Black Rock Manor Read online

  Shaun Baines

  Black Rock Manor

  A Holly Fleet Mystery

  Copyright © 2020 by Shaun Baines

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Editing by Kristen Weber

  Cover art by Matt Davies

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Prologue

  “They’ll never forgive us for this,” he said into his phone.

  His words were met with static and the man bit his lip, staring at the incline at his feet. Jamming the phone into his camouflaged rucksack, he began to ascend.

  Caitloon Hill consisted of sheer rockfaces and stubs of ferns turned black by the harsh Northumberland winter. It had stood for thousands of years and with his help, would stand for a thousand more.

  But only if he moved quickly.

  Above him, matted sheep trotted gingerly along the ledges worn smooth by their ancestors. They were searching for something to eat, looking forlorn at the prospect as they made tentative steps toward a barren summit.

  The man shielded his head when a stray hoof dislodged a cavalcade of stones the size of his fist. They missed him by inches and he whistled with relief. Injuries this far from help had a tendency to prove fatal.

  He knew about the dangers roaming this hill. Not just this hill, but through the entirety of the Black Rock Estate. There were clumsy sheep, wandering cows and a myriad of other domesticated and non-domesticated animals. None of them were dangerous, except by accidental design.

  No, there were other creatures out here with far worse intentions. He knew of the eyes that only opened at night. The footsteps only heard when they were least expected. He had learned of their nature from tales told to him by his father; a weak-minded man who never turned off the lights for fear of the dark.

  The man climbed higher, searching out handholds and footholds in the cliff. His breath was laboured and his legs screamed under a blistering pace.

  The sun was setting and shadows crept over the hill. Darkness descended and the man kept to the light as best he could, hoping he did not have to climb much further. The sheep had rounded a curve and disappeared from view.

  He was on his own.

  Pausing for breath, he leaned against a boulder when a black raven alighted by his feet. Its dark eyes watched him closely as it hopped within striking distance.

  The man was tempted to kick out, to scare it away, but he recognised the raven. Its glassy eyes betrayed an intelligence that was unmistakable. This animal would not be frightened by him or any other human straying this far into its lair. Although the man knew the bird, he did not believe in it. He did not believe in any of the spirits of this place.

  A voice called his name and he grew pale.

  Keeping a wary eye on the raven, he reached into his rucksack to retrieve his phone.

  “Can you hear me now?” he asked.

  “I was yelling for you.”

  “I had to climb for better reception,” the man said. “Did you hear what I told you?”

  “Yes,” the voice said down the line.

  He had not crested Caitloon Hill, but he was able to see the lights of Little Belton village. Its residents would be settling down to their evening meals. Families would be bickering or supporting each other through their latest trials. Those who lived alone would be listening to the radio for company. Night would fall and they’d retire to their beds, unaware of the fate they were about to suffer.

  “They’ll thank us in the end,” the voice said.

  “Thank, maybe. Forgive, probably not.”

  The lights of the village began to die, blinking out one by one. If he did nothing, they’d stay that way.

  “Okay,” said the man. “I’m ready for whatever comes our way.”

  The raven took to the air, its sharp beak open, exposing a pink tongue. With its wings outstretched, their feathered tips looking like black hands, it sailed towards Little Belton with a caw that chilled the man’s bones.

  Chapter One

  Holly Fleet counted the pens in her top pocket. Their number never changed, no matter how many times she checked. A notebook was tucked into her battered handbag, as was a back-up, just in case. She’d thought of bringing a third, but didn’t want to overdo it.

  This was her chance to save her family.

  With a deep breath, Holly ducked under the village bunting and joined the happy crowds of Little Belton’s Spring Fair.

  Holly was forty-two years old with a wonky fringe she’d cut herself. Her jacket and trousers hung loosely from a thin body. She’d dropped a few dress sizes recently, though her stomach and bum had refused to notice. Apparently, stress was selective when it came to weight loss.

  Pulling her clothing to her frame, Holly wandered around the fair with an open mouth. Wooden stalls were arranged around a green, their crafts and goods protected by striped awnings. A Northumbrian Pipe band played a local tune on the wrong side of screeching. Holly winced as she passed and stumbled into a cloud of smoke from a nearby hog roast. It made her hungry and choke at the same time.

  An elderly man wearing a butcher’s apron turned the spit by hand. The pig, which was whole from snout to curly tail, crackled seductively over hot coals.

  Holly backed into a stall manned by a rosy-cheeked woman selling nettle wine. The woman gave her a sloppy grin. Holly half-remembered her as Mrs Threadle, who had taught her English at Little Belto
n Primary School.

  “Buy yourself a treat?” Mrs Threadle asked with a slur. “They’re going fast.”

  Holly glanced at the empty bottles at the teacher’s feet and guessed exactly where they were going. She declined politely, heading to a quiet corner of the green to gather her thoughts.

  “You’ll be the new hack for the Little Belton Herald, then.”

  A man and woman stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking Holly’s path. They wore chunky Aran sweaters, knitted from the same enormous ball of purple wool.

  The man was balding with a paunch. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “The name’s Iain Winnow and this is the wife, Judy. We own the village convenience store.”

  Mrs Winnow nudged her husband out of the way. Her blonde hair was piled onto her head and lacquered into place with something industrial. She wore glossy red lipstick, expertly applied and at odds with her ill-fitting sweater.

  “Look at you,” she said. “We’re so excited you’re here.”

  Holly shook their hands, scrutinising their beaming faces. “How did you know who I was?”

  Mr Winnow tapped the side of his nose. “We have spies everywhere.”

  “Never mind him,” Mrs Winnow said, pulling her husband away. “Your new boss Old Jack said you’d be down. He asked us to keep an eye out for you.”

  “Give you the welcome, like,” Mr Winnow said with a grin. “Would you like to try our stall?”

  Mr and Mrs Winnow parted to reveal a park bench covered in empty milk bottles. Above them were plastic bags of fish swinging from a rail.

  They ushered Holly closer and she peered at the grey fish swimming in lazy circles. “Are your goldfish ill?”

  “They’re not goldfish, dear,” Mrs Winnow said. “We’re trying to make a little profit, after all. Goldfish cost money.”

  Mr Winnow produced a ping-pong ball from his pocket, picking off tufts of lint. “All you have to do is throw a ball into a milk bottle to win your own stickleback.”

  Holly cleared her throat. “They’re an unusual prize.”

  “They’re free. That’s what they are,” Mr Winnow said, tugging on his sweater. “Got them out of Knock Lake this morning so you know they’re fresh.”

  “I’m sorry, but don’t you think they should remain in their natural environment?” Holly asked. “It seems a little cruel.”

  Mr Winnow’s cheeks coloured and he gave his wife a sideways glance.

  “Old Jack said you’d spent some time down south,” Mrs Winnow said, patting Holly on the arm. “He said you might have fancy views, but we weren’t to hold that against you.”

  “My parents came from Little Belton, actually.”

  “I remember your Dad,” Mr Winnow said. “Black lung took mine as well.”

  “Don’t worry about any of that, dear,” Mrs Winnow said. “Why don’t you play our game? You win a stickleback and release it back in the lake. Only fifty pence.”

  “I’m paying for the opportunity to return a fish to its home?” Holly blanched at the rudeness of the question. It had escaped her before she’d had a chance to stop it.

  “Great game, isn’t it? And those that are left behind, go to make my supper tonight,” Mr Winnow said, rubbing his stomach with a laugh.

  A herd of children arrived with a whoosh. Hands sticky with candy floss, they offered their fifty pence pieces, faces painted in glee. There must have been a face-painting stall somewhere, thought Holly, because she was suddenly surrounded by Spidermen and creepy looking clowns.

  Mr and Mrs Winnow rushed into action, handing out balls and taking in money.

  Holly took the opportunity to slink away.

  Things had certainly changed since she had last lived in Little Belton.

  The village comprised of tightly packed streets and terraced housing. The roofs were made of slate and the chimneys were stained with smoke. Beyond the houses were cottages dotted around patchwork fields that blended into moorland known locally as the Estate. The population was small. Most of the young folk had moved to the cities for work, leaving ageing parents and those unwilling to abandon the place where they were born.

  One house in particular had stood empty for over a decade.

  And it wasn’t the only one. The village green ran the length of the high street, which had once been the beating heart of Little Belton. As Holly stared over the For Sale signs and the boarded-up windows, she wondered what had happened to the place she had once called home.

  Holly sat on a large boulder wedged in the ground, tugging on the camera around her neck. If she was going to get her first scoop for the Little Belton Herald, she had to be clever. Villages had secrets and they wouldn’t readily be confessed to a journalist.

  Keep your head down, she told herself, willing her stomach to settle. You can’t afford to lose your job on the same day you were hired.

  She raised the camera to capture the primary school teacher dancing to a song only she could hear. Her finger hovered over the button when Mrs Winnow appeared, lowering the camera with her hand.

  “Bless her,” she said. “No need to embarrass Mrs Threadle, is there? She hasn’t been the same since she was fired.”

  “I need an article for the paper,” Holly said. “It’s my first one and I need to get it right.”

  Mrs Winnow linked her arm through Holly’s and led her to a brightly painted bandstand with a domed roof. A lonely microphone stood on a stand, casting a long shadow.

  “Where in the south have you come from?” Mrs Winnow asked.

  “London.”

  “Oh, I’d love to go there one day. The West End. Oxford Street. I heard you can’t walk a road without bumping into a film star.”

  Or get mugged, Holly thought.

  Mrs Winnow jerked her thumb to the empty bandstand. “If you want a story, why don’t you take a look at him? He should have been on stage half an hour ago.”

  The new owner of the empty house known as Black Rock Manor was due to open the Spring Fair. Holly hadn’t been in the village long, but she’d already heard the rumours. Some of the residents said he was a Northumbrian, back to reclaim his family’s estate. Others said, he was an Arabian prince taking advantage of falling land prices. A local fishmonger claimed the manor had been bought by that actor from Coronation Street.

  Whoever he was, he owned the house, the estate and, some argued, the future of Little Belton.

  The faces of the villagers were ruddy with good humour. Holly watched as they laughed and gossiped. They carried armfuls of pork rolls and cans of fizzing beer. The Spring Fair was a chance to celebrate a new year and with the purchase of Black Rock Manor, this year promised to be eventful.

  But every once in a while, Holly would catch the villagers turning to the bandstand. Their smiles would slip and their eyes would turn to the horizon, glazing over for a second before they remembered the next line of their joke.

  Mrs Winnow pressed her fingers into her perm, making it creak. “We’re desperate for a man in the manor. This village needs some direction. It could really grow. Businesses could really take off.”

  “I don’t know much about the owner,” Holly said.

  “I know he hasn’t turned up,” Mrs Winnow said. “He’s a man of mystery, but my sister’s window cleaner saw him once. Three villages over in Crockfoot.”

  “And what did she tell you?” Holly asked, reaching for her notebook and pen.

  Mrs Winnow cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered. “Well, my sister’s window cleaner says the new owner went into the ironmongers. Bought a spade. We stock spades. He could have bought a spade here in Little Belton. A spade from Crockfoot, I ask you?”

  Holly wasn’t sure what Mrs Winnow was asking. She let her eyes drift over the fair, finding a merry-go-round cranking into action. Tinny music came from hidden speakers; a slow drawl speeding up as it rotated.

  “Now I’m not one for gossip,” Mrs Winnow continued. “We hadn’t long been here when the last owner moved out. Sir Charles We
ntworth, that is. He stayed when the coal mine closed down. His family owned it before it was nationalised. Anyway, he went bankrupt or something. Some say he left due to a scandal, but I’ll never believe that. The estate has been going to ruin ever since. This new man should be turning things around and he should be here to open the fair. It’s tradition. This village is relying on him.”

  “Do you know why he hasn’t shown up?” Holly asked.

  “I don’t know, but there is something very suspicious about a man who buys his spades in Crockfoot,” Mrs Winnow said, raising her voice against the sound of the merry-go-round. Her eyes narrowed at the dwindling crowd of children at her stall. “Tell me you’ll look into him, won’t you?”

  The face-painted children abandoned the stickleback stall in favour of the new ride. Mrs Winnow rushed at them, cajoling them to stay, but it was like holding water in an open hand. The children flowed by and waited for their chance to spin in a circle on top of a unicorn.

  The merry-go-round had a generator rumbling in protest, belching out black diesel fumes as it coughed into action. The smoke stung Holly’s eyes. The notes in her book grew watery and indistinct. She realised too late she didn’t know the new owner’s name or how to find him.

  Holly cursed. What kind of journalist was she? She should have asked for more details. It was her first lead and she had let it slip away.

  A headache bloomed in the front half of her head, partly from frustration, partly from the fumes. She covered her nose and mouth, watching the children spin through an acrid fog, like the hog roast on its spit.

  The rest of the crowd seemed oblivious to the harm their children were in. Dejected, Mr and Mrs Winnow hung more sticklebacks to their stall, but there were plenty of parents, plenty of people who should be appalled by the flagrant breach of Health and Safety.

  And then it occurred to Holly that the opportunity to impress her boss wasn’t over yet. If the crowds at the Spring Fair weren’t interested, she bet her readers would be. It was a scandal. Someone could go to jail over this.

  Brushing a wonky fringe from her eyes, Holly raised her camera.

  Chapter Two