Chapter 4

After parking her car in the pub car park, Flora went into the lounge and asked the young girl behind the bar if they had a room for the night. It took the girl, Mary, around fifteen minutes to say yes. On the way, she explained ‘how busy they had been over Easter with the walkers but it always tails off and then gets busy again a short while later but because this was just after Easter they had a nice room at the front if she wanted it and she'd be happy to show her it if she'd just like to look at the menu if she wanted a meal and then she could get her order in but she didn't have to it was all right in fact I can show you up there first now if you just let me check…'

Even though Mary didn't appear to have taken a breath during this whole monologue, she still had the energy to run through to a room at the back before popping her head back around to say,

‘I'm sorry. I know I talk too much. My dad's always telling me off over it and I keep saying I'll stop and well anyway. I'll just–‘ and she flew into the back room again.

A woman came out shaking her head and laughing which Flora thought was a sort of apology.

‘She lets her mouth run away with her when she's nervous. She'll be better when she gets to know you. Flora Goode? You have Sybil's cottage now?'

The woman, Mary's mother from the looks of her, was a nice plumpish woman with a ruddy face and hair the colour of straw. She told Mary to watch the bar while she showed Flora up to a room. It was a pleasant, light room overlooking the street. She would eat in the bar but put in an order for later and see what she could find out from Peggy first.

In the bar she found the menu and ordered the chicken and vegetable homemade pie for an hour's time, to be safe. A woman stood further down the bar. She was rather elegant but appeared to have a small knitting needle stuck in her silver hair which was swept up off her face. She introduced herself in a very plummy voice and asked if Flora wanted to join her in a gin. Flora didn't as she was going out but she did appreciate the gesture, even though the woman - who had a strange name she'd already forgotten - was looking at her with obvious curiosity. After exchanging another few words with her, the woman drank up and went out of the door, passing an old man leaning against the door jamb. He seemed to be staring at Flora but it was hard to tell as his hood was pulled down, almost covering his face, apart from two pinpricks of light shining through, indicating where his eyes were.

Flora pulled on her coat to go to Peggy's and as she made for the door, the old man made a mock bow towards her and walked over to the bar like a much younger man. It was probably his clothes that made him seem older. A khaki greatcoat almost in rags and underneath, a hooded top that was once green but now had faded to match the coat. He made her feel uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because he was what she would call a tramp, although they probably had a more PC name today. Not homeless as such but a soul, perhaps damaged, who wandered from place to place.

Now, when she got outside she could see why he'd been wearing the hood. It had started drizzling. She pulled the grey, full-length raincoat around her and put the hood up, making for where Peggy had said she lived, just down from Gallipot Cottage. After knocking for a few minutes on both the front and the back doors she made her way to the inn again. It would wait until tomorrow.

As she crossed the road she could see the sign for Peverel Hall and decided to have a quick look. The driveway curved round through tall trees and she could see the corner of a honey-coloured building through the branches. As the Peverel Hall sign had a smaller ‘Private' written underneath, she thought she'd better not chance her luck.

When she turned back, she caught sight of a narrow lane by the side of the last cottage, across the road. This one didn't appear to have a Private sign on display and as she could glimpse some moorland beyond, she decided that would do instead to feed her curiosity.

She walked up the little lane, which seemed like it was a public bridleway, judging by the hoof marks left in the soft earth. She was on the moors almost immediately. The village was remote and probably difficult to reach in bad, winter weather. To reach it earlier, she had to negotiate a good few miles of hairpin bends on tiny, narrow lanes with steep drops at one side as she drove. She wasn't a nervous driver but she dreaded meeting anyone coming the other way. As this was the only way in or out of the village, she gritted her teeth and got on with it. She expected she would become used to it in time.

This village was a little oasis in the middle of miles and miles of moorland. The guidebook mentioned it had grown up around a farm, which was now Peverel Hall. The farm kept sheep for their wool and to a lesser degree for their meat. It had produced honey too and there were crops grown in the fertile soil which lay in the open vale below the moors. The place was self-sufficient in the Middle Ages and over the years, modern shops had been added to make it much the same now.

There was a baker, a hardware shop, a butcher and a mini-market selling fresh produce. There was also a combined newsagents and post office and she remembered passing tea rooms on her way in. There was the Peverel Arms, which sported a few wooden benches on a patch of green in front of it, waiting for good weather. And, it seemed, there was a bookshop which doubled as a coffee shop. Flora would look forward to going in there again if she only saw the man instead of the odd woman.

She strode out, pulling her hood tightly around her face. It was still only drizzling but her hair had a tendency to go frizzy in the damp. It was slightly misty at ground level, hovering above the peat. Turning around as she reached the top of a gently sloping hill, she saw the village in all its glory, in the setting it had inhabited comfortably for hundreds of years.

She wanted to find out more about Farstone now she had arrived. Trying to recall its history, she remembered it had been described as an ancient village. It was known as a village from Anglo-Saxon times but Neolithic implements had been found in a dig at Peverel Hall, indicating a much older settlement.

Farstone nestled down there, hardly much bigger than it would have been in those far-off days. New housing developments wouldn't occur here as there were no jobs for young families. What had the solicitor said? There were mostly the same families - the same names, as there always had been.

This stirred a memory of something else in the guidebook. The tradition of folklore in Farstone was strong. Everything from witches and spectral hounds to fairies and goblins was supposed to put in a regular appearance here, according to legend. Flora supposed they had nothing much else to do in the long winter months of yesteryear than sit around and tell these stories.

She gradually became aware of a pounding of the earth somewhere behind her. She spun around and saw a horse and rider about a hundred yards away about to cross her path. She felt that she was seeing a rerun of a gothic horror film and wondered briefly if the rider was headless.

The man was galloping at full speed along a moorland track on a coal-black horse. The rider's hair was blown into a wild black halo and the mane of the horse streamed behind its magnificent, proud head. A huge animal, some sort of dog perhaps, followed them. She couldn't help but stare and was shocked when suddenly the figure noticed her and abruptly pulled his steed up short, causing the animal to rear up. The rider turned in his saddle and stared at Flora for long minutes before turning along another track, leading further out onto the moor.

She rubbed her eyes as if to dispel any mirage that had appeared in front of her or hallucination caused by tiredness. It must have worked because when she looked up again, the horseman had disappeared.