‘Did you book another appointment?’
‘Yes, it was scheduled for ten days after the first. But by then Emma had disappeared.’
‘Had you hoped to rekindle the affair?’
‘Reflexologists have their own code of conduct, I presume. Emma wouldn’t have behaved unprofessionally’
‘Forgive me, Ms Clough, but that is hardly an answer.’
‘Very well. I wanted to see how she was. We’d been so intimate – I couldn’t pretend to myself that she’d never existed. As for what might happen in the future, I was philosophical. Events must take their course. No pressure, to coin a phrase.’
Oh yeah? Alex Clough was a rich man’s daughter, she’d probably had pretty much everything she’d ever wanted. She was accustomed to being in control, would dread surrendering to the mercy of Fate.
‘And how did she respond?’
‘The only time I put a foot wrong was when I complimented her on how well she looked. It was nothing but the truth. She’d lost weight after the illness, and she was very trim. But she suspected I was having a dig, implying that she hadn’t really been sick. I assured her nothing could have been further from my mind and after that she was fine.’
‘When we interviewed you before, you couldn’t account for Emma’s disappearance. Has anything occurred since then to explain it?’
Alex Clough shook her head. ‘Things were looking up for her. Why would she run away? It makes no sense.’
Ten years back, Hannah had thought the same. Today, trapped in the cage of calendars and chloroformed by bureaucratic routine, she could see the appeal of starting again, somewhere nobody knew a thing about her. She’d even dreamed of it a few nights back, dreamed of waking one morning in a strange hotel room. When she looked in the mirror, she’d gone strawberry blonde, when she went downstairs, the man at the desk greeted her by an unfamiliar name. Everyone spoke a foreign language she couldn’t understand, yet she wasn’t frightened. The weirdness of it was exhilarating. She felt free.
‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘Who knows? An accident?’
‘Or perhaps she was murdered?’
‘By whom?’ Alex Clough wasn’t the sort to let her grammar slip, even when asked about the possible homicide of an ex. ‘And for what reason? Unless she had the bad luck to fall prey to a rapist who throttled her and somehow disposed of the body.’
‘You speak of her in the past tense. Presumably you believe she is dead?’
‘Nothing else makes sense, does it? I did my grieving in private long ago. I have had to move on.’
‘Aren’t you curious about your lover’s fate? Sad that you never had a chance to say goodbye?’
A brisk shake of the head. ‘Like I said, no regrets.’
‘I’m surprised, Ms Clough. Museum folk, they’re supposed to have a thirst for knowledge. Do you really not want to find out what happened?’
Alex Clough folded her thin arms. Her pale face had turned grey. ‘You have your job to do, Chief Inspector, but I’ve decided ignorance is bliss. Some things are too painful. I can only pray that the end, when it came, was quick. That she didn’t suffer.’
‘Your relationship with Emma still means a great deal to you, doesn’t it?’ Hannah said in a quiet voice.
A long pause. Alex Clough bowed her head, but Hannah could still see the single tear trickling down her cheek. When she spoke, she no longer sounded glacial. Just hoarse, and old before her time.
‘Everything. You must understand, Emma Bestwick meant everything to me.’
When the phone trilled, Daniel was in his study, leafing through the correspondence that he’d bought at auction. Letters written by a neighbour of Ruskin who had been an occasional visitor to Brantwood in the years before genius yielded to mental collapse. Already Daniel was regretting his failure to buy more of the lots. The old story. You always regretted the ones that got away.
He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Louise.’
His sister. A corporate lawyer, currently working in academe. Even in a social call, she was as brisk and no-nonsense as a textbook on insider trading. When he explained that Miranda was away in London, she tutted.
‘Not again?’
He pictured her mouth tightening in disapproval. An expression she’d inherited from her mother, worn whenever he made the mistake of mentioning the father who had left them all for another woman.
‘She needs to see her editor face to face.’
‘I’m amazed she can tear herself away. I read her article about how trendy the Lakes have become. “A fantastic destination for the loft and latte set. You may not realise after glancing at the temperature gauge, but the Lake District is hot.”’ The breathless take-off was so accurate that Daniel winced. ‘Haven’t they heard of video conferencing?’
‘They’re journalists, not company executives. They’d rather interact face to face.’
‘Well, you know what I think.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Daniel didn’t want to go there. The two women had nothing in common. He hated having to defend Miranda to Louise. Trouble was, his sister was a lawyer to her fingertips. She specialised in chilly logic, and giving unwelcome advice.
‘I mean, I hope it works out for the two of you, but …’
‘It will,’ he interrupted.
‘Let’s face it. You met her when you were bereft after Aimee’s suicide. Oh, she did you good, I don’t deny it. None of us could get through to you until she came along. But the two of you are so very different. You used to be so funny, so laid-back. You’re not cut out for a roller-coaster ride with a drama queen.’
‘She’s not …’
‘You know what I mean. Escaping your old lives suited you both for a time, but you can’t live a dream forever. Passion is fine, but it isn’t enough long term.’
What makes you an expert? he was tempted to ask. But that would be cruel. Louise’s own relationship had fallen apart last summer and he wasn’t sure she was over it even now. She’d never rung him without a reason until she started living on her own. But she’d never admit she was lonely. Too much pride.
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘Listen, you’re not as accustomed to failure as the rest of us. But sometimes it’s better to …’
‘When I want an agony aunt, I’ll give you a ring.’
She gave a have it your way sigh and said, ‘Started that book yet?’
‘Waiting for inspiration.’
‘You once told me that nobody who writes should ever wait for inspiration.’ A note of curiosity entered her voice. ‘Seen any more of that police officer friend of yours?’
‘No.’ Did he imagine a touch of innuendo in the word friend? ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just thought … oh, nothing.’
After she’d rung off, he dialled Miranda. Was it selfish to hope she was missing him? She was in a restaurant, surrounded by a wailing saxophone and people laughing. Glasses clinked, someone whistled for a waiter. American football was playing on TV in the background, the commentator shouting himself hoarse. Miranda was joining in the laughter and a couple of times she asked him to repeat what he said. Even when he did, he wasn’t sure she was paying attention.
‘Was there anything particular?’ she asked in the end. ‘The roof isn’t leaking, the electrics haven’t gone up in smoke?’
‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘No problem,’ she assured him. ‘Talk soon. Love you.’
She made a loud kissing noise and the phone went dead.
‘The woman intrigued me.’
Alban Clough was leaning back in his ancient leather chair, eyes shut and hands behind his head. He might have been speaking of an exhibit on display downstairs and not his daughter’s vanished lover.
‘Why?’ Hannah asked.
He’d invited her up to the small sitting room at the top of Inchmore Hall. The only access from the livin
g quarters on the floor below was by a perilous spiral staircase lit by candles in wall-holders that would have a health and safety inspector frothing at the mouth. But Alban Clough clambered up the steps like a mountain goat rather than a man of seventy five with a heart condition. As she followed, Hannah took care not to look down and tried not to think about the cop who feared heights in that Hitchcock movie.
The small table that separated them was piled high with books and foolscap sheets of closely written text, with more papers scattered across the carpet; Alex’s tidiness gene couldn’t have been inherited from her father. Looking through the single mullioned window, Hannah watched slivers of mist curling down from the heights. At least there was one hotspot inside Inchmore Hall. A log fire crackled and the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood.
Alban Clough jerked upright and opened his eyes. As he shifted his weight, the armchair squeaked. ‘She was a sweet girl, but secretive.’
‘What about?’
‘I could not discover that. Which is why I was intrigued.’
‘Her sexuality? The relationship with your daughter?’
He pooh-poohed the suggestions with a flourish of an age-spotted paw. ‘I might claim, Chief Inspector Scarlett, to be worldly wise. It was apparent from our first meeting that Emma was a lesbian. A man of sensitivity and experience can recognise the signs, let me assure you.’
How easy to take a serious dislike to Alban Clough. Six feet three and broad as a bull, with self-esteem to match, he had the unruly white hair, hooked nose and booming voice of a hellfire prophet, but his most profound conviction was evidently of his own infallibility. He didn’t have his daughter’s dress sense; there was a button missing from his cuff, and his shirt wasn’t properly tucked into his elderly slacks. Yet he struck Hannah as a man to be reckoned with.
‘Did you approve of the relationship?’
‘For as long as it brought Alexandra pleasure, most certainly. I feared it would not last, but a parent’s lot is to worry about their offspring’s happiness. Do you have children, Chief Inspector? If so, you will understand.’
Hannah let that whistle past. ‘You questioned Emma’s motives?’
‘Because she saw sleeping with my daughter as a passport to a life of comfort of plenty? By no means. I believed her affection for Alexandra to be genuine, though falling short of undying devotion. In my presence, she was good-natured and deferential.’
I bet, Hannah thought. Emma might be an elusive character, but she was no fool.
‘Then what?’
‘My daughter is a highly intelligent and remarkably sensible woman, but in personal relationships apt to wear her heart on her sleeve. That wasn’t Emma’s way. It seemed significant to me that her only other friend was the woman from whom she rented a room.’
‘Not her sister?’
‘Karen Erskine and her husband visited the museum, I suspect out of curiosity rather than any deeply felt interest in my life’s work. Jeremy Erskine made it clear that a history master at Grizedale College could not approve the unsourced speculation in which I indulge concerning the origins of local myths and legends. Alexandra took pains to make them welcome, but Emma had little in common with Karen. I speculated that Erskine had taken a shine to Emma, and that was a cause of froideur. If so, he was wasting his time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Emma was not interested in men.’
For a wild moment, Hannah wondered if Alban Clough had first-hand experience of rejection by Emma. Or maybe it wasn’t so wild? The way he’d considered her appearance when his daughter introduced them downstairs verged on the lascivious. An age gap of thirty-five years might not have deterred a man in the habit of getting his own way. Hannah’s closest friend, Terri, had decided after three failed marriages to try her luck with internet dating and she’d reported with glee that one of the men she’d met, though old enough to be her father, had the stamina and lust of a nineteen-year-old. He also turned out to be an undischarged bankrupt with three convictions for false accounting.
Suppose Alban had propositioned Emma after she’d broken up with Alex, that might account for the stress she’d suffered. What if they’d had a surreptitious affair? And if Emma had indulged in a little quiet blackmail …
‘What about Tom Inchmore, did he realise that?’
‘Alas, poor Thomas. To adopt the modern idiom, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block. He took a shine to Emma while she worked here, she was always very good with him. As you may be aware, he’s dead now, so he cannot defend himself. But let me say this on his behalf. He may have been a Peeping Tommy, but he was no murderer.’
‘Suppose he made overtures which she rejected. It’s a situation that often leads to violence.’
‘Your colleagues explored that hypothesis in – shall we say, considerable depth? – ten years ago. Frankly, I was surprised that they failed to thrash a confession out of him. He was pitifully weak. That he steadfastly denied guilt proved that he found the notion of harming Emma horrific.’
‘I presume he was descended from whoever built this place?’
‘Indeed.’ Alban puffed out his cheeks and Hannah realised that she was in for a lecture. Presumably in winter he pined for the chance to pontificate to tourists with time on their hands. ‘During the nineteenth century, Clifford Inchmore ran a successful business, mining the Coniston Fells and earning a knighthood to accompany his fortune. My great-grandfather, Albert Clough, joined the firm as a young man and rose to become a partner in the firm. But Clifford’s son, George, was not cut from the same cloth. Albert left to set up on his own and George set about squandering his inheritance with unwise commercial ventures. Long before the influenza epidemic of 1919 carried off Albert, George had been made bankrupt. He lived long enough to suffer the indignity of seeing his son William go cap in hand to Albert’s grandson for work. Armstrong Clough, my father, took him on and was rewarded by William absconding after the war ended. He stole one thousand pounds, and we heard he died in Crete five years later without a penny to his name. Nonetheless, my mother insisted that we had a duty towards the family that gave Albert his first opportunity in life.’
‘That’s remarkably forbearing.’
‘My mother was a remarkable lady.’
‘So you gave Tom Inchmore a job out of the goodness of your heart?’
‘Because my mother had a good heart, which is not quite the same. Tom’s parents both died young, in a car crash twenty-five years ago, and from then on he was looked after by his grandmother, William’s wife. Edith Inchmore was herself a formidable woman. She died only last year at the age of ninety.’
‘The two old ladies were friends?’
‘They kept their distance from each other. While the Inchmore residence was a cramped two-up, two-down riddled with dry rot, my mother was chatelaine of this magnificent hall. It cannot have been easy for Edith Inchmore to bear, but she had only her husband’s family to blame. As for my mother, she had a fanatical sense of duty towards others less fortunate than herself, even if she disliked them. Noblesse oblige, if you like. It is a mark of my devotion to her that I resisted the temptation to sack Tom Inchmore, despite being one of the least competent young men I have ever met. That explains why he fell off a ladder when repairing a leaky roof. To suggest that he became cunning and successful for the first time in his life on resorting to murder is sheer fantasy.’
Not the most generous character reference Hannah had ever heard, but it was time to change tack.
‘You know Francis Goddard, I take it?’
‘Indeed. I cannot pretend that we have much in common. The meek may well inherit the earth, but that does not make them interesting.’
‘Emma lived under his roof. Might something interesting have occurred between them?’
Alban laughed so hard that his eyes started watering. ‘A deliciously sordid speculation, Chief Inspector! But regrettably wide of the mark, if I am any judge. Moreover, I have known Vanessa Goddard fo
r many years. She is dedicated to outreach work, establishing partnerships between the libraries and other agencies. She lost her first husband to another woman, but Francis is well and truly under her thumb. I cannot conceive that he would have the spunk for a dangerous liaison with Emma, even were he not devoted to his wife.’
‘And you don’t have any reason to doubt that devotion?’
‘Certainly not. Vanessa and Francis have always had eyes only for each other. Emma herself confirmed it.’
‘What did she say?’
His wicked smile made him look like a gleeful old troll. ‘In the first flush of happiness after she embarked on a relationship with my daughter, I overheard her saying to Alexandra that she would be glad when she could afford to move into a place of her own. She indicated that, although the bedroom walls at Thurston Water House were by no means thin, Vanessa and Francis were raucous as well as uninhibited in their love-making. I find it pleasing to hear of a genuine love match, they are so very rare these days, but Emma found it embarrassing to be forced to eavesdrop on their passion. Poor girl, at heart she was something of a prude.’
Did this prove that Vanessa and Francis were incapable of straying? Hannah dabbed at a smear of sweat on her forehead. The heat and the old man’s salacious humour were overpowering.
‘Very well, Mr Clough. I’m grateful for your help.’
Her host treated her to a wicked smile as she hauled herself to her feet.
‘You’re not going so soon, Chief Inspector? Oh dear me, please linger for a few minutes more. Let me explain to you what it is that women most desire.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daniel was in the kitchen, looking out over the cottage garden and tapping notes into his laptop. John Ruskin’s life story proved that having it all was an illusion. Artist, critic, social philosopher, he was ‘the pre-eminent intellectual genius of Victorian England’. Yet his marriage was annulled due to non-consummation, he spent years lusting after a girl who lost her mind and died young, and he proposed to another teenager when he was seventy. After Whistler sued him for libel and won the princely sum of a farthing in damages, depression defeated him and he spent his last years in Coniston leading a reclusive and child-like existence, cared for by his cousin Joan.
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