The Striddings E-Book

Sharon Luty

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 254

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Who is Roberta Cromford, and why is Emily, a florist from Swansea a beneficiary in her will? Having received a surprising letter from a solicitor, the only way for Emily to answer this question is for her to travel to the beautiful North Yorkshire countryside; but her search for an answer uncovers more puzzling mysteries. As she investigates further, she stumbles upon a family's dark past, and finds herself facing financial ruin and the need to find a new source of income - and fast. Not an easy task, especially when combined with the shocking realisation that someone living in your household wants you dead. As Emily becomes increasingly afraid for her life, she still has her greatest challenge to face - the dark, deadly waters of the Striddings; the place where the fear really begins.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99146-310-8

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99146-311-5

Editor:Philip Kelly

Cover photo: Philip Fiddyment | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Introduction

October 1908

The night was cold. Her breath spiralled around her in soft wispy clouds as she made her way briskly along the woodland path. The moon was full and bright, it hung like a huge, illuminated bauble in the sky, and gave off enough light for her to be able to see her way. She could hear the river; not far to go now.

A fox barked in the distance and an owl hooted in a tree above her. Were they warning her? Was she doing the right thing? A moment of doubt crept over her. Then his face came to mind. Her heart told her she was right, no matter what anyone else thought or said her heart would not lie to her. She must follow her heart.

A pheasant, startled by her passing by, rushed out of the undergrowth in front of her screeching, its wings flapping. She jumped back in fright, her heart beating even more rapidly.

“Stupid bird,” she muttered under her breath. Frightened by the bird’s sudden appearance she lost her footing and slipped catching her skirt on some nearby brambles. She tugged it free impatiently and heard the fabric rip before the bramble branch swung viciously back and whipped her across the back of the hand.

“Damn,” she said, and instinctively touched the back of her hand where it was hot and stinging, feeling the wet oily smear of blood. She wiped it clean with the sleeve of her blouse. It didn’t matter now. She wouldn’t need the blouse again after tonight, or the skirt for that matter.

She reached her destination: the summer house. She hesitated; would he be here? She couldn’t bear it if he had changed his mind. The thought made tears well up in her eyes and her throat constrict. No, of course he would be here, she told herself.

She tapped lightly on the door. She held her breath, please let him be here. “Please,” she said silently to herself “Oh please.”

A slight movement inside, and the door opened. He was here. she felt herself breathe a sigh of relief and the silly tears in her eyes blurred her vision as he took her in his arms and kissed her.

“You came.” He whispered to her.

She nodded, too emotional to speak and he kissed her again holding her so close they could feel their hearts beating together.

“Did anyone see you?” he asked.

“No. The moon is very bright, but I didn’t see anyone on the way: I was very careful.”

He released her from his embrace, and nodded, “good.” He went over to the corner of the summer house and handed her a bag. “Here, you will need to change quickly, we don’t have much time.”

She took the bag from him and pulled out the clothing. She wrinkled up her nose. “Is this the best you could come up with?”

“Sorry. Didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

She sighed. “I suppose. I had thought that you might have at least found me something pretty to wear. Are these your sister’s cast offs?”

He chuckled. “I’ll buy you all the pretty dresses you want soon enough.” And mischievously grinning added, “You always look beautiful to me no matter what you wear.”

She giggled. “Well, I hope you aren’t going to stand there and watch me undress!”

“As if,” he laughed and turned around so she could have a little privacy.

She started to undress when there was a ripping sound. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“A bramble has grazed the back of my hand. It’s quite deep and won’t stop bleeding. I’m just using a bit of my old blouse to bind it. I don’t want to get blood on my new clothes, even if they are ugly.”

Suddenly, they stopped and stood still like a pair of statues. “Was that someone outside?” she whispered.

Chapter one

January 1980

It all started with a letter. Not a sinister or malicious letter, but a simple little letter.

Sometimes, when I find myself alone in the house and a mist has crept down from the moor, shrouding the garden and surrounding land in a cold still silence I think of that letter. And once more I go over the frightening sequence of events that it triggered. I think then perhaps it would have been better if I had simply ripped it up and thrown it away.

But I have a curious nature and I know that would not have done. So instead, I kept the letter and acted upon it. And it was for this reason that I found myself on a cold wet pavement one late winter’s afternoon outside the offices of Freeman, Walker, and son.

The office was warm. The icy wind that had been slicing into the flesh of my face came to an abrupt halt as the heavy oak door swung closed behind me. Taking my gloves off I walked up to the reception desk with far more confidence than I felt.

“Yes, may I help you?” asked a smartly dressed middle aged woman from behind the desk.

“I’m Miss Cromford,” I said. “Miss Emily Cromford: I have an appointment with Mr Walker at three.”

She smiled and took hold of a pair spectacles that were attached to a silver chain that was resting on her large ample bosom. She perched them on the end of her nose and looked at what I supposed to be the appointment book and nodded silently.

“Yes.” She looked up, the position of the glasses on the end of her nose making her look slightly cross eyed and gestured to a brown leather sofa by the window. “Please take a seat Miss Cromford. I will inform Mr Walker that you are here.”

I thanked her and sat down taking in my surroundings: a traditional solicitor’s office tastefully decorated in soothing shades of green. Pale walls and a deep rich carpet with a soft swirling pattern, were complemented with furniture and fittings in rich deep oak, burnished leather, and brass, all polished to within an inch of its life by an over enthusiastic cleaner.

The view of the world beyond the room was obscured by a window of frosted glass, and the backwards blue and gold letter of the company name which was painted on it. People past by at intervals, hurrying along in the cold outside, their shapes blurred, their voices and footsteps muffled. Sleet tapped lightly on the windowpane slowly meandering its way onto the window ledge where it lay in grey soggy pools.

I unbuttoned my coat, and stuffed my gloves into my bag and pulled out the letter that I received the previous week.

It had been a Monday, trade in the flower shop where I worked was always slow on Mondays and given that it was a wet and cold January day, just two weeks after Christmas, and everyone was feeling flat after the festivities, and strapped for cash it was doubly slow.

“Put the kettle on Emily,” Rita had shouted to me from the front of the shop.

“OK. Just need to finish tying off this ribbon,” I called back. “They’re to be picked up just after lunch.” I finished the bow snipping off the ends with a flourish and stood back to admire my work. A beautiful spray of flowers in various shades of pink, starry, exotic looking tiger lilies and frilly carnations offset with pearl shaped rose buds in a translucent white all intertwined with the delicate green foliage of asparagus ferns. I wrote out the card that was to go with them:

To the most beautiful ladies in my life.

Love Ben

His wife had given birth to a baby girl in the early hours of the morning. He had called in on his way home from the hospital just as we were opening the shop. Drunk with the euphoria of his daughter’s birth he ordered the flowers and asked that they would be ready for the afternoon visiting times.

I put the kettle on and wandered through into the front of the shop. “Kettle on,” I said as I passed Rita and started to select flowers for a thankyou basket: Delicate yellow and white freesias, golden ivy and maybe some irises.

“Do we have any iris in the cold room; those tiny yellow and blue ones?” I asked.

“Flowers, flowers, flowers it’s all you ever think about.” Rita laughed. “Come and sit down have a drink of tea, and yes there are some.”

She was right of course: my head is always full of flowers. When I am not at work arranging them, I am at home reading about them, and I am quite incapable of going out without stopping to admire a wildflower or a garden somewhere. This led to my other passion: painting. Water colours to be exact, most of which I admit were of flowers. Although I did do the odd landscape, it was the flowers I liked best. I loved the intricate details of them and of course their beauty. Each individual bloom, even of the same species had its own individuality – a personality if you will, and I aimed to capture that in my paintings. I sold them in the shop, although I hadn’t intended to sell them. Rita had seen a few of them and had asked if she could borrow them for the shop to display on the walls. She thought they would look lovely with our flower displays and give the shop a fabulous Parisian chic touch. When people had started to enquire about them Rita suggested that I sell them.

“Emily,” she had said, “they are beautiful pictures. People come in here because they love flowers so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that they would like to buy a unique hand painted picture of them as well.”

That was typical of Rita. She had fussed over me like a mother hen ever since I had started there as a Saturday girl well over ten years ago and I now worked for her full time.

I did as I was told and sat down to share a pot of tea with her when I remembered the day’s post that was still in my bag. The postman was either early that morning or I was later than usual because just as I was leaving the house it dropped through the letter box, so I just scooped it up and put it in my bag and took it with me.

I went to my bag and retrieved the day’s mail. Nothing exciting; a piece of advertising and another piece of what looked like junk, a brown envelope that probably contained some kind of bill and a white envelope with a company address printed on the top left-hand corner in deep blueprint. This was definitely not junk but I didn’t recognise the company name either. I tore it open and began to read.

“What’s that?” Rita asked amid a dunk of a second ginger biscuit.

“A letter.”

“Well, I can see that.” she said rolling her eyes, “but why are you scowling at it?”

I had no idea I was scowling, but I was puzzled. “It’s from a firm of solicitors based in North Yorkshire.” I handed her the letter.

“Dear Miss Cromford” she read aloud. “Please could you arrange an appointment with my office at your earliest convenience with regard to the late Roberta Cromford.” Rita looked at me, “Roberta Cromford?”

I was about to reply that I had no idea when the shop bell jangled, and Eileen walked in. “Who is Roberta Cromford?” she asked taking her coat off and feeling the tea pot. “Good, It’s still hot. I hope there is some left.”

“Everything ok with the deliveries?” Rita asked.

Eileen nodded. “Traffic was hell, bloody road works everywhere. Thought I would arrive at the crematorium after the event,” she grinned.

Rita frowned – “you got there on time though?”

“Oh yes, don’t worry the funeral party were just arriving as I left. Rotten day for a funeral – mind you is there ever a good one? The flowers looked beautiful and there looked like there was a good turnout for the service given the cars that were arriving. Hope whoever they were gets a good send off.” She took a slurp of her tea and reached for a ginger biscuit. “So, who is this, Roberta Cromford?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

“Well, she must be some relative of your dads, you have the same surname, why don’t you ask him?”

Rita glanced at me, “Emily’s father is dead Eileen,” she said softly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Emily …” she put her cup down. “I didn’t …”

“It’s ok, Eileen. Really it is. You weren’t to know and besides, he died an awfully long time ago.”

It really was quite all right. Eileen had in no way upset me, but as much as I liked Eileen and her crass ways there were some things that I preferred to keep to myself; and my father was one of them.

Rita knew. She was the only person who knew how I really felt about my father. I couldn’t even discuss him with my mother because of all the barriers that she had put up surrounding him. I had opened up to Rita around my eighteenth birthday, partly because it had been my eighteenth, and I had found myself wishing that he was there to share it with me. I think it also had something to do with being surrounded by all the wedding flowers that were for beautiful brides that were to be given away by their proud fathers, and those same proud fathers making speeches praising their beautiful daughters. All I felt was a tremendous sense of loss; I was never going to be one of those brides. Even though I had a good relationship with my mother, and I loved her deeply the void that was in my life concerning my father was always there, lurking in the background and I sometimes felt so alone and lost that the feeling consumed me. Not knowing where I had truly come from and who I really was made it hard to know where I wanted to go with my life.

All I knew about my father was that he had died of cancer when I was three years old. Those were the bare facts. Other snippets of information I gleaned from my maternal grandparents. He was Irish, had been an architect and worked for my grandfather and that he had been much older than mum.

I knew that I looked very much like him because I had seen a few photographs of him. We both had the same dark curling hair, and our eyes were a remarkably similar shape. Whether they were the same colour or not I do not know because the photos were of extremely poor colour quality and mostly in black and white anyway. My nose is smaller and rounder than his was and very slightly upturned. But our chins and mouths have a striking similarity and I notice the resemblance when I see myself in a mirror caught unawares and laughing.

There the similarity ends because my father looked to be very tall and there was something very elegant and refined about the way he held himself. It was very natural, and I knew from the way that he looked into the camera that he was a confident and relaxed man.

Tall, elegant, and refined would be the last words that I would use to describe myself. Refined may be if you want to describe refined as being quiet and I do not lack confidence. But as for tall and elegant well let us just say that a kind description would have me as dainty, perhaps petite, but never elegant.

I do not actually remember him though or him being ill and dying.

More a sense of something incredibly special no longer being there.

My mother and I went to live with her parents after he passed away. I don’t remember moving either, only that things had changed. silly little things stuck in my mind. My bedroom curtains were now blue instead of yellow. My toys were in a different cupboard and the bed was by a window when I had been sure it was against a wall.

Of course, as I grew older, I started to ask all the usual questions that a child with one parent will inevitably ask. I knew my questions upset my mother, as she would visibly stiffen, and her beautiful soft grey eyes would cloud over making them appear even softer and somehow, she always managed to evade an answer. Because I knew that my questions upset her, and I loved her and didn’t want to make her sad I stopped asking them.

I stood up, brushed the biscuit crumbs from my lap and took the letter from Rita. “It’s probably nothing,” I said. “Most likely a mistake, you know mistaken identity” and stuffed the letter back into my bag.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough, serving customers with flowers, and making up and taking orders. We also began to discuss what we would need to order in for Valentine’s Day. Although this was still a few weeks away it was a terribly busy time for us, and we both liked to plan ahead. We drew up a list of essential items that we would require such as ribbons and paper and roughly estimated the quantity of flowers we would need, and of course the variety that we would like. I mentioned that I had seen some tiny cupids in one of the stock catalogues and that they would look lovely in some of the arrangements, giving them a Victorian look for a different spin on the usual bouquet. Rita liked this idea and scribbled that down too.

As I walked home later that evening, I began to create beautiful arrangements in my head, but that letter kept creeping in. I walked past the marina, the little boats bobbing up and down, while the rigging made little tinkling sounds on the masts and considered if orchids would be too extravagant or perhaps just too expensive. And maybe how a combination of red fuchsia and tiny sky-blue forget-me-nots would look stunning in a Victorian posy: could I use one of the cherubs? I thought this last idea would have to be painted as it was just too impractical to have these two flowers in a commercial arrangement and thought about some preliminary sketches that evening when that damned letter drifted into my thoughts again. A chill wind was blowing in from the sea and it had stopped raining, I thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets, sighed and stopped walking. My bus stop was in sight but after a moment’s hesitation I Instead turned around and walked in the opposite direction – towards my mother’s house.

It didn’t take long and all the while I was planning what I was going to say. The pain from my father’s death had healed after all these years, but it was still a subject that we never talked about. And I was apprehensive now that I was about to bring it up. I was unsure how she would react, never mind if she could shed some light on the letter.

She lives in a neat row of modern houses. Each has a small garden to the front with an open plan design, making all the homes look alike. She had painted her door a deep blue, the colour of delphiniums my favourite flower, instead of the standard black that all the other houses had. I had planted up some flower tubs to stand on either side of the front door. They had been planted the previous autumn to give some winter colour and even in the gloom of the January evening the cheerful smiley faces of the purple pansies and the flame like shapes of the red cyclamen lifted the whole scene with a welcoming greeting.

I rang the doorbell and waited for her to answer. I heard her footsteps reach the door and then “hello, who is it?”

“it’s only me, Mum.”

She pulled off the chain and opened the door, a pool of golden light spilling out over the doorstep.

“Emily darling, what a lovely surprise.” And then with a worried look “Is everything all right?”

“Yes mum, everything is fine. I hope you don’t mind me just calling in?”

“No, of course not. I haven’t eaten yet would you like to stay for something?”

I hesitated, I didn’t feel that hungry, which was unusual after a day at work as it was normally one of the first things I thought about when I got home. This letter had really thrown me off balance, “I’ll just stay for a cup of tea, thanks.”

I went in and I took my shoes and coat off, putting my coat on the banister and went through into the living room. Mum behind me took my coat off the banister and put it on the coat hooks by the door and then straightened up my shoes. I smiled to myself – somethings never change.

We chatted for a few moments about this and that and when she brought in the tea tray I at last took a deep breath and said all in a rush.

“Mum, have you ever heard of a Roberta Cromford? I mean did Dad …” my voice trailed away.

She glanced at me and set the tea tray down slower than necessary and then sat down in the chair opposite me staring at the tea pot.

“Mum. Are You, ok? I mean I’m sorry …”

“Yes,” she breathed. “It’s been such a long time that you have mentioned your father that it took me by surprise that’s all. Is this the reason for you coming tonight?”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I have received this letter.” I fumbled about in my bag and pulled out the crumpled envelope and handed it to her. “Any idea?”

She studied the front of the envelope and slid the contents out. She frowned slightly while reading but judging by her reaction to it also did not know who Roberta Cromford was either.

“Yes, that is rather odd” she said slowly handing me back the letter. I honestly can’t recall having heard the name, but the letter is from Yorkshire, and I do remember that your father mentioned something about his family coming from Yorkshire.”

“I thought he came from Ireland,” I butted in.

“Well, yes: he was born there, and his parents lived there. His father worked on the docks or in a shipyard, I’m not sure which. You must remember Emily that I was much younger than your father and both his parents had passed away by the time we got married. Your father seldom spoke about his parents, but I got the impression that he had a happy childhood and that he loved them both very much.”

“So how did you meet each other?” it was a question that I had so long wanted to have answered and I could scarcely believe that the opportunity to have it answered now had arisen.

“Well.” There was a momentary pause as she leaned forward to put her teacup down with a little clink. She sat back in her chair with a small sigh and smiled.

“He came over from Ireland shortly after his parents died, to work for my father. He was an incredibly talented architect. They became friends and when Christmas time came around, he was invited around to our home for the day as my father didn’t like to think of him being alone over the festivities.”

“And you met and fell in love?” I interjected.

“Well, yes … at least I did.”

She hesitated, but I was determined that this moment would not slip by. I had waited for too long with my curiosity bottled up and now it was like champagne, the cork had been pried off and the pressure from within released, spurting the contents into the air in a myriad of questions. The letter had given me a confidence that I had not had previously, so I urged her on because just like champagne one sip was not going to be enough.

She smiled at me and then said, “He was forty-three and the most handsome man I had ever seen.” As she continued to speak her lovely soft grey eyes became even softer and her smile softened inwardly as she recalled the past. “He had dark curly hair like you Emily, and his eyes were of the same almond shape only they were a lighter blue than yours. He had laughing eyes, even when he was being serious there was note of amusement in them. My parents were alarmed when they realised my feelings toward him. I really couldn’t see their concerns at the time but looking back I realise that they were only trying to protect me from myself. You see there I was a girl of seventeen in love with a man in his forties! He was only a few years younger than my own father.”

“But they did let you see him, and they were happy for you?”

She let out a little laugh “Oh yes. They thought that it was just an infatuation and that I would grow out of it, and if I went out on a date with him that I would lose interest and then start to look at boys my own age. Your father found the whole thing rather amusing, and I suspect he was a little flattered that a young girl could have a crush on him. I think also that it rather disturbed him too.

He agreed with my father to take me out a few times in the hope that I grew tired of him. My parents trusted him to be a gentleman, and he always was.” She glanced at me, her face colouring up a little, “much to my frustration” she giggled.

But the more time I spent with him the more I grew to love him, and he began to feel the same way about me, which made him extremely uncomfortable: he felt he was betraying my father’s trust. He asked my father’s permission to marry me before he asked me. By that time, my parents could see how happy we were together and if they did continue to worry about the age difference, they never let it show. Her voice started to tremble slightly. “I never once regretted my decision to marry him, not once. I know we didn’t really have much time together and even if I could have seen the future, I would still have married him.”

I said in a voice far too bright as I wiped the silent tears from my face. “Did you ever go to Yorkshire?”

“No, we never went,” she spoke softly. “Perhaps if he had not become ill, we might have.” She shrugged and said, “Any way,” brightening up “I would have hated it: the only bits of Yorkshire that haven’t been industrialised are sheep-infested bogs owned by odd speaking farmers, and it always rains.”

I smiled to myself at that last comment. Now was hardly the time to tell her that that was a view many people had of Wales so, I said instead, “This Cromford woman – there is a possibility that she is some relation of dad’s then?”

“Yes; it is a possibility. Look it can’t hurt to give them a ring can it. By the looks of the letter, you may have been left something in her will – it does say the late Mrs Cromford, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it does. You’re right. I’ll give then a ring tomorrow. And thanks.”

“What for?”

“You know, talking about dad.”

She was quiet for a moment and then said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, “yes it has been nice.”

A few minutes of silence elapsed between us, neither of us knowing quite what to say but finding comfort in our shared thoughts. It was mum who spoke first. “Let me know how you get on with the solicitor.“

“Miss Cromford?” a voice said, breaking into my thoughts. I looked up to see a gentleman standing in front of me, his hand extended in greeting. “Peter Walker” he smiled.

He was a giant of a man. Not just tall but broad as well. His hands were like two shovels and engulfed mine in his handshake.

“I trust you had a good journey?” he said in a deep voice of flat sounding vowels that I had grown accustomed to since my arrival in Yorkshire yesterday. I told him that I had and followed him through into his office.

He was much younger than I had imagined, maybe in his late forties. He was clean shaven, and his hair was thick and dark with threads of silver running through it. He had such a warm friendly manner that my nervousness began to evaporate. He pulled out a chair for me and then walked round a massive oak desk and pulled out an equally large black leather chair for himself.

I sat down and before he had had chance to speak, I said, “Mr Walker, I feel there has been a mistake of some kind. I know that we have spoken on the telephone, but …”

“Let me assure you Miss Cromford,” he interrupted with a wide sweeping smile revealing large tombstone-like teeth, “there has been no mistake, you are without doubt the late Mrs Cromford’s great niece.”

He opened a large beige folder on his desk and pulled out a handful of documents.

“Do you know anything of your father’s family?

“Not really.” I told him the sketchy details that I knew, mostly what my mother had recently told me and briefly outlined my childhood.

When I had finished, he shuffled about with the documents that he held in his hands, examining them closely. A slight frown crossed his giant like features every now and then. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “I’m the wrong Emily Cromford, aren’t I?”

He looked up startled and laughed out loud, a deep booming laugh.

“No: you are the correct Emily Cromford! Everything you have told me does correspond to what I have here.” He waved the papers he was holding at me. “Your grandfather, Edward Cromford was the brother of Roberta Cromford, so that does make you her niece – great niece to be exact.”

“You are certain – I mean there is no mistake?” I asked, not able to believe that I had found a connection to my father’s family.

“Quite certain … it’s just that …” he hesitated unsure of how to go on. He frowned and then said, “To be honest I was hoping that you could have told me a little more about your grandfather and father. You see this firm has managed the affairs of Mrs Cromford for over sixty years and it was not until a few months ago that we knew of an Edward Cromford. It came as a bit of a shock to discover that she had a brother, not only to us but to her family as well.”

Family! I felt an electrifying jolt run through my entire body at the word, a feeling of all my senses firing up at once. Family: I had never even considered the possibility of a family.

“Family” I breathed; “you said family?”

Peter Walker looked at me steadily. “I think,” he said slowly, “that we could do with some tea.”