by Val McDermid
It was almost a relief when she heard a tattoo of knocks on the front door. Tenille froze, eyes wide and hands grasping her book in a white-knuckle grip. More knocks, then a woman’s voice. ‘Miss Gresham? This is the police. Open up, please.’ A silence that seemed to stretch to infinity.
Then the clatter of the letter box. The same voice, more clearly now. ‘Miss Gresham, I must warn you that if you don’t open the door willingly, we will have to force an entry.’
Tenille’s tongue seemed to swell in her mouth, cleaving to the hard palate. Fear stabbed at her bladder, making her want to piss. What the fuck? They shouldn’t be mouthing off about breaking Jane’s door down. Even if they’d made the connection between her and Jane, it wasn’t witnesses they came looking for with a battering ram.
Before she could take the next logical step, there were more knocks on the door, accompanied by shouting this time. Then a sudden stillness, broken by the unmistakable rasp of the mad Irishwoman next door. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what in the name of God are youse making all this racket for?’ The usual coda of a phlegm-laden cough concluded her question.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m Noreen Gallagher. I’m the one who was trying to have a wee sleep in front of the telly until you lot started waking the dead.’
‘We’re looking for Jane Gresham,’ the woman cop said. Tenille screwed up her eyes in concentration, desperate not to miss a word.
‘You’ll not find her here now, will you,’ Noreen said contemptuously.
‘This is her flat, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it’s her bloody flat. But she’s not in it. She’s away home to the Lake District for a couple of weeks. She went off yesterday morning. She knocked to tell me she was going. Big rucksack on her back and all. So you’ll not find Jane Gresham here. What are youse after Jane for, anyway?’
‘That’s police business, Mrs Gallagher. Is anybody else staying in Miss Gresham’s flat?’
Noreen hawked expressively. ‘Not since she got rid of that boyfriend of hers. Useless lump. I told her, you deserve better than that. But the young ones won’t be told, will they? They have to make their own mistakes.’
‘You’re sure there’s nobody else who has a key?’
Noreen sniffed so loudly Tenille could hear the catarrh rattle. ‘Believe you me, if there was anybody in there, I’d know. These walls are so thin you can hear a mouse fart.’
A pause. Then the woman cop weighed in again. ‘Do you know Tenille Cole?’
‘I know Tenille. She’s all right. She’s not got a mouth on her like some of those black bitches.’
‘Have you seen Tenille today?’
‘I’m just after telling youse, Jane’s away. Jesus, what would Tenille be doing round here when Jane’s away?’
‘She doesn’t have a key to the flat?’
Noreen coughed long and hard. ‘Jane’s not daft. She keeps an eye out for Tenille, but she wouldn’t do something that stupid. I’m telling youse, I’ve never seen or heard Tenille round the flat without Jane. Oh, wait a minute,’ she said, realisation pumping excitement into her voice. ‘Don’t tell me youse are looking to blame Tenille for shooting that swaggering darkie her auntie was living over the brush with?’
‘I can’t discuss police business, Mrs Gallagher.’ The woman cop knew how to stand her ground, that much was obvious.
‘It’s funny, you don’t look stupid,’ Noreen said. ‘Looks can be deceiving, though. All I’ll tell you is that you’ll end up making a right arse of yourself if you go down that road. There’s plenty round here that would murder you as soon as look at you, but Tenille’s not one of them. Now, be on your way and stop wasting my time.’
There was a murmur of voices then Noreen Gallagher’s rose above them in a full-blooded yell. ‘Youse are not breaking that door down. What the hell are youse playing at? I’m telling you, there’s nobody in there. Jane Gresham’s a respectable woman, she’s got valuables in that flat. I’m not going to stand by while you break her door down for no good reason, then leave it standing wide open for the toerags round here to strip it to the bare walls. Not to mention that she’s the kind who knows lawyers who would sue the pants off of youse for doing it.’
‘Step away from the door.’ A man’s voice this time. ‘I don’t want to have to arrest you, love.’
‘It’s all right, Sergeant.’ The woman cop was back in the driving seat. ‘Mrs Gallagher has a point. Here’s what we’re going to do, Mrs Gallagher. I’m going to leave an officer here to watch Miss Gresham’s flat, and we are going to make contact with her and clear this matter up. Now, do you know where in the Lake District she’s gone?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s where her family lives. Some village, not the town. That’s all I know. They’ll know at her work, won’t they?’
‘We’ll try that. Thanks very much, Mrs Gallagher.’
‘Next time, you could be a bit quieter.’ She hacked her way out of earshot. Tenille could hear the tail end of her explosive cough through the wall.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tenille thought. What now? She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. And with a cop outside the door, she couldn’t get out either. She was, she thought, totally fucked.
Jane yawned and stretched her back, stiff from hours of poring over some of the most tedious written material she’d ever encountered. Her eyes were smarting from deciphering an assortment of handwriting dating back a hundred and fifty years. There were family letters, scraps of travelogue, even instructions to a builder for the erection of a milking parlour at some unspecified farm. But nothing so far in William Wordsworth’s own hand, nor anything connected with Mary Wordsworth’s enigmatic letter. Nothing but desperately dull, mundane matters related by those who had none of the prosodic gifts of the poet or his diarist sister Dorothy.
Jane looked at her watch. She’d give it another quarter of an hour, then she’d see whether a cup of coffee could revive her enough to continue. With a sigh, she reached into the third box and pulled out a cardboard folder containing half a dozen sheets of yellowing paper with the familiar brown spots of foxing. They were covered in a tight slanting script which Jane recognised as that of William’s eldest son John. All of the letters seemed to be addressed to his brother Willy, written on various dates in the summer and autumn of 1850, mere months after William’s death. The first three contained only routine family news with nothing of note. But as she began the fourth sheet, she realised this was something different. It appeared to be the second page of a letter and, as Jane read it, she felt her face flush and sweat break out along her hairline.
At first she could scarcely believe her eyes. She wondered almost whether the intensity of her desire had somehow brought into being the very thing she sought. But it was no illusion. The more she read it, the clearer it was to Jane that what she held in her hands was another brick in the wall.
Her fingers shaking, she slid the brittle sheet into a transparent plastic envelope. She stared long and hard at it for a few minutes, then stood up on almost steady legs. She needed to find Anthony.
…which you will understand is a matter lying close to my heart. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, but the latter years of my marriage to Isabella brought more grief than joy to all of us. I cannot see that I should be expected to countenance more shame & misery brought to my door because of my connection to that unfortunate family. Our Father’s words remained unknown & unsuspected during his lifetime, & I see no benefit to any of us in changing that state. In short, I have followed our Mother’s directions & done as I see fit. I have instructed Dorcas to take it back from my house forthwith & to insure that no eye should be cast on it again. I vouchsafe that, as I write, it is no longer in existence. Nothing would be served by any other end except the besmirching of our Father’s name, as I trust you will concur. Let us speak no more of it. I pray God that you are all in good health & expect to see you before the month’s end.
Your loving Brother John
15<
br />
Anthony held the plastic sleeve by the corners and frowned in concentration. Jane bit her lip and waited for the verdict. Time stretched till he put it down on his desk, fiddled with his ponytail then finally dragged his eyes back to hers. ‘Do you want to call Jake, or shall I?’ he asked.
His words sent a frisson of shock through Jane’s stomach. ‘Jake?’
‘It needs to be authenticated. As indeed does Mary’s letter. On the face of it, you seem to have uncovered another supporting element for your theory, but before we can be certain that this is not some elaborate hoax, the documents must be examined.’ He smiled. ‘It gives young Jake the perfect excuse to come and visit us. Not that I imagine he needs an excuse.’
A confusion of embarrassment and foolishness swept over Jane. It was thanks to Anthony that she and Jake had met in the first place. He’d been summoned to Dove Cottage to authenticate a bundle of letters that had been offered for sale to the Trust. Because of her particular interest in Wordsworth, Anthony had brought him through to the café to meet her. Anthony hadn’t exactly played Cupid; he would have shivered with horror at the mere idea of being thought to have such base motives. But he had invited them both for dinner with him and his wife Deborah and if not exactly the midwife, he had certainly been present at the birth of their interest in each other. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate to ask Jake,’ she stalled, trying to find a way to tell Anthony it was over without making them both uncomfortable.
Anthony’s eyebrows rose as he reached the right answer. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you two are no longer stepping out together?’
Jane felt her cheeks flush. ‘We’re not seeing each other any more, but that’s neither here nor there as far as the letters are concerned. Jake’s the wrong person for the job because he’s left the museum.’
‘Really? I hadn’t heard.’
Jane was too fond of Anthony to point out that the depths of Lakeland was hardly gossip central. ‘He’s gone off to work for a woman called Caroline Kerr. She’s a–’
‘Dealer,’ Anthony said, a world of disdain in the single word. ‘I know Caroline Kerr. I have conducted business with her. Not from choice, you understand, but because she has been in possession of something we wanted rather badly. She had a suspiciously fine estimate of how much we wanted it and how much we were prepared to pay, and she took us to the last penny available.’ His mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Bright woman, and passionate about her field, but I didn’t like her style. Well, what a disappointment Jake has turned out to be on all fronts. I’m sorry, Jane.’
She managed a weak smile. ‘Given that he’s gone to the dark side, it’s probably for the best, Anthony. I’m sure the museum can provide you with someone at least as well qualified.’
‘Oh, no doubt,’ he said, impatient to move on, away from the awkwardness. ‘And I will set matters in train at once. But let us assume for now that both documents are what they purport to be. This really is rather a find, Jane. At the very least, it does not contradict your theory. And there is this telling sentence: “I cannot see that I should be expected to countenance more shame and misery brought to my door because of my connection to that unfortunate family.” That does seem to point ineluctably towards the Christian Curwens. I can’t think of any other family of whom John would speak in such terms. He was very bitter about Isabella, even after her death.’
‘You couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?’ Jane said. ‘Some historians think Fletcher Christian was in love with Isabella Curwen, and that’s the reason he named his Tahitian wife Isabella. But for whatever reason, she chose his cousin John and he went off to sea. Then Fletcher comes back after the Bounty, is probably protected by John Christian Curwen and Isabella, then confides in William, who writes the story but keeps it hidden. Then fifteen years later, his son marries Isabella’s daughter. It’s like a Barbara Cartland novel.’
‘It’s another connection that strengthens your theory, though. If William had been remotely tempted to publish later in life, the connection to his son would have been a powerful brake.’ He picked the letter up again. ‘The question we really have to ask is whether this takes us any further forward.’
‘It would if I knew who Dorcas was.’
Anthony looked faintly surprised. ‘Sorry, I thought you realised.’
Jane groaned. ‘No, Anthony, I don’t have your encyclopaedic knowledge of the dramatis personae. I have no idea who Dorcas is.’
‘Dorcas was taken on as a maid at Dove Cottage after the long-serving Janet died in 1847.’ Anthony frowned. ‘Dorcas Mason, that was her name. It can’t have been a very jolly time to have been employed by the Wordsworths. William plunged into grief by the death of his favourite child, Dora; sister Dorothy becoming more and more tyrannical; then Isabella’s death and all the attendant issues around the grandchildren. That’s probably why she didn’t stay very long.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘That I will need to check.’ He reached for his mouse and began to click, glancing up at her with a twinkle. ‘You see, I’m not entirely the fount of all knowledge, Jane.’ He paused for a second, typed something on his keyboard then clicked the mouse again. ‘Here we go. Letter from Mary Wordsworth to her friend Isabella Fenwick, August 1851. A year and four months after William’s death. “We are to lose our loyal and hard-working Dorcas, who is to be married before the month’s end. She will make a fine wife and deserves a share of happiness after enduring this grieving household with such forbearance.” There you go, Jane. Now you know all I know about Dorcas Mason.’
‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t really give us any clue as to what she might have done with the manuscript after John handed it back to her.’ Jane sighed. ‘It’s so frustrating.’
‘I suppose it depends on how literally she took John’s instructions. She might have taken it back to Mary, but that would have been going against John’s wishes. She might have taken his words to mean she should destroy it. But she had been part of that household for three years–long enough to have been indoctrinated with the notion of William’s godlike standing in the world of letters. It’s possible she couldn’t bring herself to do anything other than preserve his words. She may have kept it, Jane. Kept it and never showed it to a living soul, in accordance with John’s wishes.’
Jane leaned forward in her chair. ‘If Dorcas kept it, surely it would have surfaced by now?’
‘One would imagine so. But it’s possible it was passed on to her descendants with other papers that have never been properly examined. Or that it was impressed upon whoever inherited it that it didn’t belong to the family and must be held in trust.’ Anthony shrugged. ‘We’ve had papers handed over to us that had been sitting in deed boxes for three or four generations.’
‘I’d like to think it might have survived,’ Jane said wistfully. ‘But it’s not likely, is it?’
‘It’s possible, and that’s enough. Jane, you need to start tracking down Dorcas Mason’s descendants. You can’t afford to pass up the chance, however slim it might appear.’ Anthony pushed back from his desk, the castors of his chair rumbling on the wood floor.
Jane nodded, knowing he was right. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea where to start. I don’t know anything about genealogy.’
‘The County Record Office at Carlisle has all the old parish records. Births, marriages and deaths. And then there’s the censuses. And St Catherine’s House in London. You’re a trained researcher, Jane, it’s not beyond your capabilities.’
‘I’m working with a colleague, he’s still in London. He could get cracking there while I make a start up here,’ Jane said, her expression lightening at the thought.
‘There you go.’ Anthony stood up. ‘Now, be off with you. I need to make arrangements for these documents to be authenticated.’
By the time she emerged from Anthony’s office, the blue skies had disappeared behind a low muffle of cloud. Large drops of rain splattered on the ground, leaving marks like scattered handfuls
of coins on the ground. She ran for the café, pulling out her mobile and calling her mother. Martyrdom had never been Jane’s strong point. No way was she cycling home in this.
There’s no middle way with teenage despair. Either it vanishes like a chalk mark in a rainstorm or it acquires the immovable weight of a granite slab. With Tenille, it was the former. Within minutes of plunging into the depths with the realisation that her chances of escape from Jane’s flat were minuscule, she was developing a plan to put into action if the slenderest of opportunities presented themselves.
The most important thing was to put some distance between herself and the Marshpool. Let the dust settle while she came up with a way to get out from under. The only place she could think of where she might find shelter was with Jane in Fellhead. So the first priority was to figure out how to get there. She had some money, but she wasn’t daft enough to consider taking the train or the express bus. If the cops were looking to put her in the frame, they’d have spread her description and maybe even her picture around. Every cop would be looking for her, and the bus and train stations were where they’d look. Hitching was out of the question for the same reason. That only left local buses. She had to plot a route that would take her from London to Fellhead by hopping from town to town.