Lost Lad (38 page)

           
"These are but the shadows of things which have been.  They cannot see us.  They do not know we are here."

Simeon Hogg left that special place and spoke a silent 'goodbye' to his good friends and the Lady who had given him back his self respect and made it possible for him to become a teacher.

Chapter 30

The Thoughts of Simeon

It was now the last day of April.  In spite of warnings and a horror of unpleasantness, Simeon Hogg, armed with his Sheet 19 1:50,000 Ordnance Survey map, was motoring north-bound on the A6 en-route to find the elusive and remote Cressbrook Hall and its even more remote and elusive master - Charles Hardman.  A small part of his mind instinctively and mechanically attended to driving the car, the larger part was in a whirl of re-capitulation of facts, theories, opinions and prejudices.

He had his own memories which were based on his own knowledge of the five friends.  Gary Mackenzie's thoughts had been abhorrent, yet Simeon was forced to own their logic.  Scott
was
a magnificent specimen in 1960 and he may well have been approached and tempted by men with money, but that was more of a Detroit, rather than a Heanor view.  Detective Inspector Derek Russell had laid before him an impartial narrative outline, a sequence of events which included consideration of his five principal suspects - Algernon Hardman, Simon Tonks, Adolphus Coggan, Jasper Wormall and Toby Piggs.

            Hardman seemed to be the favourite.  He was repressed, cold, remote and had just suffered a personal disaster.  Simeon was far from convinced, but as a 'whodunit' enthusiast, he tried to curb his natural tendency to eliminate the most obvious candidate and, at the same time, tried to keep a grip on the simple fact that there was 'not a scrap of evidence' against Hardman. 

            The complete antidote to Dr Hardman was his funny little servant, Simon, a popular little queen who appeared to be exonerated by popular opinion.  Yet it was Simon Tonks who said that Brian Forrester was alive and well, far away, happily enjoying his new life.  He had said that just before Christmas, 1960, in the 'cycle seance' and also on Radio Derby just two days ago.  Simon had a reputation for talking a lot of nonsense but at least he was consistent.  Russell had warned that "Simon is no fool."  Simple Simon or clever Simon? 

            There was no evidence against Dolly the gardener: funny little fat Dolly of the silken silver tongue.  If paedophilia were afoot, then here was a reasonable probability: an enterprising rotundity who enjoyed delivering a service - but it was all speculation, no evidence.  Indeed, Dolly had offered practical suggestions: a disoriented Brian may have wandered into the woods ... he could have fallen down a hole ... the police cannot look everywhere.  Simeon supposed that his friend's skeleton may well have lain for years in deep nettles and weeds.

Evidence.  There
was
evidence, the only solid evidence in the whole business to link the alleged abduction of Brian Forrester with one suspect, a very likely suspect: the hideous little goblin who lived in a crooked cottage under a writhing blackness of cawing crows. 

           
"Perhaps in real life we should make the obvious connection between Jasper Wormall and the bicycle he was trying to hide.  An ugly old queen: isn't he
exactly
the type to be a chicken hawk, the type who might try it on?"
continued the thoughts of Simeon, half noting a sign proclaiming Matlock Bath.  He visualised a dazed and injured Brian Forrester, picking himself up, staggering into the woods, collapsing into unconsciousness and coming to with no memory.  He mounts his bike and instinctively pedals off in the direction of Heanor, but somehow ends up in a little wooded nook of Belper - entirely possible.  A kindly old man would promise to find out who he was and get him back home.  There would be hospitality, tea and cakes, followed by a squeaky voice saying -

           
"Shall ya 'ave a rest on t' bed.  Let me tek ya britches off.  Ooo that's a nasty scrape!  Let me joost ... "
 

At some point a reaction of sheer horror to the smile which had now become a leer and the kindly intentions which had become lewd and lascivious.  Who knows what followed?  Panic?  Violence?  Russell admitted that the Belper search had been intensive rather than extensive.  Lots of woodland around Belper: Belper with its flowing river ...       

"Hang it on the fags."
is what Gary had said.  Perhaps Simeon himself was falling into this homophobic trap.  Detective Sergeant John Winter had said Brian's bicycle had been 'planted', but by whom?  Guzzly Granddad was keen on young boys and they liked Guzzly Granddad.  Perhaps they would do anything for him.  Perhaps one of them would ride a bike from Derby to Belper and park it outside the cottage of Granddad's sworn enemy - entirely possible.  These 'Granddad boys' were well treated.  By all accounts there was a close camaraderie in that version of 'Fagin's kitchen' where beer and fags were freely available to any boy who kept Granddad supplied with his 'daily mouth-full of vitamins'.  Would such loyalty extend to covering up murder - if murder it was?  Did Brian Forrester, once having been 'initiated', eventually find himself at some other sleazy residence and become a 'street boy' in some other city?  Guzzly Granddad's boys have now all grown up into men.  They could be anywhere. 

            Scott said that some people get lost because they want to be lost!  Did Scott know something?  Does Gary have a point?  Has he hit on the truth?  Has Simeon really been blinded by nostalgia and affection?  Both Simon Tonks and Scott North believe Brian Forrester to be alive.  Both said he did not want to be found.  Both said to leave well alone.  Scott said the past could be dangerous - 'dangerous to us all'.  Like Algernon Hardman, Scott was now past middle age and a respectable father, grandfather and successful businessman with a lot to lose.  He advised caution - or was it a veiled threat?

Simeon gave some attention to negotiating the main Bakewell roundabout and noticed a large book shop on the left.  He parked up a side street and entered the rather quaint, well stocked bookstore, which was in keeping with the quality and tradition associated with the attractive town of Bakewell.  An assistant directed him to the local section which was dominated by the work of Charles Hardman.  The titles covered areas of high interest, legends, ghosts, UFOs, sacred groves, stone circles, ancient mounds, ley lines, witches and fairies.  One book had a chapter about the Lost Lad and part of a poem by Richard Furness -

            Oft as the shepherds o'er the mountains went,

            Each cast a stone to mark the strange event;

            Till yonder cairn arose which marks the ground

            Where the lost lad beneath the rock was found.  

On careful inspection, Simeon the serious historian was pleased to see detailed research and a tone of healthy scepticism woven into the text.  In several places the author argued how people at different times needed to believe in the strange and the weird.  This put Simeon in mind of Charles's close relationship and friendship with his old life-long servant, Simon Tonks.  Charles Hardman and Simon Tonks - Simeon wondered ...  Hardman's work was firmly rooted in reality.  The reader would be entertained by fantasy and at the same time educated by reliable documented local history. 

Having purchased three books, Simeon was once more motoring north on the A6 out of Bakewell and once more assessing his pool of information.

            Detective Sergeant John Winter had put the emphasis on opportunity and taken the whole scenario away from a sexual angle - thus implicating Rex or Scott or Rex and Scott together.  The 20 minutes: a lot can be done in 20 minutes.  But, after all, John Winter was an outsider, clinically looking in at the little world of Dobba without the benefit of instinct, the instinct of friends who knew each other.  Instinct? 

            Danny Forrester had instinct.  He had his feet firmly on the ground and never claimed any telepathy with his twin brother.  Yet he suggested a suspicion born of instinct, a suspicion he had nursed for 43 years, a gut feeling which steered him towards thoughts of that
other
boy who was there, on the scene, on the spot - Charles Hardman, the man Simeon was about to visit.  Had the traumatised twelve year old murdered Brian Forrester?  Russell had described him as nervous, very frightened, a boy who hardly spoke a word under the watchful eye of his stern authoritarian father.  The detective said he felt sure there was 'something wrong'.  If murder had really been committed, it was easy to imagine the strict instructions that child would have received from an unapproachable father who was determined not to lose a second loved one to the clutches of the law.

           
"Charles.  Look at me.  Listen carefully to me, Charles.  Very soon the police will come.  They will ask questions.  You saw nothing.  You saw nobody.  You
did
nothing.  No matter how many times they ask - that is your position.  I shall insist on being with you, but even if I am not allowed to be with you - do not tell them anything, and I will be able to protect you.  Do you understand, Charles?  What's done is done.  We can't bring him back.  Leave the matter entirely in my hands."

Algernon Hardman did not let Charles out of his sight for the next five years.  The son was completely dominated by the father, and yet ... everybody says that Charles adored his father!  In his letter Derek Russell admitted bending to the strong will of the all powerful Dr Hardman and regretted that he did not find the means to interview that frightened child alone.  Russell stressed the importance of Simeon speaking to Charles Hardman - alone.    

Simeon turned right into Ashford-in-the-Water and drove up the steep hill to Monsal Head.  Briefly noting the grandeur and expanse of the Wye Valley, he descended down a precipitous narrow road into Upperdale, bright green in the spring sunshine, which led to Cressbrook Dale.  The road started an abrupt climb up through dense woodland.  Keeping to the left he avoided the less steep other road, the other longer road with the hair-pin bend he had descended with his friends, 'hell for leather', 43 years before.

Presently, there he was, at the entrance to the driveway which led to Cressbrook Hall. 

Chapter 31

Nymphs, Naiads and Dryads

It was the first time for Simeon Hogg, he was about to do what Scott North and Rex Lloyd had done 43 years before.  The large ornate wrought iron gates were still open and were still guarded by the two stone mythological beasts.  Now, after the ravages of a further half century the monsters had eroded back into the womb of the original lumps of rock from whence they came.  Slowly rolling down the drive, Simeon found the whole effect delightful, because, as a child, he was fascinated by the idea of Sleeping Beauty's palace.  Here was a remote magical kingdom in the depths of Derbyshire, a special place caught in a time warp.  He loved the natural effects of neglect and the resulting tangle of untamed growth over many years.  There was moss and ivy a plenty.  The yews, conifers and junipers seen by his pals on that fateful day long ago, were now even more lush, more stately and grand in scale. 

            And there it was, just as he remembered seeing it for the first time, a lifetime ago, as a stripling, from the depths of Water-cum-Jolly Dale.  It could easily have been a fairy tale palace which had been sleeping for a hundred years: a riot of steep pitched roofs, ornate chimneys, lofty pinnacles and fascinating finials rising from the great trees.  He knew he would not be welcome, but steeled himself to pull the bell at the side of the massive Tudor door which was wide open on this unusual warm afternoon for late April.  After a decent interval he pulled at it again - no response.  He put his head through the door and called out -

           
"Hello!  Hello!"
waited a minute but, again, no one came.  Simeon became decisive.

           
"I'm going to be told off anyway" ..
he thought
.. "so I may as well go in and get it over with."

He walked slowly through an interesting dark entrance hall into another panelled room.  The sound of music and laughing children came from a far door with the same Tudor motif.  He knocked and a child's voice, like the tinkle of a silver bell, called out
"Come in."
  The music stopped.  The Jacobean gloom had disappeared.  He was now in the brilliance of a large conservatory and welcomed by the sight of a group of smiling, small girls, who had been dancing in a circle.  Little girls, but they could have been elementals dressed in floating cobwebs - fine, soft, sheer innocent little people who had no fear of this strange man who had simply walked into their home.  He was totally enchanted by this unexpected array of nymphs, naiads and dryads, the spirits of water and trees.  Rather more substantial was the small grinning boy in the centre, if anything, even younger than his gossamer playmates.  Something stirred, some old memory struggled to emerge.  It was the story once told by Simon Tonks of nine dancing maidens on Stanton Moor ... "