The Cipher Garden

by Martin Edwards

  ‘It is a coincidence that she dies shortly after we receive the anonymous tip-off pointing the finger at Tina.’

  ‘Suppose she discovered something that proved her mother killed her dad?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If she and Sam lied to give Tina an alibi, they must have had suspicions from the outset. Perhaps Kirsty wrote the anonymous letter herself.’

  ‘And the letter that Tina received?’

  ‘Attempting to put her under pressure, force her to cough? Or maybe Tina made up the letter. Peter never saw it, remember.’

  ‘What if Sam was the culprit and Tina and Kirsty lied to save his neck? He might have sent the letters to divert attention from himself.’

  ‘Why resurrect the case if for years he’d got away with murder?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Hannah scowled at the television screen. The girl was snivelling and her mascara had started to run. Motherhood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, perhaps. Even so, Hannah wanted to find out for herself one day. The putative fathers were smirking with a mixture of cockiness and embarrassment as they waited for the presenter to reveal the answer.

  ‘We need a fresh angle. Instead of focusing on who killed Warren, let’s ask who might have given us the tip-off and work forward from there.’

  ‘Isn’t that a blind alley, without any forensic evidence from the letter?’

  If Nick hadn’t been such a good friend, she wouldn’t have restrained the impulse to snap back at him. Ben Kind often complained that technological advance discourages even the best cops from reasoning for themselves.

  ‘Think laterally. Who might want to stick the knife into Tina?’

  Nick pondered. ‘Leaving aside her kids?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Gail Flint,’ he said. ‘Revenge for taking her husband?’

  One of the lads on TV grinned stupidly at the news that he was a father. The girl was still crying as the presenter led the audience in a round of enthusiastic applause. Hannah felt like joining in. She’d come to the same conclusion as Nick.

  ‘Let’s talk to her tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ Louise said.

  ‘Sorry about Saturday,’ Daniel said.

  She hesitated. ‘I suppose it brought back memories?’

  She was, he knew, talking about Aimee’s suicide.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re still hurting, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not looking for sympathy.’

  ‘You never do. But everyone needs a bit of comfort sometimes.’

  ‘Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I should never have dragged you out to the airfield.’

  ‘You weren’t to know she was going to kill herself.’

  Confession time. He cleared his throat. ‘No, but I knew about her father’s murder from Hannah Scarlett. It’s a cold case she’s investigating. That’s why I asked Peter Flint for advice about the garden. I knew he was Warren Howe’s business partner.’

  Louise groaned. ‘As a kid, you wanted to be a detective. Just like Dad.’

  ‘Maybe I haven’t grown up as much as I’d like to think.’

  ‘Which of us has?’

  They were killing time with a coffee and cake in the platform buffet at Oxenholme. The latest announcement warned that the train from Glasgow was running forty minutes late. Miranda wasn’t with them. She’d elected to chase the builders on the phone rather than come along to see off their guest. At the door of the cottage, she and Louise exchanged pecks on the cheek and promised to keep in touch, but these were the meaningless formalities of English good manners. Daniel knew it wouldn’t break their hearts if they never clapped eyes on each other again.

  ‘No need to wait for the train.’

  ‘I enjoy your company.’

  She blinked. ‘You’ve never said that to me before.’

  ‘It’s never occurred to me before,’ he said with a grin.

  She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘It’s best that I disappear. Miranda’s not comfortable when I’m around.’

  ‘It’s nothing personal. She’s just…’

  ‘Insecure?’

  ‘Unaccustomed to family life. Her adoptive parents were elderly, no kids of their own; she became accustomed to being the centre of attention. Since they died, she feels the lack of a past. That’s why she seems jealous of you and me. There’s so much stuff that she isn’t part of. But – you do like her?’

  Louise laughed. ‘Now who’s insecure? Of course I do. You’re not stupid enough to fall for just a pretty face. Though I must admit I wondered if it was too soon for you – after Aimee, I mean. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure you’ve ever faced up to how hard her death hit you.’

  ‘We can’t plan our lives like train timetables. Pick the perfect moment to fall for someone new.’

  ‘No, of course not. And she’s a lot of fun when she’s so inclined. But you’ll have to persuade her – either she lives the dream up here with you, or she does the London journalist thing.’

  ‘She can combine the two.’

  Louise shrugged. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Me too. He devoured the last piece of cream cake and said nothing.

  ‘So where does Hannah Scarlett fit in?’

  He felt colour rising in his cheeks. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw the way she looked at you, Daniel. You said yourself, she told you about that old murder.’

  ‘She worked with Dad, he was her mentor. She’s talked to me about him. That’s all.’

  ‘And she’s married to this chap you went to see, the bookshop owner?’

  ‘Not married. They live together, have done for years.’

  ‘What about the cipher garden, then? You kept your cards close to your chest when you got home.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘Let me share something with you, Daniel. The air of casual unconcern you cultivate when you’re trying to hide something isn’t as convincing as you’d like to think. Perhaps it fools Miranda, but not me. I’ve known you a long time, remember.’

  He managed a rueful grin. ‘Probably as well you’re leaving, then.’

  She kicked him under the table. ‘Yes, you and I would soon be at each other’s throats if I hung around. Now – the garden.’

  He recounted his discoveries of the previous day. When he told her about the fragment of conversation he’d overheard between Chris and Roz Gleave, she wanted to know what he thought they were talking about.

  ‘Presumably Roz has an idea about what drove Kirsty to take her own life.’

  ‘Are you intending to tell the police?’

  ‘I’m hoping the Gleaves will save me the trouble.’

  ‘You should mention what you heard to your mate Hannah.’

  He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was all innocence. ‘When she’s fit again, perhaps I will.’

  ‘Carry on with the story.’

  When he’d finished, she pulled a face. ‘It’s weird. People don’t die of broken hearts.’

  ‘You never were much of a romantic, were you?’

  ‘Come on. They expired on the same day, which just happened to be the anniversary of their son’s death?’

  ‘Too much of a coincidence, but a hundred years after they were buried, there’s not much to go on. You need to make a leap of imagination to have a chance of making sense of it.’

  She laughed. ‘You used to wear that expression when you figured out the solution to an Agatha Christie five chapters before that old Belgian big-head. Let’s hear about where the leap has taken you.’

  A disembodied voice announced that the train would be arriving shortly and apologised for any inconvenience. Daniel swallowed the last of his drink.

  ‘Suppose you are Alice Quiller. Brought up to fear God. Perhaps you’ve seldom ventured far outside the valley you were born in. For upwards of half a century, your faith is unquestioning. Until tragedy tears your s
mall, comfortable world apart. Your only child, the apple of your eye, dies in a foreign land. No good reason for his death, you can’t even console yourself with the fiction that he sacrificed his life defending freedom. The stupid war he’s been fighting is as good as over, but he succumbs to sickness and dies a rotten, miserable death. You’ve devoted your life to the boy, you’re crazy about him. Obsessed, maybe. All of a sudden, the world becomes worthless. You cut yourself off from it. Your husband is the only person you will speak to, but even he can’t reason with you, even he can’t make everything right. Nothing can make it right. You’re left not knowing what to believe any more. Not wishing to live any more. What do you do?’

  She said slowly, ‘I might not want to go on living.’

  He mimed applause. ‘Spot on.’

  ‘You’re suggesting they decided – or Alice persuaded her husband – that they should kill themselves? To take part in a suicide pact?’

  ‘For her, death must have seemed the only way out.’

  She winced. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Only one snag. In those days, suicide was a mortal sin. Worse than that, a crime. The rector reminded me, suicides weren’t even permitted the dignity of burial in consecrated ground. In those days, you were expected to cope with whatever lousy hand life dealt you. No therapy, no bereavement counselling, just get on with it. In England it was still the age of the stiff upper lip. For the Quillers, the public disgrace of a double suicide would have been intolerable. Not to be contemplated.’

  ‘So they disguised their intentions?’

  ‘A triumph of appearance over reality. As prominent Brackdale folk, well respected, they’d have been on good terms with the local medics. So long as there was an opportunity to write off their deaths as due to natural causes, honour would be satisfied all round. Jacob and Alice Quiller could be buried in the same grave as their beloved son John.’

  ‘And the garden?’

  ‘I’d guess Jacob was familiar with the Victorian fashion for gardens that conveyed messages. Often to celebrate religious beliefs, or represent Bible stories or mystical revelations. Jacob turned all that upside down. His mind was in turmoil. While his wife pined away inside the cottage, he transformed their garden to simulate a kind of spiritual anarchy. No “paths of life” for the Quillers. Instead, nothing but tracks that wound back on themselves, false turnings and dead ends.’

  ‘The pattern was that there was no pattern?’

  ‘Jacob was mocking the pious certainties that he’d subscribed to all his life. Yet even in his dark despair, he couldn’t abandon every last vestige of faith. He couldn’t help minding what happened after he died. Perhaps Alice felt the same, perhaps she was past caring, who knows? One thing’s for sure, it was impossible for them to write a straightforward letter declaring their intention. But they could leave a hidden message in the garden for anyone who cared to know what they’d done.’

  ‘Such as Richard Skelding?’

  ‘The man who inherited his land back, yes. My guess is that he discovered the truth. A handful of people in the valley kept the legend alive.’

  ‘Including later owners of the cottage?’

  ‘Notably the Gilpins. They didn’t disturb the cipher garden, or betray the Quillers’ secret. Why should they? It was a private sorrow. For all I know, Eleanor Sawtell tried to pump Mrs Gilpin for information. I can’t imagine her giving any change to a nosey parker.’

  Louise tapped her spoon against her saucer. ‘You’re right. All this does require a leap of the imagination.’

  ‘There is a crazy logic to the garden. The monkey puzzles symbolised Jacob and Alice and the weeping willow John. The yew tree stood for the eternal life that Jacob hoped against hope might yet await all three of them in Heaven.’

  ‘And the death from broken hearts?’

  ‘The clue to the means of suicide is in the planting, as well as the words on the tablets. Of course, those foxgloves have spread far and wide over the past hundred years. They grow like weeds, you find them everywhere. But you have to treat them with care.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘They’re poisonous, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s right, foxglove leaves are the source of digitalis. In small quantities it stimulates the heart, but a large dose is apt to be fatal.’

  ‘Leaves from the garden,’ she quoted.

  He nodded. ‘Will take our leave.’

  The train was pulling in. Time to go. Daniel picked up Louise’s cases and they hurried outside. Once she’d scrambled into the carriage, she opened the window.

  ‘How are you going to break the news to Miranda?’

  He sighed. ‘That her dream cottage boasts a garden that celebrates death and hides a coded suicide note?’

  She contrived a wry smile. ‘Tricky, huh? Best of luck.’

  The doors closed and Louise waved. He blew a kiss and called out to her as the train pulled away from the platform.

  ‘I may need more than luck.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gail Flint stood in the doorway of her grey cottage, tightly wrapped in a silk kimono, screwing up her eyes against the early morning sunlight. It was only half seven and she hadn’t had a chance to disguise her bleariness with make-up.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Hannah caught a fruity whiff of stale gin on Gail’s breath as she squinted at the warrant card. ‘The organ grinder as well as the monkey? My, my. I suppose I ought to be honoured, Chief Inspector, but it’s really not a good time.’

  ‘We’ll only take a few minutes, Mrs Flint.’

  Hannah glanced past Gail into the hallway. A large blue nylon jacket, bearing the legend Allin of Esthwaite Drains and Rodding Services, hung from a coat-stand. A rusting Ford van similarly emblazoned was parked on a yellow line outside the cottage. A thud came from upstairs. Someone overweight, clambering out of bed.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting anything at all,’ Gail muttered. ‘Though couldn’t you make an appointment? I do have a business to run, as I told DC Waller here the other day.’

  ‘We thought an informal conversation might be preferable to asking if you’d come to the police station with us.’

  Gail glared. ‘This is about Kirsty Howe?’

  ‘It would be easier to talk indoors, Mrs Flint.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Upstairs, a lavatory flushed. ‘All right, have it your own way.’

  She padded unsteadily along the hall carpet, shepherding Hannah and Linz into a large and crowded sitting room. A leather suite jostled with a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and a computer. A Bang and Olufsen hi-fi system gleamed in one corner, a plasma television screen was suspended from the wall in another. On the table by the sofa were a couple of empty bottles of Rioja, two unwashed glasses and a CD of Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits. She drew the curtains to reveal a pergola hung with fronds of Virginia creeper. The patio commanded a view of a lawn cut in immaculate stripes and in the distance the brooding bulk of the Old Man of Coniston.

  ‘I insist on Peter mowing for me personally,’ she said. ‘I made my lawyer include it in the terms of settlement.’

  ‘You didn’t prefer a clean break?’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? He may not have been the ideal husband, but he is a bloody good gardener. Besides, a monthly alimony cheque didn’t seem penance enough.’ Gail waved the detectives towards the armchairs. ‘Go on, then. Take the weight off your feet.’

  Hannah nodded at the PC. ‘You run your business from home?’

  ‘Why spend precious cash on fancy office premises? I’ve survived one or two business mishaps over the years, but Roz Gleave has given me good advice on keeping control of cashflow. I don’t hold too much stock.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Besides, I’d be tempted to guzzle it, and that would never do, would it?’

  Hannah heard someone – or perhaps a small army – tramping down the stairs. Gail shuddered and called out, ‘And don’t think you can send me an invoice, Tod
Allin!’

  The front door slammed and moments later the van’s engine started up. Gail curled up on the sofa, tucking her bare legs beneath her, and pouted at the two women.

  ‘Tradesmen are so unreliable these days, aren’t they? Tod assured me that blocked passages were his speciality.’ A rictus smile. ‘Very well, Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’

  ‘A few days ago, we received information about the murder of Warren Howe. An anonymous message accused his wife Tina of the crime.’

  ‘So what, she’s the obvious suspect, isn’t she?’

  The skin seemed to have been stretched too tightly over Gail’s cheekbones. On close inspection, not a marvellous advertisement for cosmetic surgery. The main benefit of entrusting your face to the surgeon’s knife, Hannah decided, is to make it difficult for people to figure out when you are lying.

  ‘You believe Tina killed Warren?’

  ‘Your colleagues never came up with a better solution.’

  ‘And the motive?’

  ‘Jealousy, rage, a combination of the two, how would I know?’

  ‘No reason for her to be jealous of your affair with Warren, was there?’ Hannah asked softly. ‘It was over.’

  ‘He didn’t dump me! It was a joint decision, perfectly amicable. Our relationship had run its course, that’s all. The affair might not have been going anywhere, but then neither was his marriage.’

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘I went back to Peter, didn’t I?’

  ‘How did he feel about being cuckolded by his business partner?’

  ‘Cuckolded?’ Gail savoured the word as though it were a vintage wine. ‘Oh, poor Peter. He didn’t murder Warren, if that’s what you’re hinting. There was no need. He turned a blind eye; he knew I cared for him more than Warren.’

  ‘So why the affair?’

  ‘I wanted a change, a touch of passion in my life. Is that so terrible? Excitement’s in short supply after you’ve been married a number of years.’ Gail’s high-pitched giggle set Hannah’s teeth on edge. ‘The temptation to sample forbidden fruit becomes impossible to resist. Perhaps you find that yourself, Chief Inspector?’

  Hannah wasn’t going there. ‘The excitement died for both you and your husband, didn’t it? Hence the divorce.’