Henrietta's Own Castle. Betty Neels

kept them working, and now it was too late for her to learn anything about them, but that was something she wasn’t going to worry about either—she wasn’t going to worry about anything, she was going to enjoy herself.

       She began her journey on a cold, bleak morning whose sky promised snow before the day was out. She had booked on the Dover ferry and planned to arrive on the other side of the Channel in the early afternoon so that she would have several hours of daylight in which to travel. The ferry was almost empty and the sea was rough. Henrietta sat uneasily, hoping that she wouldn’t be sick, her eyes averted from the weather outside, and presently she slept for a little while and when she woke and staggered down below to tidy herself it was to hear that because of the rough weather they would be docking at least an hour late. She got herself a cup of tea and settled down to read, only to cast her book down and con her map once more, making sure that she knew the route she had to take. It looked an alarmingly long way, although she knew that once she landed at Zeebrugge it was barely forty miles to Breskens where she would have to take the ferry across the river Schold, and once at Vlissingen, it was only a little more than seventy miles. It would be well after two when they landed, she calculated, and it was dark by five o’clock, so provided she could get to Vlissingen by then it should be easy enough. It was towards her journey’s end that she would have to be careful not to miss the side road which would take her to Gijzelmortel. There was a landmark on the map, a castle, but in the dark she doubted if that would be of much use to her. She folded the map, determined not to get worried, aware that she would be glad when she was safely there.

       It was sleeting when they docked, and bitter cold. Henrietta, one of the first away, drove carefully along the coast road which would lead her to the border town of Sluis and Holland. There was almost no traffic, something she was grateful for; the dark sky was closing in rapidly now and she could see that the hours of daylight she had reckoned on were to be considerably shortened. She ignored her desire to get as much out of Charlie as possible; the roads were treacherous and there were signposts to look out for as well as remembering to drive on the other side of the road.

       She pressed on steadily, through the Customs post at Sluis and on to Breskens where the ferry was waiting. She breathed a sigh of relief as she got out of her little car and climbed the narrow iron stairs to the deck above. There was a brightly lit saloon there and a coffee bar at one end of it, doing a roaring trade. Henrietta pointed at what she wanted, handed over a note, received a handful of change and found herself a table where she drank her coffee, ate her cheese roll and examined the money. It seemed small, although when she looked at it carefully she could see that it was similar to the money at home, only the tiny silver coins were different. She stowed them away now that she had had something to eat. Her cheerful mood lasted as she drove off the ferry and took the N97, which would take her to Breda without any complications. She encouraged Charlie to a steady forty-five and kept doggedly on. Sleet was still falling, but the motorway was wide and well surfaced and she was a good driver, so in due time she found herself on the roundabout outside that city and heaved another sigh of relief. Not very far now and she would be there.

       The motorway skirted Tilburg too. Henrietta left it soon after, and in another seven or eight miles saw what she was looking for—the signpost to Gijzelmortel. She turned into the exit point, swung the little car under a flyover and joined a narrow road on the other side, where presently another signpost directed her into a still narrower lane. After that there was no sign, no houses, no lights even, only her headlamps cutting into the sleety darkness. She should be there, she told herself, and discovered that she was, for there was the village sign on the side of the road and a few yards further she saw the first house. The road curved away to the left and she followed it, to discover that the village—and Mr Boggett had been quite right, it was very small—was a mere circle of houses round a cobbled square with a bandstand in its centre. There were one or two narrow lanes leading away from it, but he had told her that the house was in the centre of the village. She slowed the car to a crawl round the square, cheered by the sight of the lighted windows around her, and presently reached a massive gateway, with lanterns on its brick posts, and just a few yards further on a row of tiny houses. There was a wall plaque on the first one with Dam written on it. The third house along was number three. She was there!

      CHAPTER TWO

      HENRIETTA took the house key from her handbag and got out of the car, savouring the moment despite the sneering wind and sleet, so sluggish now that it was almost snow. Oblivious of these discomforts, she stood back to survey her property—a very little house in the middle of a row of six similar dwellings, all exactly alike, built of bricks with one large window beside a solid front door and another window above, crowded into its steeply gabled roof. She stood a little further back and by peering beyond the lights above the gateway was able to see another row, exactly similar beyond the further gate post. Possibly a park, she speculated, for the wrought iron gates were open. The sight of them triggered off a highly improbable daydream, in which she saw herself on a hot summer’s day, roaming its greenness, possibly with a dog… A nasty little flurry of snowy wind took her breath and brought the daydream to an abrupt end and she crossed the narrow flagged pavement and turned the key in the lock.

       The hall was a tiny square from which the stairs ascended steeply, and there was a door on the right. Henrietta shone her torch and found the light switch and pressed it, but nothing happened—she had half expected that, although she had hoped that she wouldn’t need the candles which she had thoughtfully brought with her. She went back to Charlie and carried in her overnight bag and her case; to get to the candles was the first necessity.

       The house seemed all at once warmer by reason of the small flame; she opened the door and with the candle held high, went inside. The dining-room, she judged, nicely furnished with an old-fashioned round table and pretty Victorian chairs; there was a small sideboard too and pictures on the walls, but she left these for the moment and went into the room beyond—without doubt the sitting room, as small as the dining-room and even in the chilly dimness, cosy, its armchairs with shabby covers drawn up on either side of an old-fashioned iron stove, a couple of small lamp tables, another chair or two and one wall almost entirely taken up by an upright piano. There was a window and door on the third wall; presumably the back garden was beyond, but she turned away from the bleak darkness outside and opened the door to the kitchen. Small, too, as was to be expected but as far as she could see by the light of the wavering candle flame, adequately equipped; a sink with a geyser above it, a small table with two gas rings and shelves of saucepans and cooking utensils. She put down her candle carefully and tried the geyser hopefully, but there was no gas, neither was there any water when she turned on the tap.

       She went back to the hall, looking for the meters, retracing her steps slowly without success. She was kneeling in the kitchen again, peering hopefully under the sink, when she heard someone enter the house. She got to her feet slowly, her heart beating an uneasy tattoo, eyeing the man who was standing at the kitchen door, looking at her. She was a big girl, but he more than matched her for size—a head taller for a start and with broad shoulders, massive in a sheepskin jacket, and as far as she could see in the dim light, exceedingly handsome. She waited uncertainly; she had been a fool to have left the front door on the latch, but probably he was just a casual passer-by. She said coolly: ‘I have no idea who you are, but this is my house and I must ask you to leave it.’

       He came right into the kitchen. ‘A very hoity-toity speech,’ he remarked in an English as perfect as her own, ‘quite wasted on me and useless to anyone else around here—they wouldn’t have understood a word of it.’

       ‘Who are you?’ She stood her ground although the instinct to move back was strong, but she was annoyed at being called hoity-toity, so that she lifted her pretty, determined chin and looked down her fine nose at him.

       ‘Your landlord.’ He laughed without amusement and she said at once:

       ‘You’re mistaken, this house is mine. My aunt, Miss Brodie, left it to me.’

       He sighed loudly. ‘I have neither the time nor the patience to mull over the intricacies of leasehold property. Take my word for it that I own the lease of this house, Miss Henrietta Brodie.’

       She gave him a startled