The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries)

by Martin Edwards

She’d struck a nerve – he was almost shouting. The only other time she’d seen him this rattled was on the night of the car crash, when they were together in the ambulance. He’d recovered consciousness, only to be told that Carrie was dead, and she’d watched tears trickle down his cheeks.

  ‘Okay, calm down. I only …’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Shona didn’t ever … flirt with you, did she?’

  ‘No way!’ He was breathing heavily, fighting for calm. ‘You shouldn’t poke your nose in, Joanna. It won’t do any good.’

  ‘I’d love to see Nigel again.’ She paused. ‘Are you going back to the Dungeon House this afternoon?’

  ‘Ravenglass Knoll,’ he said. ‘It’s not been the Dungeon House for twenty years. Nige is seeing the police this afternoon. They are due to give him an update.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said recklessly. ‘I wasn’t hoping for a lift. I haven’t forgotten what happened last time I was your passenger.’

  He took a step forward, and for a second she thought he was going to start strangling her again. ‘And you think I have forgotten?’ he demanded through gritted teeth.

  ‘No, no, of course not. Sorry, Robbie, that was uncalled for. It’s just that …’

  ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Would you let Nigel know I’ve come back to Ravenglass? Please?’

  ‘Is that it?’

  She dug her bag out of the Polo, scribbled her mobile number on a scrap of paper, and handed it to him. ‘If you could ask him to ring me? Or I can give him a call, if it’s easier. Will you do that, Robbie?’

  ‘All right. Now, I have things to do. You’d better go.’

  She felt like dancing, she was so exhilarated. Her skin tingled, her heart beat faster. Soon she’d see Nigel again, she was sure of it. As for Robbie Dean, for as long as she could remember, he’d scared her. His mood swings were so intimidating. Yet she’d faced him down. And although she wasn’t quite sure how, she’d managed to turn the tables. Today, he almost seemed more scared of her than she was of him.

  ‘How was Cruella?’ Daniel asked as Hannah walked through the door.

  She kissed his cheek. ‘May I be bitchy?’

  ‘Please, be my guest.’

  ‘Getting old. Grumpy. It won’t be long before we can describe her as raddled without risking an action for slander. Tell you what, though, her tongue’s still as sharp as a Stanley knife.’

  ‘The interview wasn’t a total success, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, I got what I wanted, her first hand impressions of the Whiteleys’ circle at the time of the shootings. In a nutshell, the sun shone out of Lysette’s cute little bum, and Malcolm was the devil incarnate. All of which may not be far from the truth, to be fair. As far as she’s concerned, the case was solved, and I shouldn’t waste taxpayers’ money asking questions about it.’

  Daniel slipped his hand inside her shirt. ‘And the Mysterious Missing Witness?’

  ‘She was distinctly unimpressed. As far as she was concerned, your Dad revelled in making life complicated.’

  ‘Given the mess he made of our family life,’ Daniel said, ‘I suppose I can’t argue.’

  ‘Are you staying for the quiz?’ the waitress asked, as she cleared Joanna’s table in the Eskdale Arms.

  ‘Oh, I don’t …’ As Joanna reached for her bag, she heard a familiar voice. Scott Durham, responding to a greeting at the other end of the bar. ‘On second thoughts, yes, why not?’

  ‘Another drink, then?’

  ‘A Sauvignon Blanc, yes, please.’ Although there had to be a limit to hedonism. ‘Just a small glass this time.’

  ‘I’ll get you an answer sheet. Unless you’re joining a team?’

  Joanna giggled. ‘I’m not sure anyone will have me.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest, love.’ A large man in a Fair Isle pullover leant over from the next table. ‘Join up with us, if you’re not fussy about winning. We’re short of two of our regulars tonight.’

  As she opened her mouth to answer, Scott ambled in, and the Fair Isle man greeted him like an old friend. ‘Hey up, mate. Thought you weren’t coming. We’re already a man down. Bob Evans’ wife has been taken poorly. But I’ve just recruited another member, this young lady here.’

  Scott hesitated before giving her a thin smile. ‘Hello again, Joanna.’

  ‘What? You’re already acquainted? Blimey, I always knew you were a fast worker, mate. Aren’t you going to introduce us, then?’

  ‘My name’s Joanna,’ she said. ‘I used to live in Holmrook, a long time ago. I’ve booked in next door, and lo and behold, I ran into Scott last night.’

  The only empty seat left at the table was next to her. Scott wavered, before realising there was no escape, and making the introductions. The Fair Isle man and Walter, a small, taciturn chap with a hearing aid who made up the rest of the team, both lived in Waberthwaite. They all chatted amiably through the first three rounds of questions, in which Joanna performed creditably on history and literature, whilst revealing a profound ignorance of pop music and politics. When the Fair Isle man, whose name was Kelvin, headed for the bar to order a fresh round of drinks – Joanna played safe with orange juice this time – Scott asked if she’d had a good day.

  ‘Lovely, thanks. Went for a walk on the shore this morning. Your studio has a marvellous position.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s not bad.’ She wondered if he’d invite her to take a look round, but no joy. He seemed more distracted than ever, and she asked if he was okay.

  ‘Yes, fine. Sorry, I’m just a bit preoccupied. Usually, I’d have been the first to figure out those anagrams.’

  ‘The painting’s going all right, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He took a surreptitious peek at his mobile, for perhaps the fifteenth time that evening. Whatever text he was hoping to receive showed no sign of turning up.

  ‘I do hope things sort themselves out. Whatever they are.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He was offering no clues. ‘So you’ve been exploring Ravenglass? Did you go for a trip on the La’al Ratty?’

  ‘No, no, the train is a treat for another day.’ She wanted to draw him out. ‘I’ve been meeting one or two other old friends, as it happens. Gray Elstone, for instance. Were your ears burning? We had a cuppa together in Seascale, and he told me he still acts for you.’

  ‘You met Gray?’ His eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Anyone would think she’d confessed to an assignation with Daniel Craig. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I used to work for him, remember?’

  Kelvin returned with the drinks, and Scott gulped down a large mouthful of beer. ‘Yes, yes, of course you did. Sorry, I was just … I forgot, that’s all.’

  ‘He told me his ex-wife was horrid to him. She even accused him of being responsible for his daughter’s disappearance.’

  ‘Unthinkable,’ Scott said. ‘You know Gray. He was a good father.’

  ‘You think that Lily is dead?’

  He looked bewildered. ‘There’s always hope, I suppose, in the absence of definite news. But really – three years is a long time.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘How would I know? It’s a mystery.’

  ‘What if the same thing happens with Shona Whiteley, and she never shows up? Do you think one person could be responsible for taking both girls?’

  ‘No!’

  His vehemence took her aback, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kelvin exchange a look with Walter. She suspected the older men shared a tacit disapproval of any outpouring of artistic temperament on a quiz night. Before she could say anything else, the quizmaster was asking them to name the highest mountain in Oceania.

  Ten minutes later, when the sketchiness of her geographical knowledge had been brutally exposed, she murmured in Scott’s ear, ‘Robbie Dean told me that Shona is rather spoilt. I suppose it’s not surprising. Nigel’s probably making up for the fact that she lost her mother. Can’t have been easy for either of them.’


  ‘You’ve talked to Dean?’ Plainly, he had no wish to discuss Nigel and Shona.

  ‘Yes, he lives out near the dunes.’

  ‘You were in his car that night he crashed, and his girlfriend was killed, weren’t you?’

  So Scott remembered. ‘Yes. It was a long time ago. Bygones should be bygones, don’t you think?’

  The quizmaster bellowed into his microphone that the time had come for teams to exchange their sheets and mark each other’s answers. This was evidently Scott’s job. She watched him jotting down the ticks and crosses in his neat hand, concentrating on the task, oblivious to the groans that echoed around the pub whenever a mistake was exposed.

  ‘Hello, there.’ You-can-call-me-Al loomed over her, a foaming pint clutched in his hand. ‘Got your feet under the table already, Joanna! A key member of a red-hot quiz team, no less!’

  ‘Actually, we’ve finished in fourth place.’

  ‘Not to worry. It’s not a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Nope,’ Kelvin said. ‘It’s more serious than that.’

  ‘Can I get you lads a drink? Joanna, can I tempt you?’

  Scott scrambled to his feet. ‘I need to be off, thanks all the same. Goodnight, all.’

  Before Joanna could say anything, he was gone. She mumbled an excuse about wanting to be up early in the morning, and ignoring you-can-cal-me-Al’s protestations, headed for the door. By the time she got outside into Main Street, there was no sign of Scott. He must have made it to Seagull Cottage in record time.

  Never mind. Tomorrow she’d call Nigel, and see if he was willing to meet up. It had been a productive day. And now she even knew about Puncak Jaya’s claim to fame.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘How lovely to hear you again, Nigel.’

  ‘It’s … been a long time.’

  That gorgeous husky voice in her ear again. He sounded uncertain, but who could blame him? She squeezed the mobile into her palm.

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘Robbie rang and told me you’d be calling. He says you look the same as ever.’

  ‘Goodness, he’s the last person I’d expect to indulge in flattery.’

  Except that perhaps he hadn’t meant to flatter her. She told herself not to be so negative. You led a happier life if you thought positive.

  ‘So.’ Nigel paused, as if steeling himself. No need, he had nothing to fear from her. Absolutely nothing, she only wanted to help. ‘What have you been doing with yourself these past twenty years?’

  ‘Nothing too exciting, if truth be told.’

  She gave a modest laugh. It was spitting with rain, and she felt awkward conducting this conversation on the pavement outside the Eskdale Arms, but she’d needed to escape from You-can-call-me-Al. He seemed keen to get to know her better, and she wouldn’t put it past him to eavesdrop. His latest gambit had been to invite her to share bacon and eggs in his private kitchen at the back of the guest house. She’d excused herself by saying her GP had put her on statins, and she needed to keep her cholesterol count down.

  ‘Not like you,’ she said, when it became apparent that Nigel wasn’t about to respond. ‘Mind, I wasn’t in the least surprised you became so successful. I always knew you’d make it one day.’

  ‘What’s brought you back here?’

  That question again. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I fancied a change of scene, and wanted to look up some old friends.’

  ‘You’ve heard about Shona?’

  He made it sound like an accusation. ‘Yes, yes. I’m so sorry that you’ve had such a worry to contend with.’

  ‘A worry,’ the quiet voice repeated. ‘Rather an understatement.’

  Her cheeks burnt. Thank goodness he wasn’t there to witness her embarrassment. All she could do was grovel, and hope he would forgive.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nigel, truly. Rotten choice of words. It must be appalling for you. You lost your wife not long ago, didn’t you? And now this.’

  She paused, but when he remained silent, she asked, ‘What’s the latest news?’

  ‘There is no news.’ His voice was unsteady. ‘The police don’t seem to have a clue. They say … but anyway, you don’t want to hear me go on.’

  ‘Of course I do. Why do you think I told Robbie I was keen to get in touch? If there’s any way I can help, just say the word. I thought you might be glad to chat with an old friend. After all … we went through a lot together in the old days. You could talk to me about Shona. I’d love to meet her.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sure you will be reunited soon.’

  He didn’t reply. Wondering how to give her the brush-off without seeming to be rude? She held her breath.

  ‘I’m lousy company at present.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she insisted. ‘It would be wonderful to see you. Talk over old times.’

  ‘Almost being killed in a car crash? About the night we spent in a pub with my aunt and my cousin, hours before they were murdered by a maniac?’ She’d forgotten the sarcastic bite of his humour. ‘They aren’t the best memories. We were jinxed.’

  ‘There were plenty of happy times,’ she retorted. ‘Yesterday afternoon, I went on a pilgrimage to Drigg. Went into the old look-out post, remember?’

  A pause.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten that, Joanna.’

  ‘Me neither,’ she murmured.

  He coughed, as if buying time while he racked his brains for a response. ‘I remember the adder frightening you.’

  Pleased, she laughed. The touch of mockery didn’t bother her. All that mattered was to win his confidence. He was in a fragile state, with his daughter missing, it was understandable.

  ‘Funny, I thought about the adder yesterday.’ She paused. ‘I’ll never forget that day, Nigel.’

  She heard an intake of breath. ‘Cherish your memories. You’d be disappointed in me if we met.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’d love to see you. No hidden agenda, I promise.’

  ‘You always were very persistent, Joanna.’

  He spoke as though persistence was a vice, but she didn’t care. His resistance was weakening, must be. ‘Go on. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. I don’t bite!’

  A heavy sigh. ‘All right, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be brusque, it’s just that … would you like to come over here sometime?’

  ‘To the … house?’

  ‘Ravenglass Knoll, yes.’ He emphasised the name.

  ‘I’d love to, Nigel. Thank you so much.’

  Once the Dungeon House had boasted two lichen-encrusted stone gateposts, with nothing in between. Anyone could walk up the drive. Now an iron electric gate barred the entrance, an eight-foot tall fence ran along the boundaries of the property, and signs warned that the premises were protected by camera surveillance 24/7. Above the intercom box, the house’s new name was carved defiantly into a chunk of green slate. Joanna couldn’t blame Nigel for trying, but Ravenglass Knoll would always be the Dungeon House. When he’d given her the security code, he’d said that over the years, a good many sensation seekers had nosied around the place, drawn by its association with bloody murder. Dark tourism was the fashionable term. He thought it was sick, and Joanna agreed.

  Joanna leant out of her window, and keyed in the code. The gates opened soundlessly. How much did all this security cost? Nigel had always wanted money, now he had it to burn. Did Shona feel like a princess trapped in a gilded cage? The gates closed behind her as she drove up the slope toward a large circle of gravel close to the garage block, where he’d told her to park.

  The trees were clouds of cherry blossom, purple and pink, and she could smell newly mown grass. Robbie and his men had made the grounds look even lovelier than she remembered. Her heart thudded as she caught sight of the four familiar half-timbered gables. She’d always adored the mellow architecture of the house. A disciple of William Morris had designed it for a wealthy Victorian merchant, the sort responsible for so many large houses dotted around the Lakes. Many were now upmarket hotels, but she felt glad this on
e had remained in private hands, even if she couldn’t understand why Nigel would want to live at the Dungeon House.

  Sorry, would she never get it right? Ravenglass Knoll.

  He must have been watching out for her, since the door opened seconds after she pressed the bell. In navy blue sweatshirt, jeans, and trainers, he looked slim and fit. She wondered whether he would greet her with a kiss on the cheek, but it didn’t happen. His handshake was quite gentle, not the aggressive grip that some men used to assert their masculinity.

  ‘Come in, Joanna. I’ve made us some coffee, and we can take it out on to the terrace, if you don’t mind the breeze.’

  ‘That’s kind, thank you,’ she said, following him into a kitchen that deserved to feature in an ideal home magazine.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ he said. ‘I bet you’re not an ounce heavier than when I last saw you.’

  ‘At least I’ve never needed to diet. Like I said on the phone, I was poorly for a while. The pounds dropped off me.’

  He organised two mugs of coffee, and put a small box of chocolates on a tray. ‘Belgian, your favourites, right? I’m assuming you still like them?’

  ‘You have a fantastic memory.’ This was unbelievably touching. Her knees felt weak.

  ‘For some things. Others, I prefer to forget.’

  ‘Believe me, I know the feeling.’

  ‘You’re recovering from your illness?’

  ‘Absolutely. I finished with my partner, and signed an exit deal with my firm, and now I’m feeling a hundred per cent better. Unshackled from my bonds.’

  At the press of a button, the glass doors giving on to the sitting area slid back, and he led her out through a pergola festooned with voluptuous clematis blooms, mauve and cream, and a fragrant wisteria. The low yew hedges were much as she remembered, but the summer house which had been Malcolm Whiteley’s pride and joy was no more. In its place stood a spherical lounger, four yards in diameter, with bronze-tinted windows and timber supports. Nigel pressed a tiny remote control in his hand, and a door slid open, to reveal cushioned seating which ran all the way round. In the middle of the pod, a television screen hung above a mini bar. She followed him inside, exclaiming at the comfort and the views.