The Golden Maze Page 4

  "What do you think you're doing now ?" Mrs. Stone demanded. Standing in the doorway, her hands ' on hips, cheeks flushed, hair more wispy than usual, her eyes were angry.

  "I was getting something to read," Cindy explained, gathering the books up.

  "You've not the right to meddle about with Mr. Baxter's things," Mrs. Stone said angrily. "The castle ain't yours yet, nor may it ever be if Mr. Baxter turns I up."

  "I'm sure Mr. Baxter wouldn't object to my reading

  some of his many books," Cindy said, lifting her head and returning, glare by glare, Mrs. Stone's angry looks. "I was thinking how wonderfully clean you've kept the castle," she added.

  Mrs. Stone sniffed. "Someone has to, haven't they? Not easy, mind, nor appreciated. Mr. Baxter never saw if it was clean or t'dirt was around."

  Somehow Cindy managed to escape and went back to sit by her fire. She looked through the books, keeping the long flat book under a cushion. She wondered why she had hidden it so quickly—after all, whoever went through Mr. Baxter's things must have known of the secret drawer. Yet something had told her to keep it from Mrs. Stone. Cindy realised with a shock that not only did she dislike Mrs. Stone but she distrusted her—and disliked and distrusted the son, Paul, even more.

  The quietness was so oppressively still—the only sound being the occasional crackle of a twig fallen off the log as it was burned through—that Cindy found herself looking constantly over her shoulder. In the end she went to bed, propped up by pillows, and began to read the long flat book she had found.

  It was very hard to read the tiny neat writing ! Cindy tried both with and without her glasses. She read enough to realise it was Robert Baxter's diary. Not a very, very old one as she had hoped, perhaps dating back to the eighteenth century would have been much more exciting.

  Yet in a way she wanted to know more about the man who had never forgotten her, who had remembered how, as a little girl of seven, she had wept because her mother said the castle wasn't real... As

  Cindy read, she realised it was not a diary, but more a collection of notes he had made.

  "Sometimes I feel I cannot survive unless I have someone to talk to. This is why I am writing this," Cindy read. "The quiet emptiness is the most devastating experience I have ever known. If only Peter would write ! Just a few words, so that I know he is well. How can I write to him when I have no idea where he is?"

  Cindy closed the book with a sigh. As Mrs. Usher had said, how terribly sad. Yet surely Peter Baxter could have written to his father? Or was the quarrel too bitter to allow a proud man to make the first move ?

  At breakfast next day, Mrs. Stone told Cindy that Mr. Fairhead wished to speak to her.

  "He manages the estate," Mrs. Stone explained. "A mean man if ever there was one."

  Cindy wondered what sort of man he was that she went out to meet. He was standing in front of the castle, frowning as he looked down at the lake below. As she joined him she saw she hadn't realised just how high up the castle stood, but now she could see the winding narrow track and two cars were going along it that looked like toy cars scuttling along.

  The man turned to look at her, his' eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He was a big burly man with a slight tummy bulge and grey tufty hair. He held out his hand.

  "I felt I'd like t'know you, Miss Preston. Seems like you may be my boss." His grin split his weather-beaten face in half. He shook her hand firmly and frowned. "You're younger than I expected."

  Cindy's chin tilted. "I'm nearly twenty."

  He grinned. "You remind me of my daughter. She's nearly sixteen." Luke Fairhead had a dog beside him. "This is Bessie, a farmer's best friend."

  The sheepdog looked up as Cindy stroked her ears. "You're lucky," Luke Fairhead said. "The sun isn't always with us."

  "I don't mind if it rains, Mr. Fairhead. I think this is so lovely."

  He beamed again. "You like it here ?"

  "So much. I never forgot it, you know."

  "It's gone to seed badly. You . ." Mr. Fairhead looked embarrassed. "We know nought about you, Miss Preston. If you do inherit the castle, will you be able to . . ."

  "Finance it?" Cindy looked at him. "I don't know. There must be some way. Other beautiful old places manage ."

  "But, Miss Preston, Claife Castle is different. It isn't really old."

  "I know. Mr. Ayres, the solicitor, told me so. Yet there must be a way."

  "I'd like you to come to my office and then let me show you around, Miss Preston. I think it's only fair for you to see the bad side as well as the good of your inheritance??

  "But Mr. Fairhead . . ." Cindy put out her hand and touched his arm, "I think you're forgetting that I'm not the heiress to the castle. There's still time for the son to turn up."

  "No, Miss Preston, that I haven't forgotten. Peter was a strange lad with a habit of turning up unexpectedly. Real sad, that quarrel with his dad. The

  old man was always sure he was right and Peter had the same kink, but different-like, if you know what I mean. I'll never forget the day he came back—Peter, I mean. It was some years after he'd walked out and I saw the lad arrive. He knocked on the door and spoke to Mrs. Stone. She closed the door in his face and kept him waiting—then when she came back, she told him something and then slammed the door. I never seen Peter look like that. White as a sheep turning sick, that was what he looked like, as if his face had been slapped. He didn't see me ... he just drove off like a madman."

  "I wonder what she said."

  Mr. Fairhead shrugged. "I can only guess that the old man refused to see him."

  "But he wanted .. ." Cindy began, and stopped, for the front door behind had opened with its usual squeaks and groans. Mrs. Stone stood there.

  "Paul'd like to see you now, Mr. Fairhead."

  Luke Fairhead frowned. "Tell him I'm busy. I'll see him later. Come on, Miss Preston," he said, and strode away, Cindy following, trying to keep up with his long strides, straightening the glasses that were sliding down her nose.

  It didn't make sense somehow, she was thinking as she hurried. Peter coming to see his father—then the old man refusing to see him? Yet in the notebook she was reading ...

  "Ah, come inside, Miss Preston." Mr. Fairhead led the way into an immaculately neat office. "Let's get down to business."

  Two hours later he shook Cindy warmly by the hand. "Well, you now see the position, Miss Preston.

  I'm glad you feel as you do. Maybe if we sold the farm—your uncle would not hear of it, but then he didn't realise that he was running it at a loss. Colin Pritchard is too old to manage it really, but Mr. Baxter won't turn him out. A kind man, Mr. Baxter, for all his tempers. His nephew David takes after him for the last. Now there's a bitter young man what's had too much done for him. His uncle was generous."

  "I understand Mr. David Baxter expected to inherit the castle," Cindy said.

  Mr. Fairhead grunted. "David may have thought it, but not me. Robert Baxter always meant Peter to have it. David would sell the lot tomorrow, and that was something Robert Baxter didn't want."

  "Well . . . well, if I do get .it," Cindy said awkwardly, "I'll do my best to keep it."

  "I know you will, Miss Preston, and you can count on me for help. Now where's that young layabout, Paul? Round the back, I've no doubt. Another sign of Robert's generosity" that goes wrong. Young Stone has been given everything and what does he do in return? —nothing. 'Bye for now."

  He strode off round the castle, Bessie following him. Cindy knocked on the door. She was startled when after the usual squeaking and groaning Paul Stone opened it.

  He held out an envelope. "Letter for you, Miss Preston." He looked down at it, turning it over. "Funny thing—it's got a London postmark, but the address on the back is American."

  "So ?" Cindy took it, looking down at the address. "This isn't for me," she said. 'It's addressed to the owner of Claife Castle. I'm not.."

  "Yet !" Paul Stone's mouth curled. "But you will be—eh? Open it and see what it say
s." He leaned against the door, making it impossible for her to go into the hall.

  "I've got no right to open it. I'm not the owner," she repeated.

  "Don't be square, Miss Preston," Paul Stone laughed scornfully. "I bet you're longing to open it just as much as me. What can an American have to do with Claife Castle ?"

  Cindy shook her head. "I have no right to open it. I shall send it at once to the solicitor. Please let me pass."

  He shrugged, standing back. "Okay, if you feel stuffy. I'm going down to the village. Want me to bring you up a newspaper ?"

  "No, thanks—I'm going down myself." Cindy told him. "By the way, Mr. Fairhead is looking for you."

  "Let him look," Paul said with a grin. "He made me wait, now it's my turn." He strode over the gravel towards his bright red car.

  Cindy hurried to her bedroom, found an envelope and hastily wrote to Mr. Ayres.

  "I've no right to open it, so think it best to send it to you."

  Quickly she put on her thick coat, tied a green scarf round her head and looked in the mirror. She had thick dark rims to her glasses. Did they seem to hide her face? she wondered. Mr. Jenkins had said they made her look prettier, but then he was only being kind. Perhaps she'd meet David Baxter in the village and he might be in a better mood.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CINDY drove down to the village by the lake, parked her car and hurried to the Post Office. It had struck her that the letter might be about the missing heir—whoever it was might not know that Robert Baxter was dead but merely that the heir was being sought. As she opened the shop door and entered, the babble of voices stopped with an abruptness that startled her.

  How crowded the small shop seemed, for that was what it really was; a stationer's, newsagent and sweet shop with a side made over to be a sub-post office. Now it 'seemed full of women talking again as they turned their backs on her and she made her way to the post office counter.

  She caught words here and there; words spoken loudly as if the speaker hoped they'd be overheard. "No right t'it, has she ?"

  "Jumping the bridge afore it's built .. ."

  "Of course she musta seen the paper now ..."

  Trying to ignore the crowd, Cindy bought a stamp. The postmistress looked at her with cold eyes.

  "Reckon you're pleased with yourself, Miss Preston," she said. "A good day to you now."

  Puzzled, Cindy hesitated. What had she to be pleased about? The talk with Mr. Fairhead had been depressing and even alarming, for she could see no solution to the problems she'd have to face if the

  castle was hers. How could it be a good day? Perhaps she meant the weather?

  So Cindy smiled. "Yes, it is a lovely day, isn't it?"

  There was another silence and she felt a cold wave of anger go through the small shop. She hurried outside as fast as she could, almost forgetting to stick the stamp on the envelope and drop it into the letterbox.

  Once outside she almost ran to her car. She had to get away. Somehow or other she had angered the villagers. but how? Or why? Maybe it was absurd, she thought unhappily, but it frightened her. It was like walking on the edge of a volcano here—she was never sure when or how she might anger the local people.

  As she started the car, she remembered a holiday she had once spent in Cornwall. There an old inhabitant had laughed.

  "Take no notice of them," she had said. "I've lived here fifty year and I'm still a 'furriner'. You have to be born here to be accepted."

  Maybe it was the same in the Lake District, Cindy thought as she drove down a road she had never been along. Soon she was driving along a wider road, not sure where she was going, not really caring. Passing

  a public callbox in a small village, she stopped and put a call through to the castle. Mrs. Stone answered it.

  "Oh, it's you now, is it?" she said, her voice impatient. "Has to something to tell me?"

  Cindy stifled a sigh. "Just that I shall be out to lunch, Mrs. Stone."

  "Is that so now? I'm not surprised. Celebrating

  with champagne, I don't doubt !" she said, and slammed down the receiver.

  Putting down the receiver too, but slowly, Cindy went out into the cold crisp mountain air. So Mrs. Stone was also mad ! What on earth was wrong with them all ?

  Back in her car, Cindy started to drive. She had no idea where to go, but probably she would find herself in a town at lunch time and could eat there. She felt she could not face Mrs. Stone's cold anger or Paul's cheekiness.

  The road lay along the side of the hill, going slowly downwards. One side was covered with heather, the other-with huge boulders perilously balanced—or so they looked, while clumps of trees kept hiding the lake that was, as could be expected here, in the valley below. Here it was peaceful, she thought, as she drove through a tiny village. The church was outside, alone in dignified solitude. Nearer the village a house that had to be the vicarage and a' church school—then just a row of small shops and a few cottages huddled together as if whispering secrets.

  Turning a corner, she found herself suddenly on a level with the lake. She saw it was a waiting place for a ferry and already two cars were parked, waiting as the flat-bottomed ferry slowly made its way towards them across the sun-sparkled lake. She might as well go across, she thought, and parked behind the cars.

  Looking up at the sky, she saw the sun was about to be temporarily hidden by a strangely grey cloud and that behind it darker grey clouds looked ominous. Perhaps the sunny period was over and the rain near? Well, it matched her mood, she thought unhappily,

  for suddenly everything seemed to have gone wrong and the excited happiness that had filled her ever since she had received Keith Ayres' letter had vanished.

  The lake water rippled gently as the ferry came towards them with a strange, slow dignity, almost as if the journey was effortless. On the opposite bank was a large white house down near the water. In the middle of the lake, a small island. If there was a cottage on it, it was hidden by the dense cluster of trees.

  Cindy drove on the ferry with the other cars. It was only when she chanced to turn her head she saw that in the car next to hers, David Baxter sat !

  Had he seen her? she wondered. He was sitting, his arms folded, his head turned to look the opposite way. Was it on purpose? she asked herself. Then he turned suddenly and caught her staring at him. She half-smiled nervously, but feeling perhaps she should make the first move, and he lifted a newspaper that lay by his side and waved it angrily.

  For a moment she thought he was going to throw it at her and then he dropped it down on the seat and deliberately turned his back on her.

  She turned away, too, shocked and bewildered. Now what on earth could she have done to have so offended everyone ? She stared without really seeing them at the masses of gulls who were swooping down to dive into the water. Suddenly she saw that the white house had become a great deal bigger than before and she realised that the ferry was nearing the opposite shore. Several swans swam slowly past, looking at the ferry arrogantly, almost as if defying it

  to run them down, Cindy thought, as she tried to forget the look of anger on David Baxter's face as he waved the newspaper at her.

  She drove ashore and straight up the hill, concentrating on looking at the scenery to distract her thoughts. She saw a squat little church with a square tower that stood in a churchyard and seemed guarded by a row of dark dignified cypresses that appeared determined to shut out the world. Suddenly she was on a straight road, running alongside the lake but much higher. The grey clouds had moved and the sun shone. How yellow the fields looked, but she knew it was only golden bracken. Up here on the other side of the road she saw the flag walls that Mr. Fairhead had told her about. In the quiet fields sheep were grazing while a few small lambs were gambolling about, having what looked like a lot of fun.

  As she drove on, she reached Ambleside. Startled, because she had thought herself much farther from the castle, Cindy stopped and had lunch. She also bought a booklet of coloured picture
s of the different parts of the Lake District and decided to drive up past Langdale and towards Keswick. She had no desire to go back to the castle, though she knew she would have to—no matter how long she postponed it.

  Now, as she drove, she found herself in a totally different countryside. The mountains seemed larger and they were no longer covered with trees and grass. Bracken, yes, but mostly they were bare rocks. Suddenly it was eerie—the huge grey and green mountains standing high above the quiet lakes threateningly while the distant .view was of mountains going away in their curving beauty. She shivered, for

  now the sun had vanished again and the grey coldness seeped through her warm coat. Realising how late it was, she turned to drive home. Maybe things would be better next day, she thought. She had liked Luke Fairhead; perhaps she could ask him what she had done to offend the local villagers and then she might be able to put the matter right.

  Turning a corner, she slowed up instinctively, driving off the road on to the grass verge to stare at the scene before her. It was horribly desolate, yet had a beauty she had never seen before. The mountains had grown dark as the sun fell. Now they were silhouetted against a sky of weird loveliness, a sky of pale grey with streaks of palest mauve and a wonderful clear yellow of the remains of the sunshine—all this reflected in the still lake. Down by the water, stood some trees, their bare branches spread upwards as if appealing to the darkening sky—their delicate twigs looking like fine crochet against the light.

  She sighed. How she loved this beauty—if only she could find a way to keep the castle—if, that is, the castle was going to be hers.

  It was dark when she reached Claife Castle. She saw a car parked outside, but drove on round the back to the garages. She walked round to the front of the castle, thinking again that there must be a way to find the money to rejuvenate it. Would a bank manager consider her old enough—or reliable enough —to be loaned the money? If she ran it as a hotel .. .