpected interruption.
“Then you either imagined it — or you’re one o’ that accursed family. We all thought the Inghams had died out a hundred years ago.”
Charles’ irritation turned into anger at this remark. Brusquely, he retorted, “Certainly my name is Ingham but I don’t see—”
“Now let’s have none of your wild tales, Seb,” the innkeeper interrupted sharply. “Mister Ingham is merely staying here for a few days and I’m sure he’s not interested in any of your fancies.”
“On the contrary, if he’s anything to say against my family, I’d prefer it if he’d say it to my face.”
“All right, mister, I will. It’s all true, even though it did happen nearly two hundred years ago. The Inghams were a wild lot who lived in the Manor in those times and Sir Roger Ingham was the worst of ’em all. Folk swore he’d sold his soul to the Devil.
“All the Lords and Ladies attended his devilish parties and most o’ the local gentry. He were a man o’ the most violent temper. They do say that if one o’ his servants angered him, he’d turn the man out on the moors and set the dogs after him. Nobody dared say a word against him.”
The octogenarian took a swallow of his beer, then set the glass down on the counter. “But even then, the Devil took care of his own. Seems that one night some o’ the drapes caught fire. Within five minutes the whole o’ the house was ablaze, flames shootin’ up into the sky from one end o’ the Manor to the other.”
Charles uttered a derisive laugh. “So now you’re telling me they were all burned in the fire and their ghosts still haunt the Manor. Utter rubbish.”
“Nay, mister. Nothing like that. Somehow, they all got out alive but it were impossible to save the building. There was talk that one body was found inside the ruins the next day but there weren’t enough left to identify him. Bat since it were none o’ the party that night, they reckoned it must’ve been one o’ the servants they hired from York.”
“Or some poor devil Sir Roger had killed after having sport with him,” put in the innkeeper.
“All very interesting,” Charles said with a note of derision in his voice. “But since I’m certain of what I saw, I think I’ll go out there myself and see what’s really there.”
“Then on your own head be it,” muttered the old man. “But you won’t find anything. Trouble with you city folk is that you reckon you know it all.”
Charles felt a stab of anger rise up in him again but he managed to choke it down. Checking his watch, he estimated there were still two hours of daylight left.
“How do I get to the Manor?” he asked.
He sensed the hesitation on the innkeeper’s part, then the other said, “Go to the end of the village. There’s a narrow lane on the left. Follow it for about two miles and you’ll come upon a track leading onto the moors. It’s quite a long walk but I wouldn’t advise you to take the car. And I can assure you, you’ll find nothing but ruins.”
Thanking him, Charles set off, soon leaving the village behind. The sun was still quite high above the western horizon as he reached the lane.
Twenty minutes later, he found the track. It was only just discernible, a rough trail that led him through patches of tangled briar and clusters of stunted trees before topping a low rise.
Below him, in a shallow valley, stood a large, stately building. The track continued, passing between tall metal gates, still standing after all those years since it was last occupied two centuries earlier.
The extensive grounds were a jungle of riotous growth but it was comparatively easy to visualize how magnificent they had once been and to feel some of the old-worldly charm which had once existed here.
Pushing his way through the entangling growths, Charles walked up to the magnificent door. Above it was a stone lintel and on it was the ancient crest of the Inghams, only just visible in the smooth stone.
He stood absolutely still, taking in every detail of the building, wondering why a sudden chill had descended upon him. Somehow, he had the impression there was something more here than mere neglect amiss with this place. Something dead, yet still terribly alive, was watching him with unseen eyes.
Quickly, he shrugged the sensation away. He did not believe in ghosts haunting old buildings such as this. Certainly, if he decided to take it and live here there was a lot needing to be done to make it habitable again.
On impulse, he grasped the heavy brass handle, twisted it, and pushed.
He had expected the door to be locked. Instead, it opened noisily and, after a momentary pause, he stepped inside. It was cool and dark inside the long hallway with its oak paneled walls.
At the end, he found himself in the huge banqueting hall with a massive table along the center and some twenty ornate chairs ranged neatly around it. Woven tapestries hung along the walls, their long drapes interspersed with large portraits.
He gave a little shudder. It was startling but everything looked as though the occupants had just stepped outside into the gardens a few moments before. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. There were no cobwebs festooning the walls and high corners, nothing out of place.
Yet this was utterly impossible. The solicitors had told him there was nothing but ruins after that fire two hundred years earlier. Evidently those old stories of a fire had been nothing more than that; old stories. Certainly it was a mystery why Sir Roger had left so abruptly and no one seemed to have been here since.