heronscreen<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n It had been an excellent dinner, the more so because none of the diners \u2013 indifferent cooks themselves \u2013 had been involved in its preparation. O\u2019Hanrahan, the Irishman who acted as major domo to the household, had prepared and served the entire meal, and would accept no help with the clearing away of the remains.<\/p>\n \u201cWill you join us for brandy, O\u2019Hanrahan?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve no head for brandy, nor for your sort of tales, Mr Dodgson.\u201d The Irishman considered the half-empty soup tureen in his large hands. \u201cAnd sure now, isn\u2019t that a bottle of porter in the kitchen, calling out to me?\u201d<\/p>\n Dodgson hid his smile. \u201cI do believe so. Well, you know where we are.\u201d<\/p>\n He led the others through into the small dimly-lit study. There were only three of them that night \u2013 Dodgson, his colleague Miss Jessop, and their occasional guest, Lieutenant Redvers Blake.<\/p>\n \u201cA snort, Redvers?\u201d<\/p>\n The young officer ran gloved hands along a bookshelf, his eyes drawn to titles which made little sense to him. These were books he would not care to touch, not with his bare fingers.<\/p>\n \u201cI will, Henry. Be generous with the soda.\u201d<\/p>\n Settled in leather armchairs, the diners entered that awkward comfort of those who have known each other for some time, but who cannot be sure of what any one of them might say. All three took slim cigarettes from the case which Dodgson handed round; matches scraped, and brief flares disturbed the darkened corners of the room.<\/p>\n Dodgson, a broad-shouldered man of almost O\u2019Hanrahan\u2019s proportions, was clearly the most relaxed; pale, slim Miss Jessop the least at ease. Her long fingers brushed the cameo at her throat, ignoring the glass of brandy by her side.<\/p>\n \u201cYou carry something with you, Blake,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cOnly d-d-death, as usual.\u201d The lieutenant spoke without any particular emphasis, without emotion. Winter rain beat on the window panes behind him, muffled by heavy drapes.<\/p>\n \u201cYour work with Special Branch?\u201d Dodgson looked interested.<\/p>\n \u201cNo. A matter of m-m-mills, and uniforms; of ordinary lives. This new B-b-balkans affair, however…\u201d<\/p>\n But neither Dodgson nor Miss Jessop would be diverted.<\/p>\n \u201cThe story, in return for dinner.\u201d Dodgson insisted. \u201cYou know that\u2019s the arrangement here at Cheyne Walk, an arrangement set in stone. You can be what you must be outside these walls, but here, we follow the old ways.\u201d<\/p>\n Blake smoothed his slim moustache with one finger; neither of the other two could see if he smiled or frowned beneath the gesture.<\/p>\n \u201cVery well.\u201d<\/p>\n And so between brandies and cigarettes, speaking crisply above the hiss of the gas-lights, he paid the toll for his meal\u2026<\/p>\n *****<\/p>\n You know that there is a meanness and brutality to much of what I do (began Blake), and some tales I would never tell you. This one, however\u2026 you must judge for yourselves.<\/p>\n Early last week I received orders that I was to head up Manchester way, and from there to make directly for an establishment belonging to the Rochdale Canal Company, somewhere out in the wilds. The company had begged Whitehall\u2019s assistance, and what Whitehall had chosen to send was, well, me.<\/p>\n I asked why, of course. Were we talking insurrection, agents of foreign powers, Bolsheviks \u2013 or perhaps even Fenians? No, came the curt response. Simply\u2026 difficulties. I was told to wear full uniform, and that a canal company man, Mr Charles Edgerton, would explain more when I got there. Orders were orders, so I packed a bag, and did as I was told.<\/p>\n The inclement weather down here at the moment is nothing compared to the winter that the North has been enduring. The train was lashed with sleet as it sped towards Manchester, and once in that city I had the devil of a job to make my way to my destination \u2013 an isolated spot near Todmorden. A motor-cab, skidding on two inches of packed snow, finally managed to get me there later that same afternoon.<\/p>\n I\u2019m not a literary man like you, Dodgson, but let me see\u2026<\/p>\n Picture a landscape of hillsides, almost bare of trees and bleak with snow; villages of grey native stone huddled in valley bottoms, the occasional rearing chimney of a mill or factory, like dead fingers pointing to the heavens. And a building, a badly-wrought brick building set on its own by the canal-side \u2013 a toll station and centre of operations for barge traffic. A friendless place which squatted by a basin crammed with idle, canvas-covered barges.<\/p>\n That was Lydgate Stop House, my temporary assignment, and where I was given into the care of said Mr Edgerton, a damp, nervous man in his fifties.<\/p>\n \u201cLieutenant Blake, from London,\u201d I said, stamping the snow off my boots in his office, \u201cAs requested \u2013 but I d-d-don\u2019t know why.\u201d<\/p>\n At least the fire was built high. The room smelled of mould and scorched toast.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2026 they didn\u2019t tell you?\u201d Edgerton took a kettle from the stove, and scalded himself filling a large cracked teapot. \u201cOh dear me.\u201d<\/p>\n The milk was almost off, but the tea was welcome enough. I sipped, and waited.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2026 er, we have a problem with Low Hawnsey Cut,\u201d he managed at last.<\/p>\n \u201cN-n-never heard of it.\u201d<\/p>\n Ah, how I hate these tales within tales. Still, I\u2019ll give you the gist.<\/p>\n The company had an antique ice-breaking barge, Heron, for when such icy circumstances gripped the network of navigations. Thus, when the hard frost set in, Heron was manned by company men and local workers, and sent to open up the seven mile cut to somewhere called Cochrane\u2019s Mill.<\/p>\n The mill lay in a deep fold of the Pennines, and the waterway in question, Low Hawnsey Cut, was the main artery to the mill \u2013 but the cut was frozen solid.<\/p>\n \u201cOur problem is the… ice-breaking crew, Lieutenant Blake,\u201d he said. \u201cThey\u2026 what with the… body, you see?\u201d<\/p>\n He was a man of many pauses; I was a man without a clue. I suggested that he be succinct, before I took myself back to my cramped but more congenial office at Whitehall.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Heron started from the basin, here\u2026\u201d said the company man, \u201cAnd made good progress, until…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUntil they found a b-b-body?\u201d I suggested, hoping to speed him up. \u201cA corpse in the canal?\u201d<\/p>\n He paled, which was difficult with a man already so wan.<\/p>\n \u201cThe crew\u2026 saw a body in the water. This was yesterday. They had covered almost three miles, the horses were tired, and they\u2026 the tiller-man shouted that there was something\u2026 someone\u2026 in the water, by the patch they had broken moments before.<\/p>\n \u201cNaturally, men rushed to see, and called to the lengthsmen who were on the banks\u2026 they have long rakes, you see, to haul sheets of ice and flotsam to the sides. \u2018A woman!\u2019 was the cry, and rakes dipped from Heron and the canal bank…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey hauled her out, presumably?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere was\u2026 nothing to haul. The rakes went through the\u2026 body, whatever it was. It drifted past the boat, they say, and then\u2026 was gone. Vanished. The men would go no further.\u201d Edgerton swirled the dregs of tea in his cup. \u201cHeron lay near a winding hole on the cut, where she could be turned, when the incident occurred, so they brought her back here to the Stop House, against their instructions. Since then, they talk of spectres, and hauntings, and all manner of unhealthy things\u2026 yet the mill…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s so important about this mill?\u201d I pressed him.<\/p>\n Edgerton explained that Cochrane\u2019s Mill was a leading supplier of serge, under contract to the War Office. The barges in the canal basin outside were jammed with raw materials for the mill, and given the thick ice, neither those materials nor the finished serge could go anywhere. Bargees were angry; tolls were being lost, and the factories which made up the uniforms in Manchester had their own complaints.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t\u2026 can\u2019t seem to get them to take Heron out again, lieutenant.\u201d<\/p>\n My presence now made sense. I was there to bluster, to order, to put steel into these people, to get things moving \u2013 and to deal with any talk of \u2018sightings\u2019. Send that Blake fellow, some idle official must have muttered. \u2018He has a taste for oddities and nonsense.\u2019<\/p>\n I nodded. \u201cSo \u2013 water-weed, old rags that the rakes could not catch; too many early b-b-beers, delusions brought on by this bitter cold. I suppose that I should speak to your men.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t believe in\u2026 ghosts, lieutenant?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI d-d-don\u2019t believe in anything, Mr Edgerton.\u201d<\/p>\n Looking slightly puzzled, the man led me out and round to the rear of the building, where eight or nine men sheltered by some stables, oiling various implements, mending ropes, and drinking mugs of tea from a battered urn.<\/p>\n \u201cBlackwood, this is Lieutenant Redvers Blake, of the \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNorth Surreys.\u201d Which was all they needed to know.<\/p>\n \u201cAh, yes. He is here to consider our little\u2026 problem.\u201d<\/p>\n A thin man with one shoulder higher than the other stood up. Whether his posture was from accident or from birth, I couldn\u2019t tell, but it tilted his long head perpetually to one side. His eyes were sharp enough, though.<\/p>\n \u201cAy up. They goin\u2019 to shoot us, if we don\u2019t work Heron, then?\u201d<\/p>\n I walked closer. \u201cW-w-would that help? I do have my revolver with me.\u201d I spoke affably enough, and patted the side of greatcoat.<\/p>\n Several of the men gave out uncertain laughs; others scowled.<\/p>\n \u201cMr B-b-blackwood, I\u2019m here to get the cut working again. If there\u2019s a way to do so which involves neither guns nor p-p-priests, I\u2019m open to it.\u201d<\/p>\n Blackwood squinted at me. \u201cWe saw what we saw. Ned, Harry, Joseph and all the rest, even them as leads the hosses. There were a woman in the watter, and then there weren\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA woman? Did you recognise her?\u201d<\/p>\n The fact that I didn\u2019t immediately dismiss his words seemed to throw him.<\/p>\n \u201cRecognise, sir? There were no… face, like, nobbut a blur. She had mebbe a dress, shawl, it were hard to tell. And summat white, like a flower, pinned to her.\u201d He touched the lapel of his grubby jacket. \u201c\u2019Bout here.\u201d<\/p>\n It was an odd detail. The others agreed, though not everyone had seen the flower or broach, whatever it was. These men had had time to confer, but there were none of those typical \u2018rehearsed\u2019 lines to be heard. Most said it had been a woman; almost all thought that the body had been drifting along in the same direction as the weak current, which was some product, beyond me, of lock gates, sluices and the reservoirs above Cochrane\u2019s Mill.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen would you take Heron out again, n-n-normally?\u201d<\/p>\n Blackwood considered the grim, snow-speckled afternoon which gripped the toll house, the basin, and the low hills around it.<\/p>\n \u201cShould mebbe be out now,\u201d he admitted. \u201cBut the light\u2019s goin\u2019, and the hosses aren\u2019t ready.\u201d<\/p>\n I had no wish to remain up North any longer than needed. \u201cMr Edgerton, Mr Blackwood. We\u2019ll sail \u2013 or whatever you canal p-p-people call it \u2013 first thing tomorrow. I\u2019ll be on the boat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n That earned them what might be called an \u2018army stare\u2019. \u201cAnd I hope you have a cot ready for me somewhere in this Stop House of yours.\u201d<\/p>\n I was given a room cluttered with dusty ledgers and unidentifiable tools; Edgerton was sleeping in the toll-keeper\u2019s bedroom, and the toll-keeper in the office downstairs.<\/p>\n Supper was a fatty chop and a slurry of heavily-boiled peas, peppered with attempts by Edgerton to tell me things I didn\u2019t really need to know.<\/p>\n \u201cWe rely, you see, lieutenant, on the steady flow, yes, the steady flow of industry\u2026 each broken link costs everyone. Our investors, the bargees and the families, who have to eat; the mill-workers who must be on short hours until goods move in and out\u2026 you understand?\u201d<\/p>\n Low Hawnsey Cut did have to be opened, it seemed.<\/p>\n *****<\/p>\n I slept badly; there were missing tiles on the Stop House roof, with the resultant whistle of icy blasts across my room throughout the night. At first light I abandoned my cot and shaved in a bowl of cold water. There was a hot brew waiting down below, accompanied by cheese and stale bread buns. \u2018Baps\u2019, the company man called them.<\/p>\n \u201cThey have Heron ready,\u201d said an unshaven Edgerton. \u201cCome, I\u2019ll take you. I don\u2019t\u2026 participate myself, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n Of course.<\/p>\n We made our way over frozen ground, away from the basin and the double lock which led into the Rochdale Canal, heading north-west for the first stretch of Low Hawnsey Cut itself. It was an unromantic stretch of grey water, stone-lipped and bordered by no more than the occasional stunted hawthorn, their leafless forms bent over the tow-path as if they sought to reclaim it. I was surprised to see that a team of six horses stamped and blew clouds of steam by the water, already harnessed to\u2026 an odd boat indeed.<\/p>\n Heron was a wooden barge of forty foot or more, maybe eight wide, with a great iron rail running down the length of it, fixed with metal stanchions to stand about three foot above the planked deck.<\/p>\n \u201cShe has, you see\u2026\u201d panted Edgerton, clearly not a fit man, \u201cProtective plates bolted to her sides. As the horses pull, the men grip the rail… and roll the barge, first one way then the other. This and the forward motion shatter the ice.\u201d<\/p>\n Blackwood and four others had turned up to man the icebreaker, six less than her normal crew, I was told \u2013 and those few stalwarts hardly looked cheerful. Their faces fell further when a large heavily-wrapped woman came striding down towards us.<\/p>\n \u201cAlma.\u201d Blackwood reddened. \u201cGet \u2018ome.\u201d<\/p>\n The woman glanced at Edgerton and myself, sniffed and turned to Blackwood.<\/p>\n \u201cTo hell wi\u2019 thee, Layton Blackwood.\u201d She strode across the gangplank, onto the barge, and took up a position at the rail. \u201cIf tha cannot get t\u2019men to do it, someone must.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHis wife.\u201d Edgerton dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief. \u201cA\u2026. lively woman. Well, Blackwood will be on the tiller, and if you stand there with him, you\u2019ll see the way we work.\u201d<\/p>\n A mutter or two, and the rest of the crew was in place. Alma Blackwood was a head taller than the men, and as she rolled up her sleeves, I saw muscle enough to drop a donkey in those arms. Her husband clearly didn\u2019t wish to discuss her presence, but called out for the \u2018hosses\u2019 to begin their steady plod up the tow-path.<\/p>\n The wind had dropped, leaving a chill mist clinging to everything, but we were mercifully free of yesterday\u2019s snow or sleet. I braced myself at the stern, careful not to be in the way of the tiller-man, and Heron shuddered as the ropes went taut and she began to move.<\/p>\n \u201cOld, solid oak, and iron plates,\u201d said Blackwood. \u201cShe\u2019ll break an inch, mebbe more.\u201d<\/p>\n I could see fragments of ice still clinging to the banks of the cut, glinting whenever the weak morning sun broke through, but the way ahead showed only fragile skins reaching out from those fragments. Occasionally a jumble of dead leaves and detritus had frozen into a block by the tow-path. Stone markers on the bank showed each half mile; the horses hauled, silent in the mist except for the thump of their hooves. We were an island of quiet, no talk between those on the rail; most of them had pipes out, and were staring down at the water as they smoked.<\/p>\n \u201cHow much farther?\u201d I found myself speaking in a hushed tone.<\/p>\n \u201cLess\u2019n a mile,\u201d said Blackwood, hunched over the tiller. \u201cHeron\u2019s a heavy bugger, with all that iron, and the best hosses are on the Rochdale. We\u2019ll get\u2026 there.\u201d<\/p>\n There.<\/p>\n Where they had seen the apparition, if such it was; where they had stopped the barge, and baulked at going on.<\/p>\n Heron surged, slowed, surged, as the lads at the horses showed their jitters, not regulating the pull as well as they should.<\/p>\n \u201cSteady, there!\u201d I call over. \u201cNice and steady.\u201d<\/p>\n Blackwood accepted a cigarette from me.<\/p>\n \u201cThe army must want them uniforms bad.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cD-d-doubt the army cares that much. What it doesn\u2019t want is canal companies and m-m-mill owners bothering it.\u201d<\/p>\n Which earned me a thin smile.<\/p>\n \u201cYou a regular, then, lieutenant? Seen action.\u201d<\/p>\n They always want to know, and what they want to know was: Have I killed anyone? The Fenians ask it, when cornered in dank cellars; the pacifists ask it at polite dinners. Children ask it, and old men always wonder\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve seen enough.\u201d I said, and turned away.<\/p>\n We hit thin ice ten minutes later, but that meant nothing to Heron\u2019s bows. Some twenty yards ahead I could now see the untouched sheet which blocked the cut. The men looked nervous. I slipped off one glove, and gripped the rail at the stern, reaching into the barge with my damnable, unwanted gift, listening\u2026<\/p>\n Nothing. Scarred timbers, iron, years of duty, but Heron was what she seemed. I could sense no malice, no unnatural influence within her.<\/p>\n Blackwood\u2019s eyes were fixed on the others.<\/p>\n \u201cReady, lads. You\u2019ll want to hang on there, lieutenant.\u201d<\/p>\n Edgerton\u2019s explanation hadn\u2019t prepared me for the moment of action. As the barge came close to unbroken ice, the tiller-man set up a call \u2013 a canal shanty, I suppose you\u2019d call it.<\/p>\n \u201cHold, and\u2026<\/p>\n Those at the long rail tensed themselves, boots scraping on the deck.<\/p>\n \u201cOnside! Offside! Let her run, and… Onside! Offside!\u201d<\/p>\n With the first word of command, the crew \u2013 without letting go of the main rail \u2013 threw their weight in the direction of the tow-path, and with the second, lurched towards the other side.<\/p>\n \u201cOnside! Offside!\u201d<\/p>\n Heron shifted with them, rolling in the water, and hit the thick ice like a slow, twisting bullet. A great grinding and cracking sound arose about us as the ice-sheet splintered; the timbers of the barge moaned, but held.<\/p>\n Fascinated, I watched as the frozen surface of the canal shattered, throwing up inch-thick plates of ice and a spray of ugly water. Men who had followed the tow-horses, willing to work as long as they didn\u2019t have to be on the barge, unshouldered rakes with clawed tines and dragged the broken ice to the banks, hauling some slabs out of the water altogether.<\/p>\n It was practised, organised.<\/p>\n \u201cOnside! Offside! And let her run, me bullies!\u201d<\/p>\n I threw off my greatcoat, and went to the rail, next to Alma Blackwood.<\/p>\n \u201cYou object, madam?\u201d<\/p>\n Dark eyes narrowed. \u201cHold t\u2019rail tight, lad. I\u2019m not fishing thee out.\u201d<\/p>\n This was work. All had to time their movements perfectly, and to do so gripping a freezing iron rail, with wet planks beneath us. I thanked my heavy army boots for joining me, and I cursed my arms, which were aching after only ten minutes of lurching and wrenching.<\/p>\n \u201cOnside! Offside! And\u2026 Lord, look!\u201d<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t difficult to spot what should not have been there \u2013 a shadow, emerging from under the ice ahead. Not a woman this time, but possibly a child.<\/p>\n The body was floating a few inches below the surface to our larboard. Offside, as Blackwood would have put it. I let go the rail, and went forward, picking up one of the long rakes on the deck.<\/p>\n This child \u2013 a boy, I thought, maybe eleven or twelve years old \u2013 drifted face-up in the cut, but the face was wrong. The eyes, the mouth, were smudges, the whole head indistinct; likewise, the drab clothes were vague, as if seen through muslin.<\/p>\n I dipped the rake, but already knew what would happen \u2013 the curved tines passed through the apparition without resistance.<\/p>\n Worse for the mood of Heron\u2019s crew, I was not the only one who could see that there were more such dark blurs, slipping out from under the ice before us\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cSteady!\u201d I snapped, hearing alarmed mutterings and curses behind me. \u201cThere\u2019s n-n-no harm in them.\u201d<\/p>\n The horses had been stopped; Heron was barely moving. The mist had thinned, but I could see dark, heavy clouds gathering. More snow. For a brief moment every living eye was on me \u2013 the army man, stiff, expressionless in his wet uniform. These are the times I hate, the times I use. Depressing, how men will follow a uniform into peril, however stupid or venal the wearer.<\/p>\n \u201cDouble wages.\u201d I stared round at the worried faces. \u201cWe b-b-break another hundred yards or so, to see whatever has been laid out for us to see. D-d-double wages for today.\u201d<\/p>\n I had no authority for this, but could not see the pale, worried Edgerton denying me.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll be on the rail with you,\u201d I reminded them. \u201cB-b-but they\u2019ll not give me a brass farthing more for it. Pity the poor bloody soldier.\u201d<\/p>\n Alma Blackwood responded with a snort of amusement, which broke the mood. \u201cHunnert yards, aye. I\u2019m game.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlma \u2013\u201d Her husband fingered the tiller, hesitant. She was shaming them, as she had done when she boarded the barge.<\/p>\n I clapped my gloved hands together. \u201cSettled, then. Whatever these are \u2013 lost souls or echoes \u2013 they can\u2019t hurt us.\u201d<\/p>\n Which may have been wishful thinking, but suited the moment.<\/p>\n \u201cEchoes?\u201d said the big woman. \u201cEchoes of what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPeople who\u2019ve d-d-drowned here over the years?\u201d I had no idea, in truth. \u201cMemories?\u201d<\/p>\n The next man along shivered, and I decided it was best not to explore the matter further at that time.<\/p>\n \u201cMr Blackwood?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAye \u2013 I s\u2019ppose.\u201d<\/p>\n He called out to those who were leading the horses, cursed the lengthsmen for slacking in their task of dragging broken ice to the sides, and the barge began to move forward again. Onside, offside, and into the next slab with a crunch, and a crack like a rifle being fired. Fault-lines shot across the surface, and Heron made another few yards, sheet-ice breaking into manageable chunks for the rakes.<\/p>\n \u201cCut\u2019s nobbut two year old,\u201d said Mrs Blackwood as we lurched to starboard with the rest. \u201cMeks no sense there\u2019d be s\u2019many drowned, like.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n It was not a sight that inspired enthusiasm in me, I admit. As the ice shattered, those dim forms floated towards us with a painful slowness, and no one could be immune to their presence. They did at first seem like rags and water-weeds from a distance, but as we closed, they could only be visions of people. Boys, perhaps also girls, women in long skirts and shawls, a man in working clothes \u2013 but the hands and faces indistinct, blurred. I knew there was no point in using the rake again, or seeking any physical contact \u2013 and what sensitivity has been forced on me is useless without touch.<\/p>\n \u201cD-d-do any of you,\u201d I said, in a loud clear voice, \u201cKnow these people? Can you tell me anything about who they might be?\u201d<\/p>\n The crew peered into the water with reluctance.<\/p>\n \u201cThem\u2019s the dead.\u201d A thin, red-haired man on the other side of the rail crossed himself with his free hand. \u201cThe dead, come t\u2019warn us of oor sins.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBloody funny way o\u2019 doin\u2019 it,\u201d said Mrs Blackwood. I was warming to her. She had a broad face, a broad accent and a bluntness which I could appreciate.<\/p>\n My gaze was on the water; as the apparitions passed Heron, I saw that they grew more tenuous, as if dissolving, until nothing could be seen of them.<\/p>\n Snow had begun to fall, and given the mood of those around me, I could see little point in continuing. I understood that Cochrane\u2019s Mill was only three miles off, where the cut curved around a spur of scree-marred hill.<\/p>\n Might as well have been fifty miles.<\/p>\n \u201cHave the team unhitched, Blackwood, there\u2019s a g-g-good chap. I think we\u2019re done for today.\u201d<\/p>\n There was no way to turn Heron around at this spot, so she was tied up. Men and horses made their way back, the men moody and quiet, the horses content enough that they would soon be stabled, and at their feed.<\/p>\n When we reached Lydgate Stop House, Edgerton came out, and saw plain enough how people were going into huddles, making occasional gestures towards me.<\/p>\n \u201cIt happened\u2026 again?\u201d He brushed snow from his cheek.<\/p>\n \u201cWorse this t-t-time.\u201d I followed him into the office and set myself to steam by the fire. It was easy enough to give him a summary of the day\u2019s progress.<\/p>\n \u201cWill they go out tomorrow?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith me, p-p-possibly. But I\u2019ve something to do, first. I need a riding horse, and a local guide. Where does Alma B-b-blackwood work, normally?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe oversees some of the looms at Cochrane\u2019s Mill. Her husband knows the area, though…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBetter that it\u2019s her.\u201d<\/p>\n He huffed and sighed, but made arrangements.<\/p>\n By four in the afternoon, with constant light snow, I was back on the tow-path, a skittish mare under me and Alma Blackwood striding alongside. She didn\u2019t ride, laughed at the idea.<\/p>\n \u201cAh walk God\u2019s earth, like it were meant. They call this God\u2019s Own Country, did tha know, Lieutenant Blake? Meant for hard women, frit of nowt.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy name\u2019s Redvers. You m-m-might as well use it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlma.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo what are the men saying?\u201d I edged the mare around an icicle-tipped hawthorn.<\/p>\n \u201cNowt and summat. \u2018Bad fortune for all\u2019, and \u2018Needs t\u2019vicar and his book-larnin\u2019,\u2019 that sort o\u2019 talk. They\u2019re not sure, but seein\u2019 tha work t\u2019boat fair took them. None o\u2019 the bosses would ha\u2019 done that.\u201d<\/p>\n We came to the section where Heron was moored, lonely by the bank. Faint ripples on the open water; a cold gleam to the ice. None of the earlier phantoms remained, but there was yet another dark figure in the water, drifting slowly as before. I dismounted.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you game to look, Alma?\u201d<\/p>\n She spat out chewing tobacco, and followed me to the edge, which put us no more than five feet from the \u2018apparition\u2019. It was clearly female \u2013 and the face was more distinct this time. A high forehead, thick eyebrows\u2026 I fancied the eyes were closed, but that was harder to discern. Alma sucked in a breath.<\/p>\n \u201cHettie Cowton, ah\u2019d swear. See, she\u2019s gotten that red shawl on.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhen d-d-did she die?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe nivver did. Ah saw her this morn, fit as anything, afore I came down. On her way to t\u2019mill. Works t\u2019looms, she does. Sithee, cut\u2019s froze over solid to Cochrane\u2019s, so how\u2019d she get down \u2018ere? Meks no sense.\u201d<\/p>\n It did not.<\/p>\n \u201cA red shawl, a white flower. Your husband saw the f-f-first\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA white rose, he were thinking, as he said to me. Tha knows, like t\u2019flower o\u2019Yorkshire.\u201d She turned from the water. \u201cLieutenant\u2026 Redvers, then. Queer sort o\u2019 name. It dunt seem like tha\u2019s ower fussed by this. Tha\u2019s seen ghosts and t\u2019like afore?\u201d<\/p>\n We regarded each other, whilst soft flakes gathered on our shoulders. Two different worlds, tight-wrapped in the cold \u2013 the mill woman, and the man who fed the hangman.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve seen worse. It\u2019s what they p-p-pay me for.\u201d<\/p>\n She nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cOur Uncle Alf \u2018ad a stammer, when \u2018e went down the mines.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid he get over it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot before t\u2019shaft collapsed and took \u2018is \u2018ead off. Us didn\u2019t notice it s\u2019much after that.\u201d She laughed, and trudged on towards the mill.<\/p>\n I wondered if she\u2019d ever considered joining the army. We could have used men like her.<\/p>\n *****<\/p>\n Water made industry. Alma explained it as we rounded the scree and came in sight of Cochrane\u2019s Mill. Two small reservoirs fed the mill, which thrived on steam from its own boilers, and the flow, polluted with washings from the textile sheds, went into a basin directly by the mill. The basin, now iced-up, then fed the cut which ran to the Rochdale Canal.<\/p>\n There isn\u2019t much to tell you about the mill. A massive four storey building, facing the water as I said, and an engine house to the back and centre, like the servants\u2019 wing of a mansion, with a two hundred and fifty foot chimney rearing above all. Pale brick, with the occasional terracotta moulding, set against gloomy hillsides which harboured rows of small cottages. It was a dour land, making dour folk.<\/p>\n \u201cCome wi\u2019 me.\u201d<\/p>\n Alma took me through broad, open gates to one side, and into the behemoth. I followed her up flights of steep stone steps to the second floor, where mechanical looms clacked across the length of the floor, making the most abominable noise. Ropes, pulleys and beams; the smell of sweat and chemicals.<\/p>\n \u201cThere!\u201d she said, pointing to a loom-worker with a distinctive crimson shawl around her shoulders. \u201cThat\u2019s Hettie Cowton.\u201d<\/p>\n The woman at the loom turned her head for a moment, and yes, the likeness was unmistakable, the clothes identical. We had seen the semblance of a living woman drifting as if dead in the icy waters of the cut, where she could not be.<\/p>\n \u201cHow do, Alma.\u201d A man in a worn, over-tight suit sauntered over. \u201cThought you were down at Lydgate Stop House.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh\u2019m to help this gentleman, the maisters say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLieutenant Blake, N-n-north Surreys,\u201d I said. \u201cWhitehall send me about the hold-ups with the serge.\u201d<\/p>\n He shook my hand. \u201cBert Gault, foreman for Cochrane\u2019s. Aye, it\u2019s a rum do. Hear some lass or summat drowned in the cut, spooked the canal men.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSomething like that.\u201d I imagined that this afternoon\u2019s news would spread like wildfire once the men around the Stop House went back to their homes.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s it going with the cut, sir?\u201d asked Gault.<\/p>\n \u201cCan\u2019t say, as yet. Three miles still frozen. It\u2019ll be p-p-pack mules between here and clear water, at this rate.\u201d<\/p>\n He took this idea more seriously than I\u2019d expected.<\/p>\n \u201cMight be done, with carts and suchlike. I\u2019ll tell the bosses, if needs must. But you\u2019re here, so must want summat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI n-n-need the feel of the place.\u201d<\/p>\n He frowned. \u201cAlma can show you round, as good as any, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMuch appreciated.\u201d<\/p>\n In truth, I didn\u2019t want a tour as such. I wanted to find a girl with a white rose, or a white silk flower, that sort of thing, pinned to her blouse or jacket. Was it possible that all the drowned were from this mill?<\/p>\n Alma knew everyone, be it for the time of day, for a word about \u2018snap\u2019 as they called the food they took at breaks, or for news of Low Hawnsey Cut. She said little about the latter. We walked the weaving and finishing floors, watched carders at their work on the raw wool; we edged away as boys ran past, carrying huge bobbins. The place was an ants\u2019 nest built of Northern brick.<\/p>\n \u201cHang on.\u201d We were back by the looms, and through the dusty air I saw a flash of white. I almost ran, skidding up to a young woman at a loom, much to her dismay. I would have put her at seventeen or eighteen years of age, and she wore a grubby white silk rose pinned to her lapel.<\/p>\n \u201cMister, I\u2019ve dun nowt \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd there\u2019s nowt to worry on,\u201d said Alma, huffing up behind me. \u201cMeggy, this \u2018ere\u2019s a gentleman wi\u2019 t\u2019canals.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t mean what I says,\u201d the girl whimpered. \u201cI\u2019m not reet, Alma. You know that.\u201d<\/p>\n My guide caught Gault\u2019s attention, mimed taking this girl from her place; the foreman looked to me, and nodded.<\/p>\n We walked to the stairwell, the three of us, and I knew there was something wrong. Meggy Whoever-she-was was frightened. Alma leaned close to me.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s allus been slow, mebbe a bit touched. There\u2019s no \u2018arm in \u2018er, though.\u201d In a louder voice, she said: \u201cTha must tell Mr Blake \u2018ere whatever is botherin\u2019 thee.\u201d<\/p>\n Soft brown eyes shifted in my direction, then to the older woman.<\/p>\n \u201cI been hearing it, Alma, these last couple of days. It\u2019s so loud, like God\u2019s shouting at me. Like thunder, it is, in me head. I tells them \u2018Summat bad\u2019s coming,\u2019 but they laughs at me. \u2018Meggy Gaines, daft as our dog.\u2019 They won\u2019t listen…\u201d<\/p>\n She was weeping; I hauled out a handkerchief and gave it to her.<\/p>\n \u201cLike thunder?\u201d<\/p>\n Meggy nodded, pulling on a length of thin blonde hair. I took her gently by one hand.<\/p>\n \u201cThis feeling you have \u2013 when d-d-did it start?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThree, four days ago, sir. But it\u2019s me \u2013 I\u2019m touched, like they say. Allus getting \u2018feelings\u2019, I am. Me mam hits me for it.\u201d<\/p>\n I tried to smile in what I hoped was a considerate manner. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll have a word with your mother about that, Meggy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGo on, lass, back to tha place,\u201d said Alma. \u201cNot so long \u2018til knockin\u2019 off time.\u201d<\/p>\n Thunder.<\/p>\n What was thunder? A storm coming? I am not, thank some pitiless God, a psychic, but I felt uncomfortable, ill at ease.<\/p>\n \u201cIs it n-n-nonsense, what the girl says? About \u2018feelings\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n The tall woman paused, frowned. \u201cMeggy were reet about Young Alf losin\u2019 a leg in t\u2019ropes, last summer, like. She said as he\u2019d not be walkin\u2019 again, and that were t\u2019day afore it \u2018appened. But she says all sorts…\u201d<\/p>\n I was painfully aware that most so-called \u2018sensitives\u2019 relied on keen observation, co-incidence, and clever half-truths. And yet…<\/p>\n \u201cHas anything changed in the last few days, Alma? Here at the mill, I mean. Or did anything happen, three or four days ago, before Heron first went out?\u201d<\/p>\n She thought hard, then called Bert Gault over and asked him the same question. He had to work it over as well, chewing on an unlit pipe.<\/p>\n \u201cNowt much, sir. We\u2019ve had a bit of trouble, like, with the looms and the carding machines \u2013 first they run too fast, then too slow. I telled the bosses as we should have engineers out, in case the boiler, or the piston fittings\u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTake me there. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n Too surprised at my tone to argue, they led me down again, and into the engine house attached to the main mill. The noise was worse than elsewhere, the hiss and clatter of great pistons; sharp bursts of steam and men yelling at each other.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a triple-expansion engine, you see \u2013\u201d Gault began, but I pushed him aside. Pulling the leather glove from my left hand. I pressed my bare palm to the nearest wall, and listened.<\/p>\n The inanimate can be sullen, unwilling to share its slow existence, but I waited, seeking some connection. My fingertips stroked the coarse surface of the bricks; Gault and Alma Blackwood watched me, perhaps just as they watched Meggy Gaines when she had \u2018feelings\u2019, and then I found it. Cochrane\u2019s Mill spoke to me.<\/p>\n You understand that objects, places, have no voice, not as such. What I hear is what they have heard, felt, seen \u2013 and this building spoke of rushed construction and poor foundations, which it might have withstood. Worse, it spoke of a flaw in its beating heart, deep in the engine house. A flaw that was worsening, a fatal wound.<\/p>\n The building itself expected thunder, and destruction, soon…<\/p>\n \u201cClear the mill!\u201d I yelled at Gault and Alma.<\/p>\n The foreman stared at me as if I were mad. \u201cI can\u2019t \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n My revolver slid easily from its holster, used to the work. I didn\u2019t aim at anyone, but I showed it plainly for any who were watching the scene.<\/p>\n \u201cFor God\u2019s sake, clear the mill! Get them all out!\u201d I locked my gaze on Alma Blackwood, and she did not disappoint me.<\/p>\n \u201cThe whistles, Bert,\u201d she said, urgent. \u201cThe fire whistles.\u201d<\/p>\n He gaped, but then ran to the wall, where a heavy iron handle protruded from a cabinet. He pulled down hard, and somewhere outside a steam whistle shrieked, loud enough to be heard over the engine noise. Others sounded off within seconds, and I caught the thin shrill of something akin to policemen\u2019s whistles on the floors above.<\/p>\n A system \u2013 at least they had a system.<\/p>\n My left hand was still pressed against the wall, and I could hear it coming, pain which lanced through brick and mortar, pain which would twist an iron beam like a child\u2019s liquorice stick.<\/p>\n I made for the nearest way out, shouting at anyone I met to get as far away as possible.<\/p>\n A panicked, puzzled crowd of workers jostled down the stairwells, out into the main yard, and I urged them further away, helped by Alma.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it?\u201d she grunted, pushing confused boys aside and out of the gates. \u201cWhat\u2019s \u2018appenin\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll know soon enough.\u201d I saw stragglers still coming out the mill, and wondered if I could be wrong \u2013 but then I heard the thunder.<\/p>\n The first roll of it was apparently the sound of the boiler exploding; it felt as if the hills shook, but that was probably an echo of the blast. We ran, all of us \u2013 I grabbed a dazed girl by her waist and carried her bodily away from the mill yard; children shrieked and had to be made to hurry…<\/p>\n The ground definitely moved only a moment after that, for whatever carnage there had been in the engine room, it must have torn at the roots of the great chimney.<\/p>\n Two hundred and fifty foot of brick, cast iron and terracotta, the chimney trembled, swayed \u2013 and fell. Not lengthways, but down, the entire mass collapsing in stages into the mill\u2019s main body, shearing through the upper floors. A cloud of dust and debris filled the air for a moment, obscuring our view…<\/p>\n \u201cDear Jesus!\u201d gasped a man behind me.<\/p>\n Slowly, ever so slowly, the entire south face of the mill broke away, sliding into the frozen basin. I saw a boy scrabble at a wooden beam, screaming \u2013 and saw him fall, still screaming, into waters which churned with masonry and ice\u2026<\/p>\n *****<\/p>\n In the quiet study, Blake lit a cigarette.<\/p>\n \u201cThere were two hundred and n-n-ninety three survivors,\u201d he said, \u201cAnd seventeen people crushed, killed instantly \u2013 or missing, presumed d-d-dead. Two men, eleven women, and four children.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDear God,\u201d said Dodgson.<\/p>\n \u201cMeggy Gaines was amongst the dead; I found her b-b-body myself, under a shattered loom frame.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA damned bad business. So\u2026 the figures in the water…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMatched the seventeen who died, as far as I could establish afterwards. We searched the rubble as best we could, but the main building was at that time too dangerous to venture in far. Most of those killed had fallen into the basin with the collapse of the mill\u2019s upper floors \u2013 they\u2019re still hauling d-d-debris from the water.<\/p>\n \u201cI stayed at Lydgate Stop House two more days, and took Heron out again; we opened the cut all the way, so that emergency supplies could be run directly to the communities around what was left of Cochrane\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n The study fell silent, apart from the rattle of rain against the window; Dodgson rose and went to lean on a bookcase, his half-empty glass in his hand.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re an odd fellow, Blake.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAm I?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor heaven\u2019s sake, had you not been there, it would have been a tragedy of terrible proportions. Your actions probably saved over two hundred people.\u201d<\/p>\n Blake shrugged. \u201cM-m-makes up for some of those I\u2019ve killed, I suppose. You might as well give the credit to Mrs B-b-blackwood, who took it all in her stride, and made sure the alarm was sounded.\u201d<\/p>\n Miss Jessop shifted in her chair. \u201cYou mentioned a red shawl on one of the figures in the water. I presume Hettie Cowton was among those who were lost.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe was.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA procession of the dead, before their deaths,\u201d she murmured. \u201cGhosts of the living, headed by Meggy Gaines herself with her white rose, the first apparition they met. I wonder, did poor Meggy somehow create those images without knowing what she was doing \u2014 or did she intend<\/i> to provide a warning of the disaster to come?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cD-d-did her no good, either way\u201d said Blake with a sour look. \u201cP-p-perhaps it was simply what had to be.\u201d<\/p>\n Thunder sounded outside, and Redvers Blake stared at the curtains, without seeing them.<\/p>\n \u201cHenry, I\u2019ll t-take a dash more of that b-b-brandy, I think,\u201d he said. \u201cBut forget the soda, this time, old chap.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (copyright John Linwood Grant, 2020, 2023)<\/em><\/p>\n 2024 will see the publication of John Linwood Grant\u2019s fourth and fifth collections of dark tales, as well as two anthologies he is editing –\u00a0 Alone on the Borderland: The Edwardian Weird<\/em> and A Darker Continent: Strange tales of Europe at War<\/em>. His most recent publication is the 80 page novella \u2018A Promise of Blades\u2019, which can be found in Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness<\/em> (Crystal Lake, 2023):<\/strong><\/p>\n amazon us<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n amazon uk<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n ANOTHER SUPERNATURAL WINTER STORY IN A DAY OR SO\u2026<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Today, for your consideration during idle moments, we offer the full text of another of JLG\u2019s stories of the strange and supernatural at this time of year, \u2018The Heron in Winter\u2019, to read here online or download as a pdf. Set in 1907, this tale concerns the Edwardian intelligence officer Redvers Blake, who is ordered … Continue reading A SUPERNATURAL YULE: THE HERON IN WINTER<\/span>
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\nTHE HERON IN WINTER<\/strong><\/h2>\n
by John Linwood Grant<\/strong><\/h2>\n
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