The Frozen Shroud

by Martin Edwards

  The clock struck each hour on a gong; at one in the morning, it woke him. They’d shared a couple of bottles of claret over dinner; Shenagh had waved away Miriam’s offer to do the cooking, and Francis found that fine wine always helped compensate for his lover’s lack of culinary expertise. The combination of the alcohol, the fire, and their exertions in bed had made him drowsy, so he hadn’t accompanied her when she said she would take Hippo for a walk.

  ‘With any luck, I’ll come face to face with Gertrude’s ghost.’ She giggled. ‘Hey, I guess that’s a contradiction in terms if the ghost doesn’t actually have a …’

  ‘Don’t stay out too long,’ he muttered. Within five minutes, he was snoring.

  One o’clock? She must be back by now. After locking up, she’d gone straight up to bed. Might she be waiting to offer him her own special version of trick or treat? He levered his protesting body out of his armchair, switched off the light, and stumbled upstairs.

  The bedroom was empty. No sign of her in the bathroom, either.

  ‘Shenagh?’

  He called her name twice more. She didn’t answer.

  Puffing and grunting, he made his way back down the steep staircase. Hippo’s basket was empty. Surely Shenagh hadn’t had an accident while taking him out? She was young, fit, and fearless. Yet a lifetime in medicine had taught him that nobody was invulnerable. Disaster often struck out of a clear blue sky. Or out of a dark, starless sky.

  What could have gone wrong? Hippo – properly, Hippocrates – was an Irish Setter, five years old and full of energy. Too boisterous for his owner’s taste, but he had been a present for Esme after she fell ill, and after her death, Miriam, ever the sentimentalist, begged him not to let the dog go.

  Shenagh loved Hippo too, a case of one tactile extrovert bonding with another. She used to say she enjoyed nothing better than being licked by a wild, panting animal. When, in the damp of autumn, Francis’s arthritic back started playing up, she’d volunteered to take Hippo for walks by herself. Ravenbank was an ideal place for a dog to roam, whether on the muddy track by the lake shore, or along the secluded lanes and overgrown pathways criss-crossing between the scattered houses.

  No choice but to go and look for her. Shuddering with dismay, he pulled on his Barbour coat and thickest lambswool scarf, and shoved his age-spotted hands into leather gloves. Before grabbing his torch, he donned the garish woollen hat Shenagh had bought as a birthday present. He’d avoided wearing it until now, because it made him look foolish; at least nobody else would be out there to see it.

  He knew better than to panic. Thirty-five years as a stroke physician had accustomed him to distress. From student days, he’d cultivated a cool fatalism. Speculation was the enemy of medicine. Doctors traded in facts, unlike patients who made themselves sick and unhappy by allowing their thoughts to roam. Imagination ranked with superstition and religion. A rational man could have no time for any of them.

  The moment he stepped outside, the cold sank its teeth into his cheeks. Ravenbank was a small and isolated peninsula jutting out into Ullswater, at the mercy of gales roaring down from Helvellyn. The rain had slackened to a malicious drizzle, but swirls of fog kept blowing in from the lake, and the wind howled through the trees like a creature in pain.

  He headed for the path to the ruined boathouse. To his left lay the grave of the woman who had once lived here. The jealous wife who had battered Gertrude Smith to death. This part of the estate had become a wilderness, the old lichen-covered tombstone invisible beneath a tangle of dripping ferns, serpentine brambles, and stinging nettles. What had possessed Clifford Hodgkinson to bury the rotting remains of his disgraced spouse in the grounds of the Hall? Morbid sentimentality, that was the top and bottom of it.

  ‘Shenagh!’ he called.

  No answer. What the hell was she playing at? Once or twice he’d wondered about her new-found enthusiasm for taking Hippo for a walk late at night. It wasn’t the form of exercise she usually favoured. Francis had warned her to be careful. Craig Meek knew where she lived, and a crude thug like that was capable of anything. But Shenagh was stubborn, and insisted she’d never let Meek mess her about again. She refused to become a prisoner in her own home through fear of anything he might try to do.

  Once or twice, Francis had asked himself if walking the dog was a subterfuge, an excuse for getting out of the house so that she could meet someone in secret. Namely, that conceited lecher, Oz Knight. But he’d dismissed the idea out of hand. Knight was history as far as Shenagh was concerned; besides, he’d never be able to explain any nocturnal absences to that wife of his. Francis knew better than to give in to paranoia. Shenagh was a lovely woman, and any red-blooded male was bound to lust after her, but she knew which side her bread was buttered on. He was confident of that.

  The worst case scenario was that Shenagh or Hippo had finished up in the water. He’d start by eliminating this possibility; a reassuringly scientific approach. Shenagh was sure-footed, and a strong swimmer. Her early years had been tough; he’d never pried into details, but she’d developed an instinct for self-preservation. Much as she cared for the dog, if it got into difficulties, she’d not risk her life on a rescue. The lake was deep and excruciatingly cold. Nobody could survive its icy embrace for long.

  Rain spat in his face as he limped along the muddy track. On the far side of Ullswater, lights glimmered behind curtained windows as Hallowe’en parties staggered to an end. Headlamps flickered as vehicles on the main road to Glenridding passed between the trees on the west bank. The east side of the lake was silent but for the melancholy hooting of an owl, and the muffled scrabbling of an invisible fox. His torch beam picked out the way ahead. The rest was blackness.

  The air smelt of damp leaves and wet earth. The lakeside path was bumpy, and he needed to watch where he put his feet. It didn’t help that the gale was making his eyes water, and his vision was blurred. How easy to trip over a tree root, and snap his Achilles, especially when he was hampered by this damnable pain in his back and knees. Gritting his teeth, he followed the path’s curve around the promontory. No sign of Shenagh or Hippo.

  Reaching a gap in the mass of trees, he began to climb towards the heart of Ravenbank. The downpour had made the ground treacherous, and his boots kept sliding as he struggled up the slope, but he pressed on. He knew this place like the back of his hand, and since Esme’s death he’d found comfort in the familiar, yet Shenagh was right. He was too set in his ways. If he didn’t change them now, he never would. She had opened his eyes to fresh horizons that he was desperate to explore, before it was too late.

  Where the hell was she?

  His boots pinched, and he could feel blisters forming on his heels. The wind blew a thin, spiky branch into his face, almost taking out his eyes. He brushed it out of his face, and carried on until he reached the spot where a stony lane petered out into a rough track.

  ‘Hippo! Hippocrates!’ He whistled twice before he called again. ‘Are you there, boy? Shenagh, where have you got to?’

  The fog clutched at his throat as he approached the Corner House. Wheezing noisily, he stopped to rest his aching back against the For Sale sign. In case Shenagh had taken shelter inside the empty cottage, he peered through the cobwebbed windows, but saw nothing. Taking a deep, rasping breath, he limped on down Water Lane. His torch beam picked out Watendlath, the whitewashed home of that pansy Jeffrey Burgoyne and his boyfriend. Francis didn’t care for the boyfriend, or the way he looked at Shenagh when he thought nobody else could see. Was he wondering what it would be like with a woman? People nowadays hadn’t the faintest idea of how to behave.

  A tall hawthorn hedge marked the boundary of the Hall’s grounds. He decided to retrace his steps, and follow one of the paths that led through the wooded area. Near to the beck, not far from where the two lanes crossed at Ravenbank Corner, Gertrude Smith’s corpse had been discovered. And this was where Esme insisted she’d seen Gertrude’s ghost, a shimmering white phantom with a bloodied, unrecogn
isable face.

  Absolute bunkum. Esme had downed too much gin while he was at the hospital, that long ago Hallowe’en.

  ‘Hippo!’

  At last his patience was rewarded. His tired eyes detected a movement in the distance, moments before a familiar bark ripped apart the silence of the night. Within seconds his torch fastened on the big, awkward dog, bounding towards him. Relief washed through him as he bent down, and patted Hippo. The fur was sodden.

  ‘So what have you done with Shenagh, old fellow?’

  Hippo whimpered.

  ‘Is she hurt? Don’t tell me she’s taken a tumble, and fractured her ankle?’

  The dog pulled away from him, and loped over the grass towards a clump of silver birch trees. Francis hurried after him, stumbling in his efforts to keep up. Somehow he managed not to lose his balance, but his heart was thudding and the throbbing of his back made every movement a test of will.

  Suddenly, the narrow beam of light from his torch caught a huddled shape on the ground.

  He’d found Shenagh.

  ‘For God’s sake, what has he done to you?’

  He’d forgotten that he didn’t believe in God.

  Hippo stood panting over the motionless form. It took Francis an age to catch up, but he recognised Shenagh’s black anorak, jeans and boots. They were designer cowboy boots; he’d bought them for her birthday, stifling his horror at the ridiculous price.

  As he drew closer, his torch beam moved up towards her neck and face. They were covered by a rough woollen blanket. He pulled it away and hurled it onto the sodden ground.

  Shenagh had lost her face. The lovely face he had so often kissed.

  As he stared at the bloody, ruined features, he let out a howl of rage and pain. A fearful noise, the cry of a beast with a mortal wound.

  NOW

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Murder for pleasure was invented by a man who lived down the road from here,’ Daniel Kind told his audience. ‘Thomas De Quincey moved into Dove Cottage a year after the Wordsworths left for Allan Bank. You can understand why the tourist board highlights the poetic daffodil fancier. Better PR than a self-confessed opium eater obsessed by serial murder.’

  Laughter drowned the rain drumming on the skylights of the lecture theatre. Two hundred and fifty paying customers had come to Grasmere for a Saturday conference on Literary Lakeland. Daniel had turned down countless speaking invitations since quitting academe and starting a new life in the Lake District. In Oxford, he’d lost his zest for lecturing, but the sea of faces in front of him gave him that old adrenaline rush.

  ‘De Quincey wasn’t a monster, any more than people who enjoy a good murder – any more than Mr Wopsle in Great Expectations, or people flocking to watch The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, are monsters. The world in general is, De Quincey said, bloody-minded. “All they want from murder is a copious effusion of blood … but the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.” De Quincey was no different from me or you. We all like a good murder.’

  He always made eye contact with his audience, and now his gaze was drawn to a woman in the front row. Wherever she’d sat, you couldn’t miss her. Not among the grey hair and cardigans, and not only because she was olive-skinned, not white. Glossy black hair, black eyes, high cheekbones. Her lipstick and nails were crimson, the silk blouse dazzling yellow. A tablet computer rested on her lap, but her tiny hands were motionless.

  ‘He was an eccentric, De Quincey, a mishmash of contradictions. A solitary soul who fathered eight children. A satirist with a morbid cast of mind. An addict who was also a notable journalist – though come to think of it, that might not be such a contradiction after all.’

  The woman tapped into her tablet. Oops. For all Daniel knew, she worked for the Westmoreland Gazette, whose long ago editor was – Thomas De Quincey.

  ‘I’m not saying De Quincey lacked sympathy for victims of crime. He points out that Duncan’s graciousness, his unoffending nature, makes his murder in Macbeth all the more appalling. But what fired the man’s imagination was the nature of murder. Macbeth, and Lady Macbeth, intrigued him more than their victim. He was the first writer to focus on a burning question. A question that has fascinated people ever since.’

  Daniel paused. The woman leant forward, lips slightly parted. Their eyes met.

  ‘The fundamental question about the ultimate crime. The question that haunts us all. Just what is it that drives someone to kill?’

  As Daniel inscribed a hardback for the last woman in the queue, he spotted through the crowd the leonine hairstyle of Oz Knight. Tall, tanned and trim, he was making for the authors’ table. That hair was unmissable – waves so sweeping you could almost surf them. He wore a hand-tailored black jacket – Charvet, at a guess – and a white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. For a man close to fifty, his physique was enviable, and he relished giving people a chance to envy it.

  ‘A fabulous lecture, and an even more fabulous book! Treasure that personalised copy, madam, it’s one for the pension fund!’

  Oz’s voice was melodious, if unnecessarily loud. A touch of humorous self-parody made his egotism almost tolerable. Yet it was lost on the woman, a slim redhead who was obviously no fan of chest hair. She rolled her eyes, and hurried off in search of refreshments.

  ‘Great audience today,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Sold every ticket months in advance!’ Oz gave a theatrical bow. Over-the-top dandyism was part of the package he’d constructed to create a high-profile business, the events management company which had organised this conference. A past master of the technique of persuasion, he was charming and persistent enough to tempt even Daniel to be a speaker. ‘But it’s not simply about putting bums on seats. It’s about creating a buzz, and a wonderful experience for everyone here. To miss the chance of talking about De Quincey in the village where he made his home would be – simply criminal.’

  Daniel had woken up wishing he’d never agreed to take part. The conference had seemed like a good idea at the time – but why return to a past he’d escaped? Yet he’d enjoyed the day, and the audience’s enthusiasm gave him a buzz. Now he wanted to unwind.

  ‘It was fun.’

  ‘Now, it just so happens that one of my clients is recruiting speakers for a month-long luxury cruise. Sail from Southampton to the Caribbean, the itinerary is incredible. Money no object for the right lecturers, and invitations are only going to Europe’s leading—’

  Daniel held up his hand. ‘Stop right there! I’ve not been bitten by the bug all over again, you know. Today’s a one-off. When I quit the television series, I decided—’

  ‘Of course. I understand. You moved to the Lakes for a reason. Forgive me, I should never have mentioned it.’ A smile flashed, vivid as lightning. ‘You won’t blame me for trying, I hope?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to head back for the green room and a well-deserved break. I must find my wife. We need to schmooze the sponsors.’ Oz clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Forget what I said about the cruise, it was crass of me. A colossal opportunity, incredible exposure, and an itinerary to die for, but you don’t want to spend your life back on the treadmill, do you? The global speaker circuit. You have other fish to fry. Fame and money aren’t everything, you’re absolutely right. Catch you later, eh?’

  Oz waltzed off, leaving Daniel – probably like most people he talked to – feeling his head had been pummelled. He doubted he’d heard the last of this cruise; it felt more like the opening skirmish in a campaign destined to become a battle of wills. Was this what it was like to fall prey to an accomplished seducer? Oz was legendary for his conquests, in his private life even more than in business; Daniel had asked around, after Oz made his original approach, and persisted after being turned down flat. The gossip was that he’d run wild until, at forty, he’d tied the knot with a girl who worked for his company. Not that marriage had cramped his style.

  Money, Daniel presumed, made up for a lot, along with the ma
nsion on Ullswater and holiday homes in Mykonos and Zermatt. One other thing he’d learnt was that Oz stood, not for Oswald, or even Osbert, but for Ozymandias. For God’s sake, what sort of parents would do that to a child? No wonder he had a healthy self-image, he’d have needed it to cope with the mockery at school.

  He watched Oz greet the olive-skinned woman from the front row. They embraced, and Daniel noticed the woman’s wedding ring. So that was Melody Knight. As she held forth, Oz listened without a word. The king of kings had transformed into a dutiful husband.

  Daniel squeezed into a seat where he could listen to the last presentation of the day. The speaker was Jeffrey Burgoyne, his topic the supernatural stories of Hugh Walpole. In the green room, Jeffrey had proposed a quick drink at the end of the day. He described himself as a jobbing actor, part of a two-man theatre company, and lived in Ravenbank, like Oz and Melody Knight.

  Jeffrey didn’t stand at the lectern, or bother with notes. He strode up to the edge of the platform, determined to hold the audience in the palm of his hand. Overweight and red-faced, he looked more like a gentleman farmer than the Lake District’s answer to Kenneth Branagh. But he had presence.

  ‘When I listened to Daniel talking about Thomas De Quincey,’ he said, ‘I was reminded in a strange way of Hugh Walpole. Once the poor devil was a household name, now he’s forgotten. If people think of him at all, they pigeonhole him as a writer of sugary Lakeland sagas. Look beyond the Herries Chronicles, and you see a man who led a weird life, and wrote even weirder stories. If you fancy a masterpiece of the macabre, read Walpole’s last novel. A landmark in psychological suspense, yet few people know it. It was only published after he died, and it’s called … The Killer and the Slain.’

  You could tell Burgoyne was an actor. This wasn’t so much a talk as a performance. Daniel saw Melody Knight note the book’s title.