Woodland Ghosts: The epic story of one woman's resolve to combat evil to preserve love

By Gordon Punter

Does malevolence exist beyond the grave?

An extract from the diary of Eleanor Harmsworth, governess at Waldegrave Hall, dated Wednesday 11 October 1899:

At first, I was utterly transfixed, but as I summoned the courage to move, so the presence hurriedly glided past me and, similar to a heated knife slicing through a block of cold butter, went straight through the closed door of my bedchamber and disappeared. If ever an event were created to determine the mettle of an individual, then exposing a person to a chilling spectacle such as this would surely test the nerve of any mortal.

In this extraordinary novel, author Gordon Punter, delivers a story about courage, risk, change and hope, and a love that never dies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Sep 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785385582

Book preview

Testament

Miss Eleanor Harmsworth

The summer month of August 1933, invariably hot, invariably warm, but never cold. Thirty-one days in which to escape to the coast for a holiday or enjoy a leisurely picnic under the shaded canopy of a weeping willow tree beside a gentle flowing river. A month where woodland birds chirrup, winged insects hum amongst the flowers, and freshly mown grass smells sweet. But whilst some relax, others toil. The harvest season is underway. Beneath a clear blue sky, occasionally dominated by cotton wool clouds, a variety of crops which were sown towards the end of last year, or in the spring of this year, are now being reaped. A sense of joyous optimism, curtailed by the harsh winter months, has resurfaced throughout the farming community and, once again, England is a green and pleasant land.

For certain individuals, however, August is a melancholy month. A month of remembrance. Almost fifteen years before, on the eleventh hour of 11 November 1918, the Great War to end all wars had mercifully ceased. More than half a million British servicemen had been slain during its four slaughterous years. Needlessly, some would say. The majority had died during the Battle of the Somme, which took place in France between 1 July and 18 November 1916. On the first day of the battle alone, nearly twenty thousand soldiers were killed and over twenty-six thousand more were seriously wounded. The magnitude of the catastrophe, the greatest loss of life in British military history, had stunned the entire nation. But much worse was to follow. At the end of the sixteen week battle, the casualty list had risen to four hundred and twenty thousand. Hardly a family in the country had not lost a loved one. Uncles, fathers, husbands, sons, brothers and nephews, sacrificed to a manly folly, had suddenly departed to the hereafter, amidst a maelstrom of German machine gun bullets and artillery shells.

***

Located some three miles from the rural town of Ashdown, in the county of Dorsetshire, and merely a twenty minute walk from the ancestral home of the Waldegrave family, Brocken village is a misnomer. It consists of a church, constructed in the Middle Ages, a rectory opposite the church, which was built in 1862, and nothing else. Pastor to a flock of humble parishioners who predominantly live in the neighbouring village of Bulmer, which does not have its own church, is sixty-eight-year-old Reverend Alistair Croxley. Having left behind the urban poverty and soot of Birmingham City for the clean air of Dorsetshire in 1892, Alistair Croxley has been the parish priest of Brocken village for nigh on forty-three years. His wife, Evelyn, six years younger and a part-time ecclesiologist, who studies church architecture and ornamentation, has spent the better part of four decades excavating and documenting the remains of the eleventh century Benedictine abbey which the rectory had been built upon.

Not one to let the grass grow under her feet, Evelyn has recently turned her attention to the fourteenth century church. Taking advantage of the warm weather, for the interior of the church can be bitterly cold during the winter months, she has begun to transcribe the intriguing assortment of Latin inscriptions engraved on its stonework and that of its two sarcophagus. Outside and behind this place of worship is a moderate, well-maintained churchyard. To its rear, forgotten headstones, tilted to either side, leaning forwards or backwards, resembled askew teeth coated in green mildew. Situated to the forefront of the churchyard, at the end of a gravel pathway, is a marble monument. Having been erected in honour of one particular member of the Waldegrave family, the monument bears the inscription:

Lord Henry James Waldegrave

1858 - 1916

finis vitae sed non amoris, carus

An elderly woman, seated in a wheelchair, faces the monument. Dressed in mourning black, her face masked by a veil attached to a broad-brimmed hat, she coughs hoarsely, indicative of a chest infection. Standing behind her, a forty-five-year-old gentleman, noble in appearance, gently places his hand upon her shoulder, If you wish, I can remain.

Her coughing abates.

She pats his hand affectionately, My wish is that you join your family. She politely waves him away, Please, indulge my grandchildren.

He concedes graciously, Permit me to return in half an hour, then?

She nods, murmuring, Thirty minutes by which to live a lifetime. Yes, I daresay that is time enough.

Turning about, the gentleman strides along the pathway, leaving the churchyard.

From behind her veil, the woman gazes at the Latin inscription chiselled into the monument, which she grievingly recites to herself, The end of life, but not of love, dearest. Comforted by the soft soporific cooing of a distant wood pigeon, she slowly tilts back her head. Closing her eyes, her thoughts gradually return to the past.

***

Wednesday 11 October 1899, and Alexandrina Victoria, now aged eighty, has been Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and Empress of India, for just over sixty-two years. She reigns over the greatest empire the world has ever known, encompassing an area of 12. 7 million square miles and a population of 444 million. Undisputed master of the seas, the British navy can go where it wants, when it wants. However, since the Crimean War, which had been fought against Tsarist Russia some forty-three years ago, the majority of Britain’s wars, invariably undertaken by the army, have been colonial clashes involving subcontinent nations armed only with a modicum of modern weapons, if any at all. But today, on this second Wednesday of the month, the unthinkable has happened. A Boer republic, governed by whites, has declared war on Great Britain.

Intent on expanding its hold on the rich gold and diamond mines of the dark continent, the British government has long sought to unify the whole of South Africa under its own rule. Last month, after electoral reform discussions with President Kruger of the Transvaal Republic had acrimoniously broken down, military reinforcements had been dispatched to both the Cape and Natal colonies bordering the Transvaal, to persuade Kruger to think again. Supported by President Steyn of the Orange Free State Republic, Kruger had yesterday issued an ultimatum to the British government, calling upon it to remove all imperial troops from its borders or face war. In typical duplicitous tradition, the British government, whilst appearing conciliatory, has ordered sixty-year-old Sir Redvers H. Buller, commander-in-chief of the South African Field Force, to invade and annex the Transvaal. The Boers, descendants of Dutch farmers, have never been averse to fighting imperial troops. Eighteen years earlier, they had successfully rebelled and regained their independence from Great Britain, which they had previously relinquished to the regional power in exchange for military protection against the marauding impis of the Zulu nation. On 4 July 1879, the British army had eliminated that threat to the Boers, decisively defeating the main Zulu impi at the Battle of Ulundi. Now, today, old adversaries, once reluctant collaborators, with contradictory ideologies, are set on a collision course, where each will insanely inflict death, believing one to be right, the other to be wrong, before bowing to the inevitability of peace.

***

However, as far as the hungry eleven-year-old urchin dashing along Praed Street in London in the teeming rain is concerned, the imminent Boer War in South Africa is about as relevant to him as the man in the moon. Turning the corner by a sheltered aromatic chestnut stand, the boy enters Sale Place, a leafy cobblestone street where, above modest shops, coffee houses and restaurants, humble businesses flourish. Avoiding a trotting horse, harnessed to a hansom cab, emerging from a mews, he disappears through an open doorway sandwiched between a patisserie and a gentlemen’s tobacconist.

Bounding up a flight of well-scrubbed wooden stairs to the first-floor and, pausing not for a second, he rushes down a corridor lit only by the leaden daylight filtering through a window at the end. Hurrying past a wall-mounted brass plaque, etched with the words Bolton’s Domestic Agency, he excitedly throws open a door, charges straight into a large one-room office and, panting like an overheated dog, blurts, I ’ave it ’ere, Mishter Bolton. I ’ave it ’ere.

Angry at being startled, and by what he considers to be unruly behaviour, Godfrey Bolton quickly rises from behind his desk, Damn your insolence, boy. Did I not say knock first? Then knock, boy. Knock!

Stunned by the stinging rebuke, the boy, soaked to the skin, abruptly halts.

With a face resembling a mastiff dog with bulbous cheeks, middle-aged Godfrey Bolton is grossly overweight due to the copious meals he devours each day. His luncheon, religiously taken at noon, invariably comprises of roast mutton, served rare with English mustard sauce, buttered potatoes and asparagus, followed by apple suet pudding and apricots, several glasses of claret and, if the fancy takes him, blue Stilton cheese. With his podgy hands, he straightens his silk waistcoat, then his frock-coat, which have been specifically tailored to contain his overfed form. Indicating a formally dressed woman seated on an upholstered chair in front of his desk, he barks, Off with your cap, boy. When in the presence of a lady, remove your cap.

The boy snatches his cap from his head.

Bolton scolds him yet again, And get off the rug, boy. You are dripping water over it.

The boy quickly side-steps from the soft pile of the Chinese rug onto buffed floorboards.

Wearing a flat-brimmed, shallow crown hat with her auburn hair drawn tightly behind her head in a bun, the thirty-six-year-old woman catches sight of his dirty toes, partially protruding from rotten shoes. Taking pity on him, she gently asks, You are wet through, are you not?

The boy shivers, nodding meekly.

Bolton interjects abrasively, If you have it, boy, give it here. He snaps his fingers, Give it here, boy.

Nervously, the boy produces a damp envelope from the inside pocket of his ragged jacket.

Bolton grabs it from his hand. Fingering the envelope, he snarls, It’s wet, boy. Wet like you.

The boy cringes.

The woman comes to his defence, It is quite evident that this boy is wet, cold and probably undernourished, Mr Bolton. Greater care of his health is required in the future.

Bolton tears open the envelope, from which a train ticket falls onto his desk, And who will reimburse me for the expense, madam?

The woman raises a reproachful eyebrow, Your profits, of course, Mr Bolton.

Bolton slumps down into his chair and leans back, staring at the boy, Refresh my memory, boy. How much do I pay you to run errands?

The boy murmurs, Tanner, Mishter Bolton.

Bolton cocks his head, Louder, boy.

Tanner, Mishter Bolton.

Bolton snorts, Sixpence! A princely sum, indeed. Do you not agree, boy?

Once more, the boy nods meekly.

Turning to the woman, Bolton waves the ticket at her, And for that tidy sum he presents me with your train ticket, wet.

Again, the woman defends the boy, A further guinea in your pocket is another person’s poverty, Mr Bolton. I boldly suggest you consider the spirit by which the task was achieved. She turns to the boy, Do you like roasted chestnuts?

Biting his bottom lip, he nods.

The woman smiles disarmingly, There is a chestnut stall on the corner, is there not?

The boy grins.

Taking a thrupenny piece from her purse, she hands the coin to him, You have procured my train ticket. I am indebted to you.

Staring at the silver coin held between her gloved thumb and index finger, the boy hesitates.

She smiles, I would deem it a great honour if you would take it.

Bolton snaps, Take it, boy, and be off.

Gleefully, the boy snatches the coin and bolts from the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Bolton winces at the resounding sound, Madam, you are a thorn in my side.

The woman responds warmly, You flatter me, Mr Bolton.

Bolton sighs tetchily, I can assure you, madam, that was not my intention. He slides open a desk drawer, removing an oblong envelope which he hands to her, A letter of introduction and your credentials.

She takes the envelope from him, You are well prepared, thank you.

He then hands her the train ticket, And your train ticket. For which an extravagant reward was given. The train for Ashdown departs from Paddington Station within the hour. He indicates three large suitcases just inside the office door, And do not forget your luggage. Ask a cabby to assist you.

She stands, And you, of course, will not assist me?

Bolton smirks, Exercise is not a virtue I aspire to, madam. He raises a tutorial finger, Yours is a most prestigious appointment, Miss Harmsworth, do not fail me.

She responds politely, Alea iacta est.

Bemused, Bolton frowns, I beg your pardon?

Latin for ‘the die is cast’, Mr Bolton. Fear not, I will safeguard your commission.

***

Eleanor Harmsworth was born at approximately two o’clock on the afternoon of Saturday 2 May 1863 to parents Magnus and Grace Harmsworth, who resided in Whitby, a former whaling industry town located on the east coast of Yorkshire in England. Two years later, in 1865, Eleanor became an only child, losing first her elder brother and then her mother to a virulent strain of typhus which, having been brought ashore by merchant sailors returning from South America, had swept through Yorkshire, decimating entire families. Cared for by her somewhat learned grandmother, a widow and former Sunday school teacher, Eleanor began to blossom into an inquisitive child, influenced by neither politics nor religion, but by the common people around her struggling to survive. Her father, a maritime captain, upon returning from his seafaring voyages to the West and East Indies, would spend the majority of his time with his daughter, entertaining her with stories of exotic countries, extraordinary cultures and colorful dialects and, in doing so, gradually instilled in her a sense of adventure and tolerance for all things unknown. Attending a board school in the centre of Whitby, near the Union Workhouse in Church Street, Eleanor excelled at every subject and, finding herself hampered by an outdated curriculum, continually badgered her grandmother to purchase other scholarly books for her. By the time she was thirteen, Eleanor had taught herself to read, write and speak Latin. Her spirituous attitude, coupled with a rapidly enquiring mind, led her to explore her immediate surroundings, in particular the ruins of Whitby Abbey overlooking the harbour of the town. Fascinated by this early Gothic edifice, she would spend solitary hours, either with her nose in a book, or trying to visualize how the abbey must have looked before it was stormed and set ablaze by marauding Icelandic Norseman in the eleventh century.

In 1880, and having developed into an intelligent, attractive young woman of seventeen, Eleanor lost her grandmother, who passed away peacefully, aged seventy-two. Fortunately for Eleanor, her father was ashore at the time. Wishing to elevate his daughter’s education, irrespective of cost, he enrolled her at a ‘ladies only’ boarding school in Oldbury Place, just off the Marylebone Road in London. Like a woman possessed, Eleanor ardently embraced her studies, gradually impressing her tutors not only with her diligent work, but for the genuine kindness she extended to others, seeking nothing in return. For the first time in her life, Eleanor was exposed to an abundance of thought-provoking literature, particularly the works of the prominent art critic John Ruskin, who also advocated social justice for the lower classes. She adored art galleries. The paintings of Pre-Raphaelite English artists, who sought to emulate the simplicity and sincerity of Italian artists, were among her favourites. She began to admire certain individuals, and the more she read about Arthur Wellesley, the 1st Duke of Wellington, the more she aspired to his humane qualities. It mattered not to her that the Duke had won an astounding victory, defeating Napoleon Bonaparte at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, but rather that he had been immensely saddened by the huge loss of life which had resulted from the battle. Some forty thousand soldiers, from five different nations, had been killed in nine hours. Upon observing the carnage he had helped to wreak, the Duke had solemnly remarked, Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won. I pray I have fought my last battle.

If Eleanor had but one fault, it was her inability to curb her tongue when in defense of someone less able to do so. However, after such a protective outburst, she would always graciously apologize to the individual she had just rebuked, leaving the person flummoxed as to whether he, or she, had been scolded or praised. At the age of twenty-four and, nearing the end of her educational tenure at the boarding school, Eleanor became a charity activist. Fervently believing that all children should be free from poverty, abuse and intolerance, she would spend entire weekends rescuing emaciated ragged children and sometimes abandoned babies from the squalid rookeries in the East End of London, gaining admittance for them to one of the few charitable orphanages newly created to house parentless children. It was during this period that Eleanor acquired several male admirers, but whilst her rural beauty, charm and wit made for pleasant company, they all remained politely hesitant, aware that she was her own person, who could not be treated like a bauble. Although these platonic associations with the opposite sex aroused within her a certain degree of emotional and sensual desire, Eleanor nevertheless suppressed her feelings, convinced that she had not been born of this earth to simply impart her love to one particular person, but rather that she should extend her love to those people who might benefit from it the most, the underprivileged.

When time permitted, Eleanor would occasionally return to Whitby to visit her father, who by now had dispensed with the maritime trade, having joined the local constabulary, rapidly rising to the rank of police sergeant. These visits further strengthened the already strong bond between father and daughter. Magnus thought of Eleanor as the living embodiment of his late departed wife, who had been virtuous, intelligent and blessed with an innate sense of integrity. Eleanor, on the other hand, regarded her father not merely as a parent, but as a wise friend, someone to be respected and admired. It was during a train journey to Whitby to see her father that Eleanor had the first inkling of the malady which still haunts her today. Standing to remove her suitcase from the overhead rack in a train carriage, she had suddenly experienced dizziness and had fainted. Upon recovering, Eleanor had put the incident down to fatigue, but when, three days later, whilst rising from her desk at school, the same symptom had occurred, she had sought medical help from the nearby St Mary’s Hospital, situated in Praed Street, Paddington. Examined by the notable physician Dr James Hope, Eleanor was diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat. Although not life threatening, the condition did demand, however, that she regulate her life to a quieter pace. Sadly, this meant she had to abandon her arduous charity work, but more serious was the advice that a pregnancy, or the exertion of giving birth, was to be avoided as it might conceivably stop her heart. Unlike many women of her age, who would have been distressed by such news, Eleanor responded to her plight in a pragmatic manner, informing Dr Hope, With so many motherless children in the country today, I think it charitable to reserve myself for one of them, rather than to tempt fate to bring another child into the world.

In the early spring of 1887, the board of governors of the ‘ladies only’ boarding school had unanimously sanctioned an unusual staff appointment, unprecedented in the history of the school. Eleanor had proven to be such an exemplary pupil, furthering her own reputation and that of the school with her humanitarian charity work, that she was offered the salaried position of ‘junior teacher’, with meals and board provided. Naturally, Eleanor had accepted the offer wholeheartedly. Her father, brimming with pride, but unaware of her ailment, had written to her, ‘Her Majesty may possess the Crown jewels, but none shines brighter than you.’

If Eleanor had excelled as a pupil in her formative years, then as a tutor, teaching English literature and Latin, she excelled again. Implementing her two beloved E’s, entertain and you shall educate, into her lessons, she captivated her pupils, who came to revere her, hanging on her every word whenever she spoke. Eleanor did not simply introduce literature to her pupils, she explored with them the human frailty of the characters contained within the works, discussing and explaining why she thought, for example, Heathcliffe had become obsessed with the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw in the novel Wuthering Heights, or when teaching Latin, why had Marcus Brutus conspired with others to assassinate his friend the Roman emperor Julius Caesar in the play of the same name written by William Shakespeare. What Eleanor was deliberately doing was heightening the awareness of her pupils to embrace altogether new subjects, other than merely the two she taught. Her innovative teaching methods proved so popular, so successful, that parents clambered to enroll their daughters at the school, insisting their offspring be taught by her alone, which, of course, was quite out of the question. Though never intended, she did ruffle the feathers of some of the senior tutors with her newly acquired standing.

In 1891, at the age of twenty-eight, Eleanor was promoted to ‘teacher ordinary’, with a slight increase in salary. The monetary reward mattered not to her, merely confirming that she could continue her work, incorporating the ‘art of the Renaissance’ into her teachings. Of course, the Renaissance had begun in Florence in the late thirteenth century, perpetuated by the Italian artists Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Michelangelo, but Eleanor introduced the English Renaissance to her pupils, which had started during the Elizabethan era, some three hundred years ago.

The dominant art forms of the English Renaissance were literature and music, but for Eleanor the paintings of the artist Thomas Gainsborough stood head and shoulders above the rest, in particular two of his works, ‘The Blue Boy’ and ‘Cottage Girl with Dog and Pitcher’. The ‘Blue Boy’ is a full-length portrait of a refined young man, thought to be Jonathan Buttall, son of a wealthy hardware merchant, dressed in seventeenth century silken apparel of light blue, holding at his side, with his right hand, a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with an ostrich plume. In contrast, the ‘Cottage Girl with Dog and Pitcher’ depicts a shoeless forlorn ragged girl, clutching a small dog to her chest with her left hand and holding a broken bulbous earthenware jug at her side with her right hand. Revealing the paintings to her pupils, Eleanor would use both to illustrate the disparity of life. The young man, born to prosperity; the forlorn girl, born to poverty. She would articulate that society was ultimately responsible for their footing in life, not the two individuals themselves. To assist in eliminating inequality, she expounded, education and social care should be extended to all, irrespective of upbringing. Only then might a person succeed in life by the contents of his, or her, character, instead of being constrained by a discriminatory few, suffering from an illusionary sense of divine right. Some four years later, when Eleanor was thirty-two, the boarding school acquired a new headmistress, Mrs Maud Bolton, wife of Mr Godfrey Bolton.

Unlike her corpulent husband, forty-three-year-old Maud Bolton is graciously unpretentious. Upon meeting Eleanor for the first time, Maud had immediately taken to her, seeing in her a kindred spirit, endowed with a compassionate strength of will. For her part, Eleanor gradually came to regard Maud as an elder sister, placing great importance on her advice, whilst influenced by her dignified bearing and cultured etiquette. When the position of deputy headmistress became vacant at the school in October of the following year, Maud wasted no time proposing to the board of governors that Eleanor be appointed to the post. However, this time the board procrastinated, concerned that Eleanor possessed no formal qualifications for the position. Maud persisted, reminding each board member that, for the past nine years, Eleanor had surpassed what was normally expected of a tutor, tirelessly enhancing the education of her pupils, thereby elevating the reputation of the school and, of course, that of the board itself. Swayed by the appraisal, the board had promptly promoted Eleanor to deputy headmistress.

In May of the next year, the town of Whitby became famous, or infamous, depending on your point of view, with the publication of a novel written by the Irish born author, Abraham ‘Bram’ Stoker, personal assistant to actor Henry Irving and business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, which Henry Irving owned. ‘Dracula’, whose name Bram Stoker had discovered in the public library of Whitby, became the reading sensation of the year. The Daily Mail review of 1 June 1897 proclaimed the novel a classic of Gothic horror. Part of the novel describes the arrival of Dracula in England. A Russian ship, the ‘Demeter’, runs aground on the shores of Whitby during a fierce storm. All of the crew is missing, presumed dead. Only one body is found, that of the captain tied to the helm of the ship. His log tells of the strange events that had taken place during the voyage, which had led to the gradual disappearance of the entire crew, owing to a malevolent presence on board. An immense dog, leaping ashore and bounding up the one hundred and ninety-nine steps of East Cliff, disappears into St Mary’s churchyard, from where Lucy Westenra, destined to become one of the undead herself, will soon watch the sun settle over the nearby headland of Kettleness, unable to recall how she had reached the top of the cliff in the first place.

Drawn to the book because it featured her home town, Eleanor was immediately impressed by the method Bram Stoker had used to tell his story. The novel is composed principally of journal entries and letters penned by several of the central characters, supplemented with newspaper articles to relate events not directly experienced by them. Although somewhat appalled by the loathsome predatory habits of Count Dracula, Eleanor nevertheless persevered with the story, empathizing with Mina Harker, wife of Jonathan Harker, who had first encountered Dracula at his remote castle in Transylvania. Feeding Mina with his own blood, Dracula induces in her a trance-like condition, thereby creating a spiritual bond between them by which he can control her. However, it is through Mina that Dracula is finally vanquished. Hypnotized by Professor Van Helsing, sworn enemy of the nocturnal pestilence, Mina is able to reveal the whereabouts of Dracula, who, having fled from England, is cornered by Van Helsing and his comrades outside his castle in Transylvania and destroyed.

Upon finishing the book which, to a certain degree, had evoked childhood memories of Whitby, Eleanor had started to reconsider her position in life, in particular, her future at the school and her health. Deep within her, a yearning had begun to ferment and, this time, she did nothing to suppress it. Gradually, she embraced the irresistible feeling. She would, if the chance arose, return to a rural existence, away from the constant hustle and bustle of a city or a town. For the rest of the year, she gave no indication to either her father, or Maud, of her recently acquired desire. At the beginning of this year, however, now aged thirty-six, Eleanor had confided in Maud, informing her about her malady and her wish to obtain a teaching post in the countryside. Though reluctant to lose Eleanor, Maud had, nevertheless, reacted magnanimously, notifying her husband that, if such a position should arise through his employment agency, he must consider putting Eleanor forward for the post. Several weeks later, Godfrey Bolton had indeed received such a request, approached by the messenger of an elderly rural nobleman, seeking to appoint a resident governess to tutor his young grandson, son of the heir to the family title. Upon being told of the position, although the relevant history of the family and that of the eleven-year-old boy who was to be tutored were guardedly withheld from her by Mr Bolton, Eleanor had initially thought that devoting her entire energy to teaching a solitary boy might be a trifle dull after twelve years spent with vivacious female pupils. But the more she considered the opportunity, the more she became intrigued by the situation. Who exactly was the boy, and what of his anonymous parents? Of course, it was the potent allure of the hinterland, buoying her longing heart, which had ultimately prompted Eleanor to apply for the post.

Ashdown

When asked what he thought of the coming of the railways, the Duke of Wellington, who held a low opinion of the masses, had allegedly said, I do not like this form of transport, sir. It will enable the lower classes of this country to move around more freely. By the time of his death in 1852, Great Britain had created the most comprehensive railway network of any country in the world, linking the vast majority of its cities, towns and villages. Since then, travel by rail has become immensely popular, affordable, efficient and comfortable. And as the Duke had rightly predicted, the populace does now move about the country more freely, be it an excursion to the coast, or, as in the case of Eleanor, a journey into north Dorsetshire.

Seated alone in the compartment of the train carriage and holding an open leather bound copy of ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’, the poignant story of a humble young woman who is hanged for murdering her promiscuous seducer, Eleanor peers out through the compartment window, trying to determine why the train has reduced its speed to a crawl.

As if responding to her inquisitiveness, a uniformed railway guard, Alfred Langton, pops his head into the compartment, No cause for alarm, miss. We’re switching lines.

Eleanor turns from the window, A spur line, I do believe?

Langton nods, That’s right, miss. We branch off here. No turning back ’til the end of the line.

Eleanor retains her smile, And if one wanted to turn back?

Removing his peaked cap, Langton scratches his partially bald head, Afraid you’ve got me there, miss. He indicates the communication cord, You could always pull that, I suppose.

Appreciating his humour, Eleanor chuckles, And delay the rest of the passengers? Surely that would never do?

Langton slowly replaces his cap, Only delay yourself, miss. No passenger on this train, but you.

Eleanor raises a quizzical eyebrow, No one else, but me?

Langton grins, Not exactly true, miss. There’s me, the train driver and the fireman to keep you company.

Eleanor quietly closes her book, All of good character, no doubt?

Langton nods again, Aye, miss, to the bone.

The train carriage shudders momentarily, slowly crossing from one railway line to the other.

Langton places the palm of his hand on the edge of the compartment door, preventing it from sliding shut, Here we go, miss, we’re on our way.

Eleanor puts her book down beside her, Then it would please me if you would stay a while longer.

Langton stammers, I can’t do that. Strictly against regulations.

Eleanor sighs, Mr...?

Langton divulges his name, Alfred Langton, miss.

Eleanor continues, Mr Langton, I am but a defenseless woman who requires nothing more than a modicum of information. Surely you can spare me five minutes of your time? She pats the upholstered seat in front of her, Come, sit opposite me.

Langton hesitates, Sitting and talking to a man whilst on duty is one thing, but sitting and talking to a lady...

Eleanor interjects, I share your concern, Mr Langton. But as your two colleagues are presently occupied, who then, but the two of us, will ever know you assisted me in my hour of need?

Langton frowns, You said five minutes, not an hour, miss.

Eleanor smiles disarmingly, You are quite right, Mr Langton. Five minutes and not a second more. She pats the upholstered seat again, Please, Mr Langton, time is of the essence.

Sitting opposite Eleanor, Langton politely removes his cap, I want you to know, miss, I’m not in the habit of talking to strange women, especially when I don’t know their name.

Eleanor quickly extends her hand, Eleanor Harmsworth. How do you do?

Taken back by her forthrightness, Langton nevertheless retains his composure, shaking her hand, Nice to meet you, miss, or is it missus?

Eleanor evades the question, Do you smoke, Mr Langton?

A pipe, miss.

Eleanor leans back in her seat, If you wish to smoke, then you may. I, of course, do not, but I find the distinctive aroma of pipe tobacco quite pleasing.

Langton smirks, I think I’ll forgo that pleasure for the moment. I’ve already broken one rule, sitting here, talking to you. What is it you want to know, miss?

The carriage begins to increase speed.

Beyond the end of the line, Mr Langton, what is the countryside of north Dorsetshire like?

As Eleanor has just done, Langton leans back in his seat, Dairy country, miss, dominated by the Blackmore Vale, which is an expanse, but has few trees, mind you. In the summer, there isn’t a prettier place than north Dorsetshire, I know, my folks raised me there. Most of the dairy cows graze in the fields situated in the valley of Blackmore Vale. Seen from aloft, I’m told, the fields resemble a patchwork quilt, which can only be reached by Shanks’s pony, through a maze of narrow roads, footpaths or bridleways. Take my word, miss, it’s quite easy to get lost if you don’t know the lie of the land.

Sounds charming. What of the winter months, Mr Langton?

Compared to Devonshire, or Cornwall, fairly mild, though none of us escapes the rain.

Amused by his quip, Eleanor smiles, That could be said of the entire country, Mr Langton.

Langton cheerfully nods, Aye, miss, isn’t that the truth. He hesitates, then asks, Might I know your ultimate destination, miss?

Waldegrave Hall, Mr Langton.

Langton catches his breath, Waldegrave Hall?

Eleanor reiterates, Yes, Mr Langton. Waldegrave Hall.

Langton grins, Well, stone the crows. Why didn’t you tell me, miss?

Disliking hasty remarks, especially those she considers improper, Eleanor replies, Surely I have just done so, Mr Langton?

Langton apologizes, Sorry ’bout that, miss, got carried away. But it’s my niece from London, she works at Waldegrave Hall as a chambermaid. What a coincidence, you going there, too.

Eleanor smiles, Some might say providence, Mr Langton, though I do not believe in it, myself. Your niece has a name?

Langton blurts, Mildred Knowles. Nice girl, but apt to have her head in the clouds at times.

Eleanor adopts a tutorial tone of voice, tempered with jest, We cannot put a wise head on young shoulders, can we, Mr Langton? If we could, then there would be no place in this world for the likes of us, would there?

Langton chuckles, Put like that, miss, best we remain close at hand to show them the way.

Eleanor adds, We must guide the younger generation, using forbearance and moderation, Mr Langton. We should never impose our will on them, which can only result in a rebellious reaction.

Langton stares at her inquisitively, You a teacher?

A practicable one, I hope. She glances at the tall yew trees streaking past the window of the compartment, Where is Waldegrave Hall located, Mr Langton?

A couple of miles past Blackmore Vale, close to Brocken village, which is not a village at all. Only has a rectory and a church, where most of the Waldegrave family are buried. Bulmer is the next village. A real village, bigger than Brocken. Waldegrave Hall sits in its own grounds. Beautiful estate, has a large lake. Lord Alger Waldegrave is a wealthy man, owner of most of the land in these parts. Decent gentleman, but he can be downright cantankerous when he wants to be.

Eleanor asks after her intended ward, And his grandson? What of the boy, Mr Langton?

Langton shakes his head, Don’t rightly know, miss. Only...

Eleanor presses him, Only what, Mr Langton?

Feeling uneasy, Langton replies, Rumour has it, miss, and it’s only a rumour, mind you.

Sensing his anxiety, Eleanor softens her voice, Rumours invariably contain an element of truth, Mr Langton. But if the subject troubles you, let us dispense with the matter altogether.

Langton inhales deeply, I’m not one to deliver bad tidings, miss. But as you’re going there, best you should know. It is said the boy’s mother took her own life, hanged herself.

The carriage enters a tunnel, plunging the entire compartment into virtual darkness.

***

Roused by the distant shrill of the train engine whistle, sixty-two-year-old stationmaster Wilfred Moat hurriedly emerges from his office, stepping out onto the damp platform littered with fallen autumn leaves. Removing a pocket watch from his uniformed waistcoat, he stares at the time piece, grumbling to himself, Nigh on three minutes late. That bloody switch-point, for sure.

Wearing a bowler hat and a knee-length coat over a dark-blue serge suit, Eldon Shepherd strides up to him, Afternoon, Wilfred. On time, are we?

The train engine emits another shrill.

Moat, who has been a widower for approximately three years, smirks at Shepherd, Answer your question, does it, Eldon?

Considerably taller than the scrawny Moat, but about the same age, Shepherd slowly strokes his mutton-chop whiskers, There are a hundred men outside the station. Why not let them wait on the platform?