So it was that as Tim headed back towards London, Alys found herself sitting in the garden at Moira’s cottage, too wound up to know quite what to do with herself. A walk would have dissipated some of her nervous energy but Tim’s surprise visit had left her mind in a spin and she couldn’t seem to settle to anything. She was sure she’d done the right thing but she didn’t like the way it had made her feel.
‘If only I’d been clearer with Tim in the first place,’ she thought ruefully. She couldn’t pass it off, even to herself, as trying to protect Tim’s feelings: she knew that she had been guilty of avoidance tactics. She longed to talk things over with her friend Hannah but she was far away in another time zone; even if she managed to get hold of her she couldn’t see them being able to have a proper conversation. In desperate need of distraction from her thoughts, she picked up a book and read several pages without taking in a word, then tried a magazine with the same result.
A knock at the door made her start. The thought flashed through her mind that somehow Tim had tracked her down and come back for one final attempt to make her see reason. She opened the door a crack, peering round it cautiously, and was relieved to find that it was Rob on the doorstep, carrying a bottle of wine.
‘Moira said I’d find you here. She also said you might need a drink.’ Rob brandished the bottle. Alys, thankful of the company, silently blessed Moira’s thoughtfulness yet again and threw open the door to let him in.
‘How was your trip to the reservoir?’ she asked as she took wineglasses from the cupboard, suddenly remembering the path her day was supposed to have followed.
‘It was great – the weather was perfect. You could see for miles.’ Rob paused, seeing Alys’s crestfallen expression. ‘Did you manage to get … things sorted out?’
Alys made a face. ‘I did. Though I’d prefer not to talk about it. I’d rather have had a day out but it’s my own fault for not dealing with everything properly before.’
She sighed, led the way out into the garden and poured the wine, passing a glass to Rob before taking a large gulp from her own glass. She sighed again, then settled back into her chair and, for a few minutes, they sat in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ Rob pulled a newspaper from his backpack. ‘You left it behind in the café. I thought it might help to take your mind off things.’
Alys smiled gratefully. It would be good to slip away from the present and distract herself with thoughts of the past. ‘Excellent idea,’ she said. ‘Now, where were we?’
Rob spread out the copy of The Yorkshire Post on the garden table. The pages, crammed with dense columns of small type, felt unwieldy in comparison with contemporary newspapers. Rob and Alys worked their way slowly down each column and found what they were searching for on page five, halfway down a long column of text, below a report relating to a meeting at Leeds Town Hall. Rob spotted it first.
‘Is this it?’ he said, resting his finger on the spot. Alys felt her heart start to race uncomfortably as she bent closer to take a look. Headed ‘Mill Tragedy’ it read: ‘A fire at Hobbs Mill in the Lower Royd valley, which started around 8 p.m. on the night of 22 September has claimed the life of Richard Weatherall, aged 25 years, eldest son of James Weatherall of Hobbs Hall, Mill Lane, Northwaite. Mill Manager Owen Williams reported that the fire appeared to have been started deliberately. He, Mr Weatherall and Albert Spencer, the nightwatchman, had fought hard to control the blaze. Mr Richard Weatherall was unfortunately trapped and perished while trying to retrieve vital company papers. Williams commended Albert Spencer for repeatedly entering the burning building in a vain effort to save Mr Weatherall’s life. Mr Spencer has been awarded ten guineas for his bravery, which he will use to fund a stonemason’s apprenticeship in York with immediate effect. Mr Richard Weatherall’s family and his wife Caroline, whom he married just a few weeks previously, are inconsolable. The mill is damaged beyond repair and Mr James Weatherall has expressed his intention to leave the area and start afresh elsewhere.
A local woman, Alice Bancroft, aged 20 and an ex-employee of the mill, was believed to bear a grudge against her former manager and has been apprehended and held in Northwaite lock-up, awaiting trial for setting fire with intent.’
Alys sat back, took a breath, frowned and looked at Rob. She’d hoped, expected even, something that would set the record straight. But the news was even worse than she could have imagined: Alice had not only destroyed the mill, but someone had been killed.