‘Oh, yes. They are in and out of my cottage, and even borrow the boat when I’m not looking. Pair of little monkeys, both of them.’ He sounded fond of, rather than annoyed by, them.
‘And yet they are not on the list?’
‘Oh… well, no. I didn’t think of them.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t think…?’
‘Mr Barton, my mind is open to all possibilities, but a childish game is the most innocent of explanations so the one worth investigating first. Will they be in Ambleside?’
‘They lodge in Clappersgate with an old lady during term– I’m afraid she lets them run wild when they’re there.’ He spoke as he thought, she realised, not editing his words to reach the answer. He had to take her through his workings. She would wager one of the faults of his poetry was that he hadn’t learned that brevity was the soul of wit. ‘As it’s the school holidays, I’m not sure where they are. Maybe they’re in Keswick with their mother, though they do like to roam. They could well be camping, or fishing, or doing whatever it is boys get up to during their holidays.’
‘Then let us go ask someone who does know.’
* * *
The old woman who housed the Coleridge boys told Dora and Barton that she had last seen them a few days ago. The children had told her they were camping near the cave on the shores of Rydal Water.
‘They’re playing Indian scouts,’ she said as she scattered a handful of seeds to her chickens. ‘Though even Indian scouts like to come calling when it’s baking day.’ She cackled at that.
Dora thanked her, and then she and Barton turned in the direction of Ambleside.
‘What say you to buying a half a dozen buns to lure out our native friends?’ asked Dora.
‘I’d say that was a jolly good idea. I remember I had a ravenous appetite at that age. I should warn you: if they are deep in their character they may not act like perfect gentlemen.’
‘Don’t worry– I know all about playing a character.’
Sweet treats secured, they made their way along the banks of the River Rothay to Rydal, a pleasant walk of less than an hour at a moderate pace. With all this walking, Dora could feel the glow of exercise heating her skin, the perspiration gathering under her breasts and trickling down the small of her back and it made her grateful for any shade. She wished she could do this in a shirt and breeches like Barton. The dip in the tarn with Jacob hovered in her memory like a mirage of all that was cool and delicious. Women’s clothes were damned annoying in summer.
‘Tell me about the cave,’ she asked to distract herself from her discomfort.
‘It’s actually a jolly old slate mine– it looks natural but has long provided the roofing tiles for most of the houses in the area. I can see why it would attract two boys. When no one is mining, it is a perfect haunt for “Indian scouts”.’
They approached along a stony track on the west side of Rydal Water. A little island– a green oasis in the middle of the deep blue lake– made this the prettiest stretch of water Dora had yet seen. It was marvellous how a spell of sunshine transformed the landscape from the sublime to the beautiful.
She would be writing her own travel guide next, she thought ruefully.
‘Heron Island,’ said Barton, seeing where her gaze was directed. ‘I hope they aren’t camping there, or we will have a devil of a time reaching them.’
‘We’ll have to send them smoke signals,’ Dora murmured, amused. This was the most fabulous playground for imaginative children. She would’ve loved to wander here herself at that age, getting as brown as a walnut and toughening the soles of her feet as she left off shoes. Oh, the mischief she and Anthony could have got up to!
A wave of grief followed on the heels of that thought. Her brother had been murdered but three months ago and yet it felt like a lifetime had passed since then.
‘Miss Fitz-Pennington, are you well?’ Barton touched her elbow.
Dora smiled brightly at him, ignoring the sheen of tears in her eyes. ‘Very well, thank you, sir. Now, let’s find ourselves our quarry.’
There was no one working in the mine today. Dora could see why many might think it natural as the entrance was partially flooded with stepping stones leading to the rear wall where slate was next to be excavated. The pool hid any traces of man’s activities. She looked up at the jagged ceiling some twenty foot above.
‘Is it safe?’ she asked her guide.
‘I’ve never heard of an accident.’
Taking that as good enough, she hopped from stone to stone to reach the interior shore. Turning to face the entrance, she could see why this was famed locally.
‘What a view!’ It was like being inside a giant’s gaping mouth looking out on the mountain opposite, trees in the middle distance like scenery flats in a theatre framing the backdrop. It would make a magical set for the Christmas pantomime– Ali Baba– Robinson Crusoe– Aladdin’s cave. ‘I feel like we’ve been swallowed!’
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ Barton poked at a ring of stones with blackened sticks in the centre. ‘But no sign of two boys, unless you count the remnants of a campfire. That could have been left by other visitors.’
‘Then do we go to the shore of Rydal Water? If I were camping, I’d pitch my tent near fresh water.’
