The Crooked Shore

by Martin Edwards

  Rather than take one of the trails through the woodland, they carried on and came out into the open. They kept walking until they could see a series of stones, none of them as much as three feet in height, and set at irregular intervals in the ground.

  They had reached the Druids’ Circle.

  At home in Bowness, Kingsley Melton wasn’t out in the fresh air, making the most of the sunshine. The sizeable rectangle of garden was private, bounded by horse chestnut trees, conifers, and a waney lap fence, but he seldom ventured into it. Once upon a time the garden had been his father’s pride and joy. After the large pond was filled in and grassed over, his father had made a half-hearted attempt at building a rockery. Now it was no more than a jumble of stones and weeds. Creeping ivy and ground elder had choked off the other plants and the bumpy lawn was a mass of dandelions; he only did the bare minimum of mowing. A timber shed was rotting away under the shade of the trees; for years he’d meant to give it a lick of creosote, but he’d never got round to it.

  Closeted in his study, he tapped away on his laptop keyboard, putting the finishing touches to his report for Annabel of Greengables. On returning home from his unsatisfactory encounter with Daniel Kind at the bookshop, he’d glanced at his inbox, only to have his misery compounded by an email from Annabel. She’d told him to meet her on Monday to discuss sales performance.

  Pressure he could do without. She enjoyed flexing her managerial muscles, but he couldn’t wave a magic wand and conjure up buyers out of thin air. In his report he hadn’t gilded the lily. There was no sign yet of an upturn. Why not launch a more effective advertising campaign or consider dropping the exorbitant asking prices? Admittedly, there had been a five percent reduction in January intended to boost sales, but that small price cut hadn’t sufficed. The company was too obsessed with profit.

  You couldn’t buck the market. Strandbeck Manor was a destination for discerning buyers, and there weren’t many around at present. The publicity surrounding Darren Lace’s death wouldn’t help. Press reports had salivated over the melancholy legend of the Crooked Shore. Deeply unfortunate, but no cause for panic.

  He toyed with the idea of driving over to the manor. Perhaps bump into Tory, accidentally on purpose, and rekindle things between them? She blew hot and cold, that was her nature. With any luck, she’d welcome him with open arms and apologise for treating him with such casual brutality. Not that she’d meant to hurt him, he was sure. The trouble was she had a sharp tongue. Just like Mamma.

  The conversation with Daniel had bruised him. The historian was pleasant enough, but he failed to appreciate the gravity of the threat to Tory. The police would be even less interested in what he had to say. They’d regard him as a crank or a malicious stirrer, in just the same way that people used to mock poor Mamma whenever she complained about selfish motorists parking on double yellow lines or dog owners not picking up their animals’ mess.

  Kingsley’s late father often remarked that if you wanted something doing, you’d better do it yourself. Wise words. Kingsley was the one who loved Tory, he was responsible. His first challenge was to make her understand that her life was in jeopardy.

  A confrontation in person wouldn’t work. What if she’d been on the gin, and was in the mood for an argument? Better to have a quiet chat on the phone and start mending fences.

  No time like the present. He dialled her number.

  ‘Tory, it’s me. Kingsley.’

  A pause at the other end. ‘Hello, Kingsley.’

  ‘Thought I’d give you a ring, see how you are.’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘About the other night …’

  ‘Forget it. Ancient history.’

  ‘You don’t mind … ?’

  ‘Look, Kingsley, it’s nice of you to ring, but I am rather busy.’

  He managed to restrain himself from expressing ironic surprise. What could she be busy with on this sunny Saturday afternoon? Let’s face it, she never put herself out; she was a lady of leisure.

  ‘I thought we could have a chat. If not now, then maybe tomorrow or …’

  ‘What is there to chat about?’

  ‘Well … Logan Prentice, for one thing.’

  ‘What about him?’

  Her tetchiness was a bad sign, yet there was nothing for it but to press on. ‘I know he seems plausible, but take it from me, he’s a wrong ’un.’

  ‘He’s a dear friend of mine. You mind your own business.’

  ‘Seriously, Tory, that young man is very bad news.’

  ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘You know how much I care about you. Not like Prentice. He only sucks up to rich people so he can get something out of them.’

  A long pause. ‘That’s deeply hurtful.’

  ‘Please, Tory, listen to me.’

  ‘No, you listen,’ she retorted. ‘You’re hopelessly wrong about Logan. If you care for me as much as you say, then you’ll allow me to choose my own friends and not waste my time with your pathetic attempts to smear them.’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ He found himself bleating in dismay. ‘He’s a charlatan. A confidence trickster. He loves to control people, to mess with their minds so they give him what he wants.’

  ‘Kingsley, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘You can’t trust a word he says, he …’

  ‘Don’t pretend to misunderstand me. I’m appalled that you can be so offensive.’

  She sounded as cold as a Snow Queen, yet he detected a defensive note. An unpleasant thought occurred to him. What if Prentice were actually there, in her flat?

  He lowered his voice. ‘Is he with you? Don’t worry if you can’t speak freely. What he’s doing to you is called coercive control. I’ve read about it in the papers. Don’t worry, I can ring you back another time, we’ll have a proper heart to heart, and …’

  ‘Stop right there,’ Tory said. ‘I’ve heard quite enough.’

  ‘Please, dearest, I’m only …’

  ‘Shut up! I’ve been extremely patient with you, Kingsley. Silly of me because you’ve read too much into my attempts to be friendly. But you’ve gone too far. Not content with stalking me, you’re slandering a decent young man who has troubles of his own to contend with. You really don’t know me at all if you imagine I’d be willing to let anyone control me. Not you, not Logan, not anyone ever.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m …’

  ‘Shut up!’ She was spitting words into the phone. ‘You don’t seem capable of taking a polite hint, so let me spell it out for you in words of one syllable. I never want to hear from you again. Or see you again, come to that. If any problems crop up with the flat, I’ll email your head office. Understood?’

  There was a brief silence. Kingsley imagined her playing to a gallery of one in her living room; he pictured Logan Prentice applauding as she took a bow. She was performing for him, a puppet dancing to his tune.

  ‘I warn you, Tory.’ Yes, he was whining, but what choice did he have? ‘Prentice is dangerous. He’s killed one old woman. Now he’s preying on you.’

  ‘An old woman, am I?’

  ‘No, no, that’s not what I meant!’

  ‘The only old woman is you.’

  He gulped. ‘Tory, I can’t stand by while he ruins your life.’

  ‘How dare you.’ Her voice was shaking with anger. ‘I don’t want to hear another word of this childish nonsense. If you contact me again, I’ll tell Greengables you’re harassing me. You’re a pathetic creep. And if you’re stupid enough to show up on my doorstep, I’ll call the police.’

  She ended the call, and Kingsley squeezed the phone so hard that it hurt his hand. In the privacy of his study, he wailed with dismay like an animal suffering a mortal wound.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘People were buried here in ancient times,’ Daniel said. ‘This was a place of ritual and mystery. Ceremonial artifacts have been discovered. A funeral urn. A century ago, they excavated cremated
human remains.’

  Lost in thought, Hannah didn’t reply.

  Birkrigg Common wasn’t as deserted as the Crooked Shore. Half a dozen people of various ages were walking their dogs and a bunch of Lycra-clad cyclists had set about a picnic.

  The stone boulders were mostly half-hidden by turf, but if you looked closely, you saw that the Druids’ Circle actually comprised two circles. The inner ring, eight or nine metres in diameter, comprised a dozen low stones. Prehistory wasn’t Daniel’s speciality, but he knew that double circles were rare. There were more than twelve hundred stone rings across the country, but only about thirty were concentric. Birkrigg lacked the scale and majesty of Stonehenge, but its origins were intriguing and its surroundings spectacular. You didn’t need to queue or pay an arm or a leg for a ticket. Nor were there busloads of sightseers to disrupt the atmosphere or traffic rumbling on a nearby dual carriageway.

  ‘Magical, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Even if the sceptics are right, and the circle has nothing to do with Druids or their temples.’

  He pointed to Chapel Island. ‘Look over there. Perhaps the ring was built in alignment with the pathway through the grass, the island and that tallest peak in the distance, on the other side of the bay. When they buried people …’

  His voice faded away as he noticed Hannah’s brow furrow. She looked as if she would much rather dig into her memories than uncover the secrets of Neolithic or Bronze Age graves. When finally she spoke, he realised that the last thing on her mind was an ancient funeral rite. She’d been worrying at something he’d said, a terrier with a bone.

  ‘Did I mention Kingsley Melton by name? I don’t recall that. I suppose you looked up the reports of what happened on the Crooked Shore?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than you may think.’

  ‘With you, it often is.’

  ‘Kingsley Melton phoned me. He wanted to talk about murder. A crime of the past and another that is planned for the future. Or so he believes.’

  Hannah blinked. ‘Good God.’

  ‘He sounded persistent and not entirely crazy, so I agreed to meet up with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We arranged a rendezvous at the bookshop; that’s how I happened to bump into Marc. Melton and I had coffee and cake together. He gave me his card. Here you are.’

  She took the card and said, ‘You’re not planning to stay in touch, then?’

  ‘He’s a man with a bee in his bonnet. The story he told me is bizarre.’

  She waved towards the acres of grass and scrubland ahead of them. ‘We said at lunch we’d go for a walk round here. Tell me everything. There’s plenty of time, even for the most verbose academic.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Stop ratcheting up the suspense. I don’t need to be tantalised. Get on with it.’

  As they made a circuit of the Common, passing tumuli, cairns, and barrows as well as chunks of limestone pavement, Daniel recounted his conversation in the cafe. Hannah didn’t interrupt or ask questions, preferring to digest the story.

  ‘So you see,’ Daniel concluded, ‘he was desperate for you to know about the alleged murder at Sunset View, and above all about Prentice’s supposedly nefarious designs on this Reece-Taylor woman. What you make of his concerns is up to you.’

  ‘Before we come on to that,’ she said, ‘what do you make of him?’

  They’d reached the summit. The heat was burning their skin. Luckily, they’d put on plenty of sun cream at lunchtime. Daniel pulled his floppy white hat further down over his forehead before replying.

  ‘He’s a misfit who spent his life under mummy’s thumb. She sounds like a tyrant. I wouldn’t put it past her to have smothered poor Ivy Podmore herself, just to get her own back. Melton is the sort who fastens on to stronger individuals. He almost begs to be mistreated. When his mother was ailing, he formed a bond with a pretty young man, only to be done a bad turn. I wouldn’t be surprised if Prentice did give some petty criminal a tip-off about the hoard of lapis lazuli.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Melton has latched on to this woman, and he’s started to obsess about her. She’s given him a morsel of encouragement, but probably regarded it as a no-strings shag. He wants something special. If only to convince himself he’s not a repressed homosexual – Mummy would never have approved of that. He loathes Prentice and he’s jealous. So is Prentice planning to kill Tory Reece-Taylor? I’d say Melton is letting his imagination run away with him.’

  They stopped by the white trig point at the top of the hill and admired the views. Black Combe in the west, the peaks of Lakeland and Ingleborough, the Hoad Monument, the River Leven, and the coastal village of Bardsea. To say nothing of the magnificent bay, and those endless deadly sands.

  ‘Did he strike you as someone who might take the law into his own hands?’

  ‘Just because he hates Prentice, doesn’t mean he’d dare to confront him.’

  ‘Worms occasionally turn.’

  ‘So what’s your take?’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘Hard to quarrel with your assessment when all I’ve got to go on is your report. Melton raised questions about Ivy Podmore’s death at the time and got nowhere, probably because there was nowhere to get to. As for Tory Reece-Taylor, she’s much younger than Ivy Podmore. Killing her wouldn’t be the same as finishing off a senile old woman in a care home.’

  ‘She’s vulnerable, though. No close relatives, Melton says, nobody to kick up a rumpus if she dies.’

  ‘You mentioned she survived a cardiac arrest.’

  ‘Yes, she boasts about how much she loves coming back from the dead, but next time she’s unlikely to be so fortunate.’

  ‘If her death looked suspicious, Prentice would be the prime suspect, assuming he’d sweet-talked his way into her will. And if he wasn’t a beneficiary in line for the lion’s share of the loot, what would be the point of getting rid of her? It makes more sense for him to soak her while she’s alive, if she’s stupid enough to shower her toy boy with largesse.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  They walked down the slope without a word. The uneven ground was thick with ferns and bracken. Her expression was sombre, and he tried to lighten the mood.

  ‘Another story from years ago. A travelling circus came to this neighbourhood, and when their elephant died, the circus folk are supposed to have dragged it up the hill and buried it on the Common.’

  She frowned. ‘Makes you wonder who else is buried here.’

  ‘So is Louise’s saviour very glamorous, then?’ Hannah asked.

  They’d dined at a French restaurant in Kendal and the waiter was serving coffee. Because it was Saturday evening, the place was packed, but they had secured a quiet booth at the back of the ground floor. Daniel had parked at Hannah’s flat, where they’d showered and changed out of their walking gear. By tacit agreement they hadn’t talked about Ramona Smith or Kingsley Melton during their meal. He’d regaled her with anecdotes about his time in the States as well as the story of Louise’s rescue from the Rothay.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Intuition or inspired deduction?’

  ‘The latter, of course. Apart from saying that she’s done a bit of acting and is pleasant company, you’ve avoided discussing her.’

  ‘Alex Samaras is very lovely.’ He grinned. ‘More importantly, she’s read all my books.’

  ‘God, that’s more than I’ve done.’

  ‘Yes, very disappointing. Alex, on the other hand, professes to be my biggest fan.’

  ‘An actress with a love of history?’

  The note of scepticism irked him. ‘Why not? She’s no air-head, that’s for sure. Though the reason she came across the books is that she used to know my father.’

  ‘Seriously?’ She frowned. ‘He never mentioned her.’

  ‘This was after he retired from the force, just before he died.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He told her the story. ‘I didn’t realise Dad had figured out that Cheryl was
sleeping with her boss.’

  ‘Once a detective, always a detective.’

  ‘I don’t suppose their marriage would have lasted much longer. Maybe he’d have got in touch …’

  ‘Don’t.’ Hannah said. ‘I know it hurt that you never got a chance to see him again. Or say goodbye. But it’s past, gone. Punishing yourself is pointless.’

  ‘Of course you’re right.’ He mustered a smile. ‘Anyway, Alex is delightful, and I can see why Louise has cottoned on to her. Before you ask, she’s single. Her ex-husband is Greek and they lived on Santorini before they split up. Now she’s trying to revive her acting career. Won’t be easy. Writing is a tough game, but acting is even tougher.’

  ‘So she has plenty of time on her hands.’

  ‘Unlike me,’ he said quickly. ‘After all this gallivanting, my agent is nagging me to sit down and get stuck into the next book.’

  ‘What about the research?’

  He shifted in his chair. ‘I’ve not made any travel plans. After so much time away, I want to get my bearings again. Back at home.’

  ‘Do you really think of the Lakes as home?’

  ‘Well … yes. I live here, don’t I? Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that your work takes you all over the world. Before you left you were talking about buying a studio flat in London.’

  ‘That was before I saw the prices. A lot for a pied-à-terre.’

  ‘You can afford it. Your publishers are in London, the literary and TV agent. Most of the television studios …’

  ‘I’m not going back to TV work,’ he said. ‘Been there, done that. I’d rather write.’

  ‘Even so, the Lakes can’t compare as a literary hub.’

  ‘It worked for Wordsworth and Southey and …’