not likely to last, and it did not.
Before the coach moved off from the Canonbury bus station, the driver, his tally complete, introduced himself to his passengers.
‘I am Cyril Noone, your driver-courier. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will all have a pleasant tour and we’ll hope for the best from the weather. You have had your coffee break for this morning, so our next stop is for lunch in Cheltenham. As we go along I shall be indicating any items of interest we pass on the road and I shall also be telling you how long we have for lunch and tea and so forth, and what the arrangements are for our hotel and the time we start off for our first trip tomorrow morning. I don’t need to tell you that good time-keeping is essential on these tours, so I am sure you will all get back to the coach punctually, so that we don’t have to rush things. Thank you.’
At Canonbury Tedworthy’s partner had joined him. She was odd-one-out in a threesome which consisted of husband, wife and wife’s sister, all of advanced middle age but not elderly. He hoped that Miss Eildon (her name on the passenger list with which he had been supplied) would not prove talkative. Courteously he offered her the window seat which he had booked for himself, but she thanked him, refused it and said that she preferred to talk across the gangway to her relatives.
‘That’s if I want to talk,’ she said. ‘I think to look at the scenery is better, don’t you?’ Thankfully Tedworthy agreed. At the first lunch stop he included himself as the fourth member of her party at a table for four and this convenient and agreeable arrangement continued for the rest of the tour.
The coach-load proved to be a mild and orderly party and soon split up into recognisable groups, any lone souls being absorbed in kindly fashion so that nobody was obviously segregated. Tedworthy was well pleased with all the arrangements. He liked the company he was keeping, the hotel where they were to stay for five nights was well situated and comfortable and the meals were good.
The first morning in Dovedale was wet, but newspapers were available, although not included in the price of the tour. Most of the men settled in the lounge to read while the women formed groups and gossiped. When the bar opened at eleven there was an exodus and lunch was served at twelve-thirty because there was a coach-trip to Matlock Bath in the afternoon.
Breakfast was at eight on the following morning. The rain had cleared away and the party, leaving the hotel at a quarter past nine, spent an enjoyable day. There was a halt at Tissington to see one of the florally decorated wells (no longer restricted only to Ascension Day) and another short stop at Eyam. The last was unscheduled, but Tedworthy was anxious to take a photograph of the Saxon cross in the churchyard, a matter of more interest to him than was Cyril Noone’s account of the Reverend William Mompesson and his heroic villagers who, at the time of the Great Plague, remained in their villages and died there instead of fleeing for safety and risking a spread of infection.
The next day was the one which nobody on the coach was ever likely to forget, for it was the day on which Cyril Noone disappeared. The morning arrangements included a trip to Buxton, but Tedworthy opted for a lonely walk in the Dove valley beside the water. He saw the rest of the party off at nine o’clock, then picked up his ashplant and set out. Lunch was to be early, so he looked at his watch, divided his time and decided to allow himself a quarter of an hour for a pint before the meal was served.
The day was fine and sunny after the rain. He had made up his mind not to hurry, for he thought that a man who hastens his steps alongside Izaak Walton’s stream is worse than a fool.
It was easy walking. The lower slopes of the hills were thickly wooded and the trees were still heavy with summer foliage, but above them was the stark grimness of the limestone, culminating in the dominating pointed summit of Thorpe Cloud.
He passed limestone holes in the cliff, some large enough to be called caverns, crossed a narrow wooden bridge and came, in a very shallow reach of water which rippled and reflected the blue of the sky, to stepping stones. The path curved with the river. A kingfisher flashed past and a dipper, a surprising bird to find in the Derbyshire dales, was perched on a large stone with its legs in the water, bobbing and bowing in search of aquatic food.
With no premonition of what was to come, Tedworthy spent a delightful morning and when he got back to the hotel in time for his pint of beer he spotted the coachdriver in the lounge, so he picked up his tankard at the bar and joined Noone at a window which overlooked the hills.
‘Pleasant walk, Mr Tedworthy?’
‘Very. Can’t beat this part of the world. Will you join me?’
‘Very kind of you, but I don’t touch anything midday when I’ve got a trip in the afternoon. Did you get a good picture in the churchyard yesterday?’
‘I hope so. I’m rather keen on these old stone crosses and this one was a beauty.’
‘So long as you didn’t want to pinch it and have me stick it in the boot! We carry some rare peculiar things now and again, you know, but a stone cross would be a new one for me to tote along.’
The coach left at two for the afternoon excursion to Hulliwell Hall. It was one of several great houses in that part of the country and one that Tedworthy looked forward to visiting, for the building spanned six centuries and the earlier parts of it were unspoiled, since additions and repairs had been made, but the successive owners had permitted no other alterations.
The driver parked the coach as near the entrance as he was allowed to do, and this left the passengers with only a short, steep, rather rough climb to the ancient gatehouse.
As he had proved that morning, Tedworthy, who was glad enough of company at meals, preferred to be on his own when there was sightseeing to be done. He climbed the rough slope and ducked under a mediaeval archway inside the gatehouse.
Just beyond the archway was the entrance to a small, stuffy museum, so he made a cursory inspection of bits of broken pottery, leather jugs, Roman coins, Victorian dolls and a scale model of Hulliwell Hall itself and then passed on to explore the actual edifice.
To his relief, there was no question of having to join a conducted party. He inspected the kitchen, the fourteenth century chapel, the banqueting hall and the Tudor long gallery and then strolled out on to the terrace. Behind him were mullioned windows and twin towers. Below him were rose gardens, a park with noble trees and the river with its narrow bridge. It was a fine prospect and he tried to imagine himself the owner of such a place.
He descended a flight of steps from the terrace to the rose-garden and took snapshots of the house, then he
