The Old Silent

12

The woman at reception at the White Lion Hotel wore an expression that suggested she must take full responsibility- was "most terribly sorry"-for the hotel's not being able to accommodate him. When she returned from an inner office, "just to make sure there's been no cancellation," repeated her apology twice, and dabbed at her raw, red nose, Melrose was concerned that his sudden appearance at the White Lion and his subsequent leave-taking had caused some gust of tears, some upheaval on the part of the hotel staff over the discomfiture of prospective guests. But the chilblained nose and smudged eyes were not owing to an emotional onslaught at Melrose's being turned out into the cold. She had caught a chill and was feverish. She made suggestions: the Black Bush across the street? No, he'd been there already. Stupid of him not to book a room in advance.

"Whatever for? Haworth in January, the rooms generally go begging." She seemed fearful that he would take upon himself the charge of stupidity when his outcast condition was already a great deal for him (and her) to bear.

Beginning to feel like the dying cast of Les Misirables, Melrose tried to raise her spirits with assurances that the tourist information center next door would find something for him. The clerk looked despairing, and as Melrose smiled and smiled and then left, he wondered if the people of Haworth had been more infected by Bronte gloom than by virus or murder.

While the attendant at the information center was helping a middle-aged woman, Melrose roved the small room and plucked up pamphlets, a guide or two, and a few gloomy monochromes of the surrounding moors and the village. One of these, the scene of Haworth parsonage and graveyard, he thought he would send to Vivian just to let her know the sorts of places he was hanging about in since their last meeting. In his reconnoitering of the racks he was followed by a pie-faced boy of perhaps ten or twelve, who was carrying a large bag of crisps and licking a purple lolly enclosing a band of bilious green that went round and round in an hypnotic circle, probably the unwholesome child of the woman at the counter. The boy had expressionless eyes, blank as coins, and, having nothing to do, meant to occupy himself by getting this sticky sweet closer and closer to Melrose's cashmere coat.

"Branwell Bronte?" asked Melrose, as if the lad had questioned him. He then read, as loudly as he could, Branwell's commentary on the Lord Nelson, which was appended to a photograph of that famous pub."'I would rather give my hand than undergo again the malignant yet cold debauchery which too often marked my conduct there.'" Melrose paused, looked down at the ill-mannered lad, and, in a measured, distinct tone, said, "Well, I don't know where he got his drugs, do I?"

The woman in the turquoise get-up, whose long, sallow face was further elongated by the height of the black turban-like thing she wore, turned quickly and said, "Malcolm!" in a deep, almost basso voice. She gave Melrose a hooded look and clutched Malcolm to her side, a grip from which Malcolm broke with alacrity, Melrose was more his style.

On the wall above the counter was a huge blowup of a photograph of the ruins of the old farmhouse Emily Bronte was said to have used for her Wuthering Heights. The other woman, round-faced and with a yellow bubble of hair and a tiny voice, was asking how good the road was to this site.

When the patient woman behind the counter told her that there was no road, that she'd have to walk the moor for perhaps a quarter of a mile, she turned to Melrose, as if for reassurance and said, in her whispery voice, "I can just look at the picture for a bit, then, can't I?"

"Absolutely, madam. That is precisely the way I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. With my camp at its base, a large map, and some drawing pins I went straight to the top. Read Hemingway for atmosphere. After all, why have the reality when you can settle for its appearance? Why substance when you can walk in its shadow? Why, for pity's sake, waste time? It is all we have."

The cherub-faced lady looked moonily at him. "I never…"

Melrose was sure she hadn't. He walked to another turnstile of postcards, followed both by Malcolm and the smoldering, suspicious eyes of the Beastly Boy's mother.

"We're not going to that dump,"-Malcolm nodded to the photograph of Top Withins-"we're going to Hadrian's Wall, we are."

Melrose turned the stile and said, "Well, you'd better hop it then. That particular dump's in Northumberland."

"Mum knows 'im."

Melrose turned from the picture of Haworth's cobbled street. "What? Who?"

"Hadrian. The Emperor Hadrian." He mashed a handful of crisps into his mouth and waited to see how the mountain-climber would take this.

Melrose walked away.

The Beastly Boy followed. "See, she sees things. She can read cards and she sees ghosts. She's got like second sight."

Obviously not, or Malcolm wouldn't be here. Melrose stared. "Go away."

The Beastly Boy stuck out his tongue, a purple and green surprise, and was dragged off by his mum at the same time the beehive blonde collected her maps and charts and smiled brightly at Melrose in a good-bye look.

Melrose finally had his turn at the counter.

There were several places that she could suggest, all B & B's, though. "There's Mrs. Buzzthorpe; she does a lovely full breakfast; there's only the one room there and it would be quiet. If anything is quiet round here now." She ran her hand across her unquiet brow. "I expect you know-"

"I was really looking for something like an hotel or inn. There's the Old Silent, I understand." At least, that's where Jury said he was staying.

The poor woman clutched her sweater about her and said, "Ah, but that's where that grisly murder," (she made a meal of the word) "happened." Her voice had dropped to a hissing whisper as she leaned across the counter. "Two days ago, it was. A man murdered there. I expect that's why it's hard to get accommodation." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Thrill-seekers."

"But is it booked?" asked Melrose, himself lowering his voice to a whisper.

" 'Twas closed by Keighley police for a bit. I can ring up." She did and had to report that its few rooms were taken. She went down her list again. "Weavers Hall. That's very pleasant." Doubtfully, she looked at his clothes, the silver-knobbed walking stick, and out the window at the Bentley. Hopelessly, she smiled. "I'm not sure it's quite your line, though."

"I'll take any line at all at this point. Where is Weavers Hall?"

That he was so amenable to what she seemed to regard as her starved selection made her go about her maps and pencils with alacrity. "It's just here, near the reservoir." She stabbed her sharp pencil at a point in the map a short distance from the village. "That's the road off to the right after Stanbury, which is a mile away. Altogether, not above two miles."

"You're very helpful; thank you. Does this place do meals? Has it a restaurant, that sort of thing?"

Her look was baleful, as if just having got him sorted out, she must now disappoint him. She put in quickly, "But Miss Denholme does a nice evening meal."

He smiled. The expression "evening meal" always made him think of beef shin and creamed potatoes, for some reason. Well, he would dine with Jury, anyway, tonight.

"Is her wine list extensive? Never mind," he said, when the brown eyes rounded in surprise. "Only kidding."