The Hanging of Hettie Gale

CHAPTER ONE

JUNE 1772

Whether ’tis truth or n’e’r but a lie, who sees?

With his bright button eyes, and focus so keen,

Spies the crow.

Picture this: a young girl lies atop a blanket of grass, grass so green and soft it seems as though it must be made of the finest silk. Above her is a sky of bluest blue, dotted with little clouds what look like wool from the sheep that sit lazily around, chewing and fussing. The air is scented with honeysuckle and meadowsweet, filled with the gentle singing of birds as they swoop for insects and call for their loves. She is alone, yet she is not lonely, and her head is full of dreams. Oh, ’tis a sweet scene.

But ’tis not real.

The girl is real enough, for she is me. But I am not lying on soft grass, rather the bed that I share with my sister and my brother. The ropes beneath the thin straw mattress dig into my flesh, and I feel I must be bruised all over. Above me are the beams what hold up the roof, draped in webs spun by busy spiders, beyond them dark, dusty shadows. The air is thick with sweat and greed, and disgust.

And I am not alone.

But ’tis not Greta and Daniel who lie with me. ’Tis my da. My da what’s laying atop of me, squeezing the life out of me and into me, both at the same time. ’Tis not the right way, but ’tis what is happening. His eyes are closed and he’s sobbing. I can taste the salt of his tears as they fall on my face, mingling with my own.

‘Stop, Da, it hurts.’

His breath smells foul with the ale, and his face is red with the effort, but he don’t stop. Seems he can’t stop. My ma is through the door. I know she can hear his groans and my pleadings, but she chooses not to listen. My little sister runs in.

‘Why’s Da fighting with Hettie? Has she been naughty?’

‘Hush, child. Come away. Go back to your brother, go.’

Have I been naughty? I have not, and that’s a fact. I’m Hettie Gale, I’ve seen fourteen summers, and my da is doing what he oughtn’t. I shut my eyes and try to think about the day that just passed, but ’tis a blur of haymaking and goat herding, fetching and carrying.

‘Please stop, Da!’

Da finally shudders and climbs off me, unsteady with the ale and the grind, his eyes still shut tight, denying my existence, oblivious to the sin he has just committed. He shambles off, tightening the belt that holds up his breeches, shouts cruel words at Ma and I hear a slap, and then the cottage door slams shut.

I lay still for a moment, feeling the wetness atween my legs, wondering whether I’ve been broken. I feel like I might be sick. Ma comes in, her face pinched and bitter.

‘Get up, child, the linens are ruined.’

I can tell she is angry with me and with Da, but she holds pride in her bosom and will not be put upon, despite the mark reddening across her cheek. I sit up, pain searing at my insides, and see that my dress and the linens beneath me are spotted red with blood. My blood? I must suppose so, though there is less than when I have my monthly bleeds and my stomach bloats with the cramps, and I must fetch sheep’s wool from the fields so my linens stay clean. I know a little of the way of things and a woman’s obligation to a man.

Ma hands me a rag and tells me to clean myself and dress in fresh clothes, while she takes the soiled linens from the bed. She says nothing more, her face set in a mask of sufferance. I walk, pain stabbing like an accusation, into the other room. My sister, playing with our little brother, looks at me askance.

‘Did Da cut you, Hettie? Have you been naughty?’

‘I’ve not been naughty, Greta, and Da didn’t cut me. Look, see how Daniel tries to walk.’

I scrub myself down there, put on a clean frock, and try to forget. I want to burn my bloodied dress, but Ma rubs and scours the fabric until it almost falls apart, forcing me to bear the pink stains of shame as the months pass, until the fabric is stretched beyond its own bounds.

I cannot forget. None of us can.

CHAPTER TWO

FRIDAY 24 MAY

Alice was sitting at her desk, tentatively nibbling the edge of a ring donut, when the call came. She usually politely declined the Friday freebies when they were brought round, but there was something about today that made her feel reckless.

She put the donut down, licking the sugar from her fingers, and stared at her phone. No one ever called her. It was a withheld number, so she nearly didn’t answer, but her instincts took over; maybe this was important.

‘Miss McKenna?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Alice McKenna?’

‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help?’

The voice on the other end was calm and professional. Her curiosity rose.

‘My name is Sergeant Cooper – Keith Cooper – stationed at Monkstown. On the Moor; you’re aware of the Moor?’

Alice’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes, of course. I holidayed there as a child; my aunt and uncle owned a cottage at Nether Dennyfold.’

‘That would be Crag Cottage?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. I haven’t been there for years. What’s this about, Sergeant Cooper?’

‘You have a cousin, Fleur Hennessy-Blair?’

‘Yes, Fleur’s my cousin. Her parents were killed a few months back – my aunt and uncle. Is everything okay?’ A shiver of concern trickled down Alice’s spine. She didn’t much like her cousin, but she wouldn’t wish her any harm.

‘The thing is, Miss McKenna – may I call you Alice? – the thing is, Fleur has been staying at Crag Cottage recently, with a view, I believe, to placing it on the market.’

A stab of anger, mixed with dismay, caught Alice unawares. The thought of Crag Cottage – the place of her dreams, her favourite childhood memories – being sold to some stranger was dreadful, but it didn’t surprise her. Fleur had always hated it there.

‘I see. I didn’t know that.’ She tried hard to stop her voice shaking.

‘The thing is, Alice, she’s gone missing.’

‘Missing? Since when?’

Sergeant Cooper gave a little cough. ‘We’re not sure exactly, but we think it must be at least six days ago.’

Alice frowned as she considered this information. ‘She has homes all over the place, now her parents are dead. I expect she’s gone to one of those. How did she get to the cottage? Did she drive? Is her car still there?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, see. It appears she got a train from London, and then took a taxi to Nether Dennyfold. We’ve checked that out. But her personal belongings are still at the cottage, and the last person we think she spoke to said that he saw her walking in the direction of Crow Pond. That would’ve been on Saturday.’

Crow Pond. A fresh twist of alarm clawed at Alice’s stomach. It was the most beautiful, idyllic spot, but to reach it you had to navigate Pedlar’s Quag, a treacherous quagmire riddled with deep pools. She’d been taken there just a handful of times in all the years her family holidayed at Crag Cottage. The myths and legends about evil fairy folk who lived in the bogs, scaly monsters that lurked in the pools – which were, of course, bottomless – and the large number of people who’d gone missing in the area over the years, had both delighted and terrified her. Even now, the only images that would come to mind were of sinister ripples in still, black ponds, twisted figures sprinting through the reeds not-quite-seen, and the thick mists that would rise out of nowhere and then disappear as quickly.

‘Oh, I see. That’s a bit of a worry. So, this person who spoke to her last: are they a suspect? Has a search taken place?’

‘No, not a suspect, he’s been eliminated from our enquiries. The search and rescue lads have been mobilised; they’re due to finish today. Nothing found yet, I’m afraid.’

‘But that’s good, surely? If they haven’t found a… a body, then Fleur must be somewhere else. I can’t imagine her walking across the Quag, to be honest; it’s not really her thing.’

‘Well, let’s hope so. But the thing is, you seem to be Fleur’s only living relative.’

Fleur was an only child, doted on by her wealthy parents. Uncle Graham was also an only child, so there were no more cousins, something that Alice had always been very grateful for; Fleur had been quite enough of a handful.

‘Yes, that’s right, no other cousins… except I have a brother, Luke. He lives in Australia; we’re not really in touch. Why?’ She was beginning to worry about where this might be going.

‘Well, we thought it might be an idea for you to come down to the Moor; you might be able to tell us a bit more about your cousin, and it’s easier face to face, like.’

‘I’m owed some holiday, but I’ll have to check with my supervisor. I’m sure he’ll understand, especially if I tell him the police have asked me to come down. I might even be able to make it down tomorrow, if that would work?’

Sergeant Cooper said that would work very well, and they agreed that Alice would let him know when she arrived. She wrote down his number on a page of her notebook, said goodbye, then doodled flowers all around the numbers as her head filled with a mixture of alarm and anticipation.

Life had been so empty for the last few months since Mum finally lost her grip on life. Alice had repeated an endless, empty round of work, home, work, home, unable to fill the void of loneliness.

She picked up the donut and resumed her nibbling, a tentative smile curling her mouth. First a donut, now a trip to the Moor – whatever next?

It was the boxes of old photographs that Alice had found hardest to confront. The endless knick-knacks and pointless, dusty ornaments had been easy to deal with; she’d taken a grim delight in wrapping each item in newspaper and consigning them to a dozen cardboard boxes, hauling each one to the charity shop on a dozen melancholy bus journeys.

Even sorting the clothes had been relatively stress-free. She’d resisted the urge to breathe in the scents that were still faintly discernible on her mother’s floral dresses and bobbled cardigans: the rose-based eau de toilette she’d favoured, mingled with the aromas of teabags and long, drawn-out death.

Her father’s suits and shirts had hung dormant in the fusty mahogany wardrobe that occupied the spare bedroom for fifteen years, gathering a patina of mildew and sorrow; her mother had refused to throw them out, unable to accept the loss of the man she’d loved so dearly. Alice had the benefit of a healing cushion of time and had shoved it all into black refuse bags, and put an extra bag out on each rubbish collection day, disposing of another little bit of her misery along with the clothes.

But the photographs had been a step too far, and it had taken the unexpected invitation to return to Crag Cottage to push her to finally look at them.

There were folders full of faded sepia photos of people she didn’t recognise, and now she’d never know who they were. She’d get rid of those one day, but for now she was searching for one special box.

Holiday Box. She picked it up – it wasn’t very heavy, as the McKenna family holidays could be counted on the fingers of two hands – and took it downstairs to the kitchen, placing it carefully on the table. She wanted to take some time with this, so she made herself a mug of tea, and then gently peeled off the tape.

The first item was a long cardboard folder; the photos inside were much more recent than the ones she’d been sorting through earlier. One photo caught her eye, and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, transforming her pale, pensive face. It was her father Philip, her brother Luke and herself, sitting outside a stone cottage in bright sunshine. She looked about seven years old, with the same delicate features and mousy, straight brown hair she had now. Luke would have been four or five. Her dad was smiling, but he had an air of sadness about him. She hadn’t known then, of course, when she was only seven, that he was wracked by the guilt of only being able to afford to take his little family on holiday to his brother-in-law’s holiday home. The adorable Crag Cottage was nestled in a tiny hamlet on the edge of the Moor in the West Country; the holidays her family had spent there provided some of her most cherished memories, despite her father’s melancholy.

She slowed down, and peered carefully at each photo, reliving those balmy summer days, revelling in the warmth of family life. There was her mum, looking slim and pretty, though dressed in a shocking floral high-necked number. And Luke; such a sweet-looking child, it was a shame the way he’d turned out. She hadn’t seen him for years, though he’d come back from Australia for their mother’s funeral; it turned out he was coming over for something entirely unconnected anyway. Being Luke, he’d basked in the praise that had been showered on him: such a good son, to come all that way; his mother would have been so proud.

Another photo shook away any thoughts of Luke: Pigswhistle Clump, her favourite place of all. An ancient woodland comprising mainly oaks, but also chestnut trees and beeches, silver birch and sycamores: to Alice, it was her own private wonderland. When she was little Mum and Dad would take her there, and they’d walk the stony paths and marvel at the variety of toadstools and leaves they’d find. As she grew more independent, Alice took off to the woods whenever she could for some blissful time alone, usually making her way to her special rock. She was happy in her own company, spending hours at a time exploring the secret paths that had been made by a fox or a badger, or simply sitting on the rock, dreaming.

As the memories came flooding back, Alice wondered what Crag Cottage looked like now. The last holiday they’d had was the year before her father had died so unexpectedly. Her mother couldn’t face it without him; she couldn’t face life without him. Places could change a lot in sixteen years; maybe it wouldn’t seem quite so magical to a jaded thirty-two-year-old.

The last folder she picked up had more holiday photos, this time with her Aunt Mari and Uncle Graham, and her cousin, the dreaded Fleur. It was the only time they’d ever holidayed at the cottage together, when Alice had been twelve and Fleur a sophisticated fourteen. Crag Cottage might have belonged to Uncle Graham, but his family hardly ever stayed there. Once he’d become so successful, so rich, they could jet off to anywhere they wanted.

There were more folders, but Alice had found what she was looking for, and set aside a small pile of photos. Closing the box, a flash of colour caught her eye and she remembered the book. Smiling, she carefully pulled it out, placing it with reverence on the table. It was a cheap scrapbook with multi-coloured sugar paper pages, the front decorated with photos cut from magazines: sunny beaches and blue skies, green fields full of cows, and across the middle, carefully crayoned and cut out letters forming the words, My Holiday Diary.

Alice had started this diary the year she was nine, and she’d since forgotten all about it. She’d written something every year they’d stayed at Crag Cottage. She slowly turned the pages, amused by the pictures she’d drawn to go alongside her entries, which in the first few pages were very simple.

25th July 1996

I love being back here!!! Here are some things I saw in Pigswistel Clump this afternon.

She laughed at the terrible spelling, and the childish drawing of a red-and-white spotted toadstool. There was a dried oak leaf and a piece of fern, partly disintegrated and stuck down with yellowing tape. She read on.

It was funny, it felt breazie windy under the big tree. I thought Luke was strocking my hair but he was up the tree, so I think it must of been a fairy.

Alice remembered with a start how she’d really thought someone was stroking her hair, almost as though trying to get her attention. She used to love drawing fairies when she was little, but this one looked more like a malevolent imp, with crossed eyes and huge hands.

The fairy lived inside the tree,

Her friends a fox, a bird crow and a bumblebee.

Grimacing at her childish attempt at poetry, she read on.

We had fish and chips from the village for tea!

An empty miniature vinegar packet had been taped to the page, a sour tang still evident after all these years. Fish and chips had been a real treat for Alice and Luke; Dad had never been one for spending frivolously, and Mum had always turned her nose up at eating out of paper. But on holiday, it seemed, she allowed her standards to drop.

Leafing through the diary, she came to a section where the writing was neater and there were fewer drawings. 1999: the year her aunt, uncle and cousin had stayed at Crag Cottage with them.

1st August 1999

I don’t like Fleur being here. She doesn’t like doing the things I like doing, but Mummy says I should be friends with her.

Mummy made a big shepherd’s pie for tea, it was delicious, but I heard Aunt Mari whisper that it was like canteen food. I think she’s a bit of a snob. Fleur hardly ate anything. She says she’s on a diet. But she’s already too thin!

Alice sighed; she and Fleur were so different, it was no wonder they’d never been close, even though there were only two years between them. It was a shame, really. Fleur was an only child, and Alice was as good as an only child, now that Luke was so far away. But they were like chalk and cheese; she’d always been unconcerned about her appearance, and being on a diet was something that had never crossed her mind, even though she felt a bit squishy at the edges.

3rd August 1999

Luke’s being stupid, he follows Fleur like a puppy. She wears make-up!! And a bra!!!!

Alice giggled at her ridiculously childish drawing of what she must have supposed was a bra. She hadn’t needed to wear one herself until she was nearly sixteen, and then only did so because the other girls at school had teased her; it had clearly been something of a marvel to her twelve-year-old, flat-chested self.

I went to Pigswhistle Clump, and it was nice and quiet. I like being on my own, so I can think about things. I thought someone was there, but it was just a shadow on the ground. I wasn’t scared for long.

A fleeting memory of being terrified by something unseen and unheard crossed Alice’s mind, and a shiver ran up her spine. But she’d been young and impressionable then, with an overactive imagination.

Shutting the diary and shoving it back into the box with the folder of photos, she shook away thoughts of Fleur and the Moor, and spooky shadows. Her cousin had probably simply left the Moor without telling anyone; she wasn’t too worried. But she’d had enough for one day; the other photos could wait. It had taken her a year to look at them – they wouldn’t be going anywhere. And anyway, she had a suitcase to pack.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY 25 MAY

Watching the last of the drab high-rises and commercial units disappear, Alice felt a surge of excitement. Her suitcase was packed with very little: a pair of flat walking sandals, a couple of T-shirts and a warm jumper; all grey or navy, not a spot of colour amongst them.

Weather on the Moor was always a bit more, well – weathery – than in the city, so she knew she should be prepared for anything. She’d also packed her favourite navy-blue raincoat and a pair of grey welly boots, which took up most of the space; the ground around Nether Dennyfold was boggy, and if she was to help look for Fleur, she needed to be appropriately shod. Freshly laundered, utilitarian underwear and her woefully meagre toiletry bag completed the packing, and it was all currently stowed above her head, as the train sped towards the West Country.

John had been surprisingly relaxed about her taking some time off at such short notice, but he’d recently started dating that girl from comms he’d been going on about, and he was sweetly relaxed about everything.

She’d never really been one for dating, herself. She liked men, and she’d had a few crushes over the years, even been on a few dates, but relationships had never lasted long. It didn’t help that she was so painfully shy. She probably didn’t give off encouraging vibes, which was why she was ignored. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t noticed. She was average looking, certainly not a head-turner. Not like Fleur.

Delving into her backpack, she grabbed a bag of wine gums, her holiday diary and an envelope of photographs. Last night, after looking through all the images, she’d cried tears of concern for her cousin, though she was still convinced Fleur had simply taken off for one of her other homes. She wouldn’t stay any longer at Crag Cottage than she needed to – not when she had homes in London, Paris and New York. Alice assumed those hadn’t been sold off yet.

Crag Cottage would be the first to go; Fleur had always hated the place, lacking the luxury she’d become used to. She’d even referred to it as creepy, once. But its bare stone walls and floors, its wood burner and big old Aga, the breezes that found their way through the rickety windows, the overgrown garden with its little stream, and the way it was tucked into a tiny hamlet as though it had been there forever, had always enchanted Alice. She wondered if she’d still feel the same about it.

Slowly chewing a wine gum, she leafed through the photos. They all had Fleur centre-stage, which was where Fleur liked to be. Her lovely face shone out in each one, overshadowing anything – or anyone – else. Fleur in front of the cottage; Fleur in her bedroom in the London house, surrounded by hundreds of dolls and teddy bears; Fleur with her parents, the Eiffel Tower a blurry smudge in the background. There were even some of Fleur and Alice together, taken on that single holiday the two families had shared. Alice looked small, shapeless and very young in her home-made, badly fitting cotton shorts and matching top. Fleur was only two years older at fourteen, but she’d already morphed into the beginnings of the smartly dressed woman she’d later become, proudly thrusting her well-developed chest at the camera.

Relaxing into the rhythm of the train as it whirred along, Alice let her mind wander back twenty years to that summer at the cottage.

That particular year, the Hennessy-Blairs’ plans for three weeks cruising around the Caribbean had been ruined by an outbreak of illness on the cruise liner. With no time to make other arrangements, they’d decided to join Alice’s family on the Moor. It hadn’t been a success, and had never been repeated. There was too much of a gulf between the two families. Mum had insisted on Aunt Mari helping her with the washing up after every meal, and Dad had organised a rota for the children to do little chores – sweep the floors, tidy the beds, shell the peas. He’d tried to encourage Uncle Graham to help him collect firewood and plan long walks across the Moor, but the Hennessy-Blairs were used to luxury and having people do things for them, and it had all got a bit awkward.

Luke had spent the whole holiday gazing at his cousin with puppy dog eyes. Fleur had flirted madly with him, despite him being only nine. She’d flirted with everyone; it was her way.

Alice had still been very much a child, and loved nothing more than getting up early and taking her fishing net to the little brook that edged the far end of the cottage’s wild and wonderful garden. She’d catch tiddlers in an old jam jar, and watch them as they darted here and there. Fleur preferred to have a lie-in, then spend her mornings experimenting with the expensive make-up her mother had presented her with on her thirteenth birthday. Alice remembered wondering whether Mum would give her make-up as a present when she reached thirteen. Of course she hadn’t; her parents had given her a big, glossy encyclopaedia of trees, plants and wildlife, which had been much more satisfying.

One morning during that holiday though, she’d bounced down the stairs to find her cousin sitting morosely at the scrubbed pine kitchen table, leafing listlessly through a magazine.

‘What’s the matter?’

Fleur hadn’t answered, just thrust out her lower lip and hunched further down. Alice had got herself a bowl of cornflakes, and sat munching in silence. There was one surefire way she’d known of that would cheer Fleur up, and that was to suggest a walk to the big house.

The Manor House, as it was properly called, was a gorgeous, crumbling Georgian pile, rebuilt in 1726 on the site of an earlier house that had been destroyed by Cromwell, or so it was said. The Denny family had owned it since those early days, but it was Sir Rufus Denny-Hurst who’d lived there when Alice was small. Fleur had been impressed to hear about another family with a double-barrelled name, and they had two sons: Jenson, who was eighteen, and Finbar, a very good-looking sixteen-year-old. It had usually been easy to persuade her to go for a walk, just in case the boys were at home.

Fleur’s face had lit up. She’d flicked her long blonde hair into a chic bun, and they’d pulled on their trainers. Alice had never really known what caused Fleur to be so open when she’d started talking on the short walk to the big house. Perhaps it had been the sun, which warmed their skin and cast golden light over the pretty hamlet, with its golden stone cottages and over-abundant gardens… or perhaps it was just that Fleur had needed to talk to