One Summer at Deer’s Leap. Elizabeth Elgin
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There’s your bus!’ I cut her short, which was very rude of me but I didn’t have a lot of choice. Jeannie was making towards us and we’d agreed that the Deer’s Leap affair was taboo. Saved by the Skipton bus!
‘What was all that about?’ Jeannie frowned. ‘Been asking questions, have we?’
‘Yes. About the church.’ My gaze didn’t waver. ‘I’m going to look at it on Friday morning – that’s when the ladies clean it.’
‘And why are you interested in the church?’
‘Because anything about Acton Carey interests me.’ I didn’t blush nor feel one bit ashamed. ‘You’re in a very suspicious mood, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She looked up at the church clock. ‘It’s a bit early for a drink. Would you like to hang around and eat at the Rose when it opens? We could have a look at the church while we’re waiting.’
‘No thanks. Best get back.’ I was almost sure she was calling my bluff. ‘We said we’d cut the grass today as soon as it was dry enough, don’t forget.’
‘So we did. I feel like a bit of exercise. We can see this off,’ she held up a bottle of wine, ‘when we’ve finished. As a reward,’ she added solemnly.
On Friday morning I drove into Acton Carey, a last, sentimental journey. I would take a look at the church, then buy Bill a pint, if he was around. Say goodbye. Because since this morning I had a feeling that I would never come back, never see Deer’s Leap again. And maybe it was better that way; better to forget Jack Hunter and that war, and anyway, I decided mutinously as I drove past the clump of oaks, why should I bother my head about a ghost who didn’t have the decency to turn up when he must surely have known I would soon be leaving here. For ever!
I still felt piqued as I parked the car, then made for the war memorial, to stand there, staring fixedly at the name J. J. Hunter, asking silently why he hadn’t been there this morning, wishing I had brought flowers as a kind of goodbye. Flowers from Deer’s Leap garden; a bunch of the red roses that grew up the wall and peeped in at the kitchen window! It was a very old plant with a thick, gnarled stem that could even have been there when Susan slept in the room above the kitchen! Why hadn’t I thought?
‘I’m going home on Sunday,’ I whispered in my mind to the name chiselled there. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you and Susan and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you. But I won’t forget either of you. One day, somehow, I’ll find how it was for you both …’
I blew my nose sniffily, then walked to the grandiose church, built to the memory of a cotton broker from Manchester whom almost everyone had forgotten, blinking my eyes to accustom them to the gloom, inhaling the churchy smell of dampness and musty books and dusty hassocks.
‘Hullo, love! Over here!’
I turned in the direction of the voice.
‘You came then!’ Hilda stood beside the lectern, waving and smiling.
‘I said I would.’
‘Happen you did, but you went off at a right old lick; didn’t give me time to tell you that –’
‘Your bus was coming.’ So too had been Jeannie! ‘I hope you didn’t think me rude.’
‘Nay. All I’d been going to tell you was that Lizzie Frobisher lives in Acton Carey.’
‘She lives where?’
‘At the vicarage. We don’t have a parish priest in the village any longer – all a question of money. Any road, there was a vicarage standing empty, so the Diocese made it into four flats for retired clergy. It was nice that Lizzie was able to come back to the village to live out her time. She’s over yonder, in the green cardigan.’
Here! Dusting pews no more than ten feet away!
‘Susan Smith’s friend?’ I whispered. ‘The one she went to school with?’
‘That’s the lady you should be talking to. Away over, and have a word with her. She’s Lizzie Taylor now.’
‘Did you tell her I was asking?’
‘No. But there’s none better to tell you about Susan.’
‘You don’t mind? I really came to look at the church …’
‘Then ask Lizzie to show it to you!’
Glory be! With only two days to go, I’d found Susan’s long-ago friend!
‘Mrs Taylor?’ I coughed loudly and she spun round, looking at me over the top of her glasses.
‘It is. And who might you be?’
‘I’m Cassandra Johns. I’m staying at Deer’s Leap.’
‘Ah, yes – you’ll want to talk about Susan?’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘I do, actually. But how did you guess?’
‘Ha! The whole village knows. Tell Bill Jarvis and you might as well tell the town crier!’ She pulled down the corners of her mouth and I took in her hand-knitted cardigan, the skirt gone baggy round the hips, the thin hair, permed into corkscrew curls. ‘Why are you interested in Susan Smith?’
‘I – I’m not especially. It’s Deer’s Leap really. I’m a novelist, you see, and I’m interested in anything to do with the place.’
And may you be forgiven, Cassandra Johns, for lying through your teeth in church!
‘Ah. An historical novelist! Then you can’t do better than write about Margaret and Walter Dacre – if you dare! Local folklore has always had it, you see, that those two were the worst of the bunch – the Pendle Witches, I’m talking about – but were never found out!’
‘Margaret Dacre?’ Oh, lordy! Aunt Jane had got it right! ‘The 1592 one?’
‘That’s her! Legend has it she worked spells and heaven knows what else. She got away with it too! I suppose people hereabouts were too afraid to shop her to the witch-hunters.’
‘But how do you know all this? I’ve never come across any reference either to her or to Deer’s Leap.’
‘You wouldn’t. Nothing was put on record; just handed down through the generations, sort of. But Mistress Dacre got her comeuppance, for all that. Seems she wanted to found a dynasty; pass that fine house on to her son, but she never conceived. The Lord’s punishment on her, if you ask me! But what’s got into you? You look quite odd, Miss Johns. Stupid of me talking about witchcraft, and you alone in that house. Let’s go outside for a breath of air? I’ve had enough dusting for one day. Feel like a cigarette?’
‘I – I don’t smoke.’ I followed her in a half-daze.
‘Afraid I do! A habit I picked up in the war, and never managed to kick!’ She settled herself on a bench beside the church porch and dug into her cardigan pocket. ‘But we can’t all be perfect, can we? Sure you don’t want one?’
‘Quite sure, thanks. But I really can’t imagine a witch ever having lived at Deer’s Leap. To me, it’s a beautiful old place. I’ve been alone there for days on end and never picked up one bad vibe – er – funny feeling.’
‘It’s all right.’ She inhaled deeply, eyes closed. ‘Vicars’ wives know what vibes are! Mind, there was often an atmosphere at Deer’s Leap – Mrs Smith’s fault, I reckon.’
‘Why? Wasn’t she happy there? Was it too isolated for her?’
‘I don’t think so. She just kept herself to herself. Not