Ghosts of Mayfield Court by Norman Russell Read Free Book Online Page B

was a living gypsy child! There he was, out in the garden, throwing papers onto a bonfire, and shaking his fists at the heavens, which isn’t right, and tempting Providence…. I saw him, you know, but he didn’t see me! Now where was I? Oh, yes, they upped sticks and went yesterday at dusk. Sam Miller took them in his cart to the Volunteer at Thornton Heath, where they caught the evening coach to Warwick. So there you are, sir, they’ve gone.’
    It was Bottomley’s turn to ask a question. He looked at the garrulous Mrs Doake with his amiable, lopsided smile.
    ‘Have you ever heard the name Rose Potter? She was a servant in this house all those years ago, when little Miss Helen came to stay for the night, in the October of 1864.’
    ‘Rose Potter? No, Mr Bottomley, I don’t recall any such name. We came to Mayfield twenty-two years ago, so we never knew any of the folk connected with that mystery of Miss Helen. I suppose that poor little skeleton was hers, wasn’t it? Whoever could have done such a thing? Rose Potter? Why don’t you go and have a talk with old Mrs Protheroe? She’ll know, I expect. You’ll find her in the almshouse at Overton Hollow. There’s not much Agnes Protheroe doesn’t know about things that went on in these parts.’
    ‘Well, thanks very much, ma’am,’ said Bottomley, ‘we’ll certainly have a word with this Mrs Protheroe. We can walk from here to Overton Hollow, it’s not above half a mile. But first, I think we’d like to have a look at this bonfire that Mr Paget kindled. Very interesting, that sounds, to my way of thinking.’

    They had come to the line of ruined stables and outhouses, mostly roofless, in front of which stood the cast-iron incinerator on its mound of ashes. It was full to the brim with burnt and charred papers, and nearby was a wooden crate containing a few old grocery bills and a tattered almanac for 1884.
    Bottomley threw the incinerator on to its side and scraped the contents out on to the ground. Maximilian Paget had done a good job of destruction, but a mass of paper never burns in it’sentirety: there are always scraps of unburnt paper to be found if you searched diligently enough. Eventually, Bottomley found three pieces of charred paper that contained a few coherent sequences of words. He and Jackson studied them together.
    ….Gabriel Forshaw tells everybody that he will go to Af….
    ….inscription on their monument in Upton Car….
    ….WH was not one of us. He became a missionary, and went…
    ‘Gabriel Forshaw’, said Jackson. ‘Whoever he is or was, our Mr Paget evidently thought him worthy of being burnt up in this incinerator. He went around telling people that he was going to – Africa? Or Afghanistan?’
    ‘Maybe he went to Affpuddle, in Dorset,’ offered Bottomley. ‘I had a cousin who went to live there after she married.’
    ‘Well, Sergeant, if this Gabriel Forshaw went to Affpuddle, maybe you could go down there and find out what he did when he got there. You could stay with your cousin while you were investigating. Affpuddle indeed! Dear me!’
    Bottomley smiled, but said nothing. Jackson considered the second fragment.
    ‘“Upton Car …” is clear enough,’ he said. ‘That’ll be Upton Carteret. It’s a village on the other side of the county, miles from here. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been. Evidently there’s a monument of some sort there. It might be an idea to visit Upton Carteret, and nose around, as they say.
    ‘Now, let’s consider this third fragment. “WH was not one of us. He became a missionary, and went….” Perhaps WH was a clergyman. He was “not one of us” – meaning, I suppose, not one of the family. Well, we’ll find out in the end.’
    Jackson produced a fat notebook tied with string from his overcoat pocket, and carefully stowed the three fragments of paper in it.
    ‘Now, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘it’s time we set off on foot to visit that old lady at Overton Hollow. What was