Grace entered the curing room, where long, straight rows of maturing cheese silently greeted her. The shelves were taller than a man and stretched the length of the well ventilated, but pungent smelling room. Between each row was a narrow path, which provided a much-needed corridor for regular inspection and testing of the batches of cheese. It was in one of these corridors, Grace found Aunt Molly. Just like Uncle David, she was a long-standing family friend, rather than a true blood relation, but Grace loved her as dearly as if she was her kith and kin.
‘Where is Father?’ asked Grace through a gap in the maturing cheese. Her aunt gave a start and looked up from the stock book she had been writing in. She searched between the cheeses for the origin of the voice until she found Grace on the other side of the shelf.
‘Where have you been, Grace?’ she whispered. ‘Your mother has been looking for you.’
Grace remembered her promise to look at the ledgers today. It was a task her mother had always done, but in recent months her mother was keen to pass the chore onto her. ‘It will give you purpose and involve you in the business more,’ her mother had told her. In truth, Grace’s aptitude for figures meant she found the daily accounts, which took her mother all afternoon to complete, an easy one. The task would take Grace barely an hour and she did not find it challenging enough to occupy her inquisitive mind. However it did mean that she was contributing to the success of Kellow Dairy and, perhaps, she would deserve the respect the community showed her by being the child of Daniel Kellow.
‘She will want me to do the accounts. I have not forgotten.’
Aunt Molly noticed Grace’s windswept hair for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Where have you been, Grace?’
‘I’ve been visiting Mrs Smyth, but don’t tell anyone. You know she doesn’t like charity. Have you seen Father?’
Aunt Molly’s face disappeared. Grace heard her brisk footsteps behind the row of stacked dairy and anxiously followed the sound, catching fleeting glimpses of her aunt’s body between the wheels of cheese until they met at the end of the row.
Aunt Molly looked at her over her reading spectacles. ‘It doesn’t take that long to drop off some packages. You’ve been to Hel Tor again, haven’t you? Aren’t you a little old to be playing at Hel Tor?’
‘You can never be too old to play on Hel Tor.’
Molly shook her head in despair. ‘Look at your hair falling loose from its pins. Your mother would have a fit.’
Grace tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Perhaps Aunt Molly was right. If she had spent the afternoon with her head in the account book she would not be in such a predicament right now.
‘I will finish the books by tonight but first I need to speak to Father.’
‘You look as if you have had a fight with a gorse bush,’ her aunt teased, breaking into a smile as she removed her spectacles.
‘Where is he?’
Her aunt grew concerned and her smile faded. ‘Have you looked in the butter house?’
‘No. I’ll go there now.’ Grace left through the back door of the curing room before her aunt could question her further.
On her way to the butter house, Grace had to navigate her way past a delivery of empty elm boxes. They had just arrived and would be used to protect the matured cheeses during transportation. Someone grabbed at her arm and halted her.
‘Your mother is looking for you.’
Grace felt a surge of relief when she saw it was her father. He was in the midst of receiving the order and was not best pleased she had gone missing. Her father’s grip was firm and tight on her arm, but it did not hurt her. Everyone knew that Daniel Kellow could fell a man, but he would never hurt his family. His stern expression changed to concern as his dark, brown eyes searched her face. She felt herself relax as she read his thoughts. Her father was also intuitive and sensible, which was why she loved him so much.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked, turning her to face him fully. ‘You look upset.’
She had spent her life watching him grow older. The serious expression of a young man was now permanently etched on his face in the way of deep furrows and dark lines. Silver flecks of grey had infiltrated his once dark brown hair and his handsome features had matured and settled. The years had passed and the changes had happened, but what had never altered was how safe he made her feel. He was the rock that she held on to and the wisdom she sought, as he would always tell her the truth.
‘I think someone is burying a body on Hel Tor,’ she blurted out, ‘and I don’t know what to do.’
Chapter Two
Grace sat in the front of the wagon, sandwiched between Uncle David and her father. Everything had happened so quickly. Her father had believed her, as she knew he would, and after shouting a few curt words of delegation, they were soon leaving Kellow Dairy and heading towards Bodmin Moor. Grace had insisted she went with them, as she was the only witness to the crime. Reluctantly her father had agreed, on the condition she stayed in the wagon when they went in search of the culprit. She looked down at the crowbars by her feet. Her uncle had placed them in the wagon to be used as weapons should the need arise. Their unforgiving, solid nature sent a prickle of fear climbing up her spine. Fear for her father and uncle’s safety rather than her own, as she was the one responsible for leading them into danger.
Her father turned off the road and onto the narrow track that threaded its way towards the base of Hel Tor. The narrow path, formed over the years by footfalls of men and women searching out a shortcut from village to village, snaked through the undulations of the moor. Each wagon wheel lifted in turn, as they rolled over spasmodic mounds of earth, creaking and grinding with each new strain placed upon them. At times the wagon tipped so precariously that the crowbars slid noisily to one side, forcing Grace to grasp her father’s arm for support on more than one occasion.
Eventually, her father gave up the journey and reined in the horse. They looked towards the looming tor, its ominous shadow engulfing them as the sun had begun to lower in the west.
‘We will walk the rest of the way,’ said her father. He handed the reins to Grace and jumped down from the wagon. Grace slid across the bench to follow him.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered as he reached for the crowbars. He handed one to David who had joined him. ‘This may take a while.’ He looked around, his eyes narrowing as he searched the barren landscape all the way back to the horizon. ‘You have a good line of sight. If a stranger approaches before we come back, go home in the wagon.’
‘You will scare her,’ said David.
Her father tested the crowbar in his hand. ‘If there is a man burying bodies on the moor, Grace needs to keep her wits about her.’ He looked up at her. ‘Sometimes the truth is not easy to say and even harder to hear. Do not wait for us if you feel you are in danger.’
Grace nodded and obeyed him without question, sliding back along the seat to her original position. Silently, she watched the two men trudge their way across the coarse, brown grass and towards the base of the tor, their heads occasionally turning towards each other, as if they were discussing which area to search first. Grace knew, despite the distance between them, that Uncle David was looking to her father for guidance — as everyone did.
Pride in her father made Grace sit a little taller. Daniel Kellow had come from nothing and worked hard to achieve his success. She understood why her mother had fallen in love with him all those years ago. Their love for one another still thrived, not like some of the marriages in the village where familiarity had bred either contempt, boredom or devalued any love that still existed. No, her parents were still very much in love. Grace had seen it in their candid glances over the heads of her younger siblings, a brief touch as they passed one another, the sound of their laughter in a far off room, or coming upon them during a quiet embrace. As a child, their love made her feel secure and her world safe. She loved them very much, as they had never damaged the trust she had once placed in them as an innocent child.
This was why her father’s word was never questioned. Years of candid wisdom and loyalty to his family, had earned Grace’s respect and compliance. He had never been demonstrative in his love to her — there were no hugs or kisses — but Grace did not mind. Fathers did not do that sort of thing, did they? Their presence, reliability and care was enough.
The silhouettes of the men disappeared behind a large boulder. An icy chill swept up her spine and for the first time she really feared for her father’s safety. What if something happened to him? There would never be an opportunity in the future for him to hug her. Grace’s stomach lurched as she realised, for the first time, she had always hoped that one day he would.
Grace sat stiffly in the wagon, growing more impatient for their return. Occasionally, she looked about her for approaching strangers. The only sign of life, apart from the small herds of moorland ponies and cattle grazing on the hill, was a family following a distant track across the moor. One by one, they followed the tallest figure, their size decreasing and reflecting their position in the family. There were eight figures in all, their number telling Grace it was Widow Smyth and her children, returning to her isolated cottage on the Candras. Soon they would discover the packages of food she had left them. She could imagine the widow looking about her for her benefactor and her widening smile as her children squealed in delight.
Grace dragged her eyes away and looked towards Hel Tor. A figure of a man holding a crowbar was approaching. Grace recognised Uncle David, jumped down and went to meet him.
‘Did you find him?’
David nodded, but did not stop walking. Grace retraced her steps as she tried to keep up with his long strides.
‘And the woman?’
