Instalment Four – By Thomas Hardley

Annie went to bed thinking about the ring and what secrets it held. That night was very windy indeed – although being holed up in the cosy cottage with the noise of the wind howling through the trees on Parwich Hill was somehow soothing.

Next morning, Annie noticed that the kitchen was cooler than usual, but thought nothing more of it.  Realising the fresh air and exercise was good for her mood, she decided to go for another walk, straight after breakfast.  She had been told about a short walk around Parwich Hill which the locals called the “outer ring road” and decided that this would fit the bill well.

At that time in the morning, Monsdale Lane looked almost magical.  Although overcast, the light still dappled through the overhanging trees.  Last night’s wind meant that there were quite a few twigs and branches scattering the path.

About halfway along the green lane, she noticed a gate to her right.  Just beyond it was a metal sculpture of a bird.  A small plaque informed Annie that this was called the “Cuckoo Gate” and that the sculpture was made by Hayley as part of a school art project in 2006.  She followed the instructions to call out “Cuckoo!” and a few seconds later her voice echoed back from across the valley.

“What a wonderful spot!” thought Annie.  Despite the traumas of recent months, this beautiful, isolated part of the Peak District was working its charm and lifting her spirits.

She continued up the hill, feeling the benefits of the exercise.  After a couple of left turns, the gentle rolling hills, which she knew led to the various valleys carved by the river Dove, opened out in front of her.  It was still quite windy, causing grey clouds broken by shafts of sunlight to drift across the wide skyline, and adding drama to the landscape.

A dead crow – its eyes already taken by its colleagues – lay in the road, emphasising the harshness that lay behind the beauty of this part of the world.  Annie could feel the strings pulling at her fragile, elevated mood.

Stepping over the crow, she found her progress further hampered by the accumulation of mud in the road, which she realised was created by the comings and goings of farm vehicles.  The farm in question was somehow presaged by the dead crow.  A cattle shed with loose corrugated steel rattled in the wind.  In parts it was open, providing views of a dark, muddy interior containing depressed looking cattle.

Annie fought off the encroaching mood.  This was meant to be an invigorating walk to lift the spirits. She focussed on the distant hills, watching the pools of light skimming the checkerboard of fields created by dry stone walls.

“Indeed, this is God’s own country. You take the rough with the smooth.” she thought.

On her return to the cottage, Annie decided to settle down with one of the books on Mrs Cundy’s shelf.  There was a series of novels by an author called Stephen Booth, who specialised in crime fiction based in Derbyshire. Annie thought that the descriptions of the brooding Derbyshire landscapes and of the eccentricities of its inhabitants would complement her stay nicely.  She picked up the first in the series, Black Dog, and settled down for a good long read.

Immediately she empathised with the two protagonists, who each seemed to sum up the different sides of her experience here to date. Diane Fry was the incomer from the Birmingham police force, and Ben Cooper was the local policeman, born and bred in the Peak District.  Annie became more and more drawn into the story, as the missing school girl’s body was eventually found by a retired quarryman called Harry.  The story was so compelling that Annie felt herself actually getting colder as she read on.

Eventually, she tore herself away from the book in order to make some lunch.  She thought she would warm some soup on the Aga and have it with some nice crusty bread.  She put the pan on the simmering plate and went to lay the table and slice the bread.

When she returned to the soup, Annie realised that it was hardly any warmer than when she had taken it from the fridge.  Damn, she thought.  Last night’s wind must have blown the Aga out. That’s why she was starting to feel so cold!  Rather than tackle the job of lighting it herself, Annie thought it best to call Mrs Cundy.

“Oh, yes dear – these old oil fired Agas don’t half present a saga at times.  I’ll come round right away. It’ll take me a few goes, but I’ll be able to get it going again eventually.”

While waiting for Mrs Cundy, Annie again took out the box that her mother had given her.  Staring at the ring, she wondered about its history.

A knock sounded on the door, and Mrs Cundy let herself in.  Annie put the ring and its box down, next to the kitchen sink.

After much messing about with long matches, and a surprising amount of cussing for such a polite lady, Mrs Cundy finally announced that the Aga was back in commission.  Her hands were black from all the soot that had accumulated in the fire box.

As Mrs Cundy scrubbed her hands in the sink, Annie thought she saw a slight shudder in the old lady’s shoulders.  Maybe it was nothing; the kitchen was cold, after all.

“Lovely ring, dear. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, it’s been in the family for many years.  My mother gave it to me recently”, said Annie.

“Well, just you be sure to look after it, dear.  I’m sure there’s been a lot of emotion invested in it over the years.  Right-oh, I’d best be off.  I’m due at the WI shortly, and it doesn’t do to be late.  If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me”.

Walking down the hill towards her own cottage, Mrs Cundy stared thoughtfully into the distant hills towards Brassington.

As soon as she got home, she picked up the phone and dialled Mrs Lomas, the mother of Justin and Jason.

“Margaret, we need to talk…”

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