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 decided to return to the coach and smoke a quiet cigarette. If the driver had locked the coach and gone off for a bit, well, the weather was clement, the scenery pleasant and there was not enough wind to spoil the pleasure of smoking.
The coach, however was open, although there was no sign of Cyril Noone. This surprised Tedworthy, since most of the passengers had left coats, mackintoshes, umbrellas and hand-luggage on the racks, and had been assured by Noone that the coach was always locked and their property perfectly safe at the various stopping-places.
Tedworthy, who had enjoyed everything else that day, enjoyed his cigarette. He spread himself comfortably over the seat and by the time he had finished his leisurely smoke the others had come straggling back. Some had had tea at a discreetly-sited modern pavilion at the back of the house; others had noted familiar plants in the gardens; all were impressed by the size and beauty of the house and some spoke in admiring ignorance, others with self-conscious knowledge, about the pictures in the long gallery; some speculated on the chances that the house was haunted, the consensus of female opinion being that it most certainly was.
Time passed, the coach filled up and gradually a certain impatience began to make itself felt. It was more than half an hour later than the time specified by Noone for his passengers’ return to the coach. There began to be murmurings.
‘He can’t be at the pub,’ said one of the men. ‘It’s out of hours.’
‘Too far from here, anyway,’ said another, indicating the rural surroundings. ‘We left the last village miles back.’
‘Can’t be engine trouble,’ said somebody else. ‘If it was, he or a mechanic would be tinkering with it.’
‘Perhaps he went into the house and got lost,’ said one of the women. ‘I should think it would be easy enough in a place that size.’
‘Perhaps he’s been taken ill,’ said another voice. ‘These coach-drivers always suffer with their stomachs. It’s wrenching that steering-wheel round the bends that does it.’
They waited half-an-hour longer. Some got out of the coach and strolled about or climbed to the entrance to the gatehouse to look at the view.
‘Wish I’d had a cup of tea while I had the chance,’ said a woman wistfully, ‘but I suppose you’d have to pay again to go inside.’
‘You don’t want to go wandering off now, Doris,’ said her husband. ‘Ten to one the driver will be back any minute.’
But the minutes passed and the driver did not appear. Tedworthy, his schoolmaster sense of responsibility and leadership asserting itself, went up to the house to make enquiries. The man who issued tickets at a small hut just inside the gatehouse was certain that Noone had not passed his portals.
‘I know him well,’ he said. ‘Spring and autumn tours, when it’s quiet and I haven’t got much to do, he always comes along and has a crack with me. Besides, nobody can pass into the courtyard without they buy a ticket from me. You can see that for yourself, sir. Oh, no, he hasn’t come up here.’
Dissatisfied but convinced, Tedworthy returned to the coach and made his report. Another half-hour passed. Those who had left the coach returned to it. There was grumbling, a good deal of comment and speculation and a growing alarm and impatience. At last the man who had mentioned the pub came up to Tedworthy’s seat.
‘Look, old man,’ he said, ‘I used to drive a tank in the desert. How about you navigating and me taking this bus back to the hotel? We can’t stick here for ever. The hotel will have the means to contact the tour people and tell ’em what’s happened. What do you say? Be missing our dinner if we stay here much longer.’