The Frozen Shroud

by Martin Edwards

  Daniel grinned. ‘Ten out of ten for customer care.’

  ‘You think that’s a daft question? Trust me, it’s high-level compared to some. People constantly ask for books whose titles they can’t recall, written by authors whose names they have forgotten, about subjects they are rather vague about. Not to worry, they are our lifeblood. Mind you, we’d never survive if I only sold books to people who call in looking for a bargain. I have clients all over the world. Collectors based in countries whose currency rates make the price of rare books from England a snip. To say nothing of women recently divorced from millionaire husbands, who want to invest their alimony in something more interesting than stocks and shares.’

  ‘Or toy boys?’

  ‘Hey, you don’t have to worry about your age or your looks when you curl up with a rare first edition. And books cause you less hassle and heartache in the long run.’ Marc frowned, his thoughts wandering elsewhere as the pair of them strolled through the topography section. ‘Seen Hannah lately?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘You?’

  ‘She’s seeing someone else, did you know?’

  ‘We haven’t spoken for more than a month.’

  Marc was watching for a reaction, and he kept his expression neutral, although the news made him want to bang his head against the wall. He’d been so sure she wanted time to herself before even thinking about a new relationship. Louise’s words echoed in his brain. For a smart guy, you’re really not that smart.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. Last time we were in touch, she was worried about cutbacks. She sounded overwhelmed with work.’

  ‘In more ways than one,’ Marc said softly. ‘The bloke she’s seeing is her DS. That guy Wharf.’

  ‘Greg Wharf?’ This time Daniel wasn’t able to hide his surprise. Hannah was professional; why had she let herself get mixed up with a subordinate?

  ‘You’d think she’d have more sense, wouldn’t you?’

  Daniel wasn’t feeling too sensible himself. He didn’t answer, and Marc luxuriated in a long sigh.

  ‘I’m disappointed, to be honest with you, Daniel. I’ve heard the two of them go out drinking together.’

  Two colleagues going for a drink? Maybe there was nothing in it, and Marc was jumping to jealousy-fuelled conclusions. Before Daniel could say another word, someone called to him.

  ‘There you are, Daniel! And Marc too. Lovely to see you both!’

  Melody Knight waved at them. Daniel returned her smile, his gaze lingering on the slanted eyes and high cheekbones. With a stab of surprise, he realised that he’d hardly ever seen anyone in this shop who wasn’t white. Nor any more beautiful. Wrapped up against the cold in a white coat, multicoloured woollen scarf and matching hat, Melody looked exotic and out of place, like a rare orchid in an overgrown garden.

  ‘How long have you two known each other?’ Marc asked as they shook hands.

  ‘We met on Saturday, at a conference Oz organised,’ Melody said. ‘Daniel gave this wonderful talk on De Quincey and murder, and he agreed to be interviewed about his new book, to help my career as a budding journo. He and his sister are coming to our Hallowe’en party, by the way.’

  ‘A trip to Ravenbank? Now I understand your sudden interest in the Frozen Shroud.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘One of my fellow speakers turned out to be a neighbour of Melody’s. He told me about Gertrude Smith, and Shenagh Moss.’

  ‘You’ll love Ravenbank, if you’ve never been that far. Gorgeous spot, and the Hall is marvellous.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Marc,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you change your mind and come to the party too? Bring Leigh, if you like.’

  Marc shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t make it. Now, I’d better leave you to talk about Ullswater spectres, while I price up a collection I’ve just bought. It came from the executors of a critic for a literary magazine who never parted with a single review copy. Bliss.’

  As he disappeared towards his office, Melody said, ‘Such a shame. You can tell he isn’t over the break-up yet. Ever met his ex? She’s a detective. Very nice, by all accounts, but a workaholic. Can’t be easy for Marc.’

  ‘Yes, I know Hannah.’

  ‘He was potty about her. Still is, I’d say. Last year, he was going to bring her along to ours for Hallowe’en, but she was called away at the last minute, something to do with her job. He was furious, though of course we understood. Now she’s dumped him, he realises what he’s … lost.’

  Melody’s voice trailed away as she stared into the flames. Daniel guessed she wasn’t thinking about Hannah Scarlett, but within moments she pulled herself together. ‘Oh well, he’s a very good-looking man, and he won’t be on his own for long. Come on, I’m dying for a hot drink. To say nothing of a slice of that fabulous cake.’

  ‘I starved myself at lunchtime, simply to justify treating myself like this,’ Melody said, as she polished off the last of Leigh Moffat’s home-made lime and pistachio zucchini cake. She’d also indulged in a large glass of Chablis. ‘And I’m going to have to starve myself all over again if I want to squeeze into my party outfit.’

  ‘Bet it was worth it.’

  Daniel had pigged out on the chocolate fudge gateau while answering her questions about The Hell Within. He’d worry about his cholesterol count another day. At least he’d stuck to Earl Grey; he wanted to keep his head clear. Melody wasn’t the most incisive interviewer, more like a rich woman playing at being a writer. But he was filling his face in a bookshop in attractive company. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon.

  ‘Absolutely. Leigh is a genius. And here she is!’

  Leigh Moffat was on patrol, brisk and businesslike as always, keeping an eye on whether her customers were content. ‘Everything okay here?’

  ‘Need you ask? I really must beg the recipe for this cake from you, it’s utterly divine.’

  As Leigh moved to the next table, Melody whispered, ‘I don’t know why she and Marc haven’t shacked up together yet. Only a question of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  Melody giggled, and he wondered if the Chablis was her first drink of the day. ‘You must think I’m a horrid old gossip. Poking my nose into other people’s business like a latter day Miss Marple. I’m even passionate about knitting, as well!’

  She pointed with childlike pride to the scarf and hat squatting on the spare chair next to her. Daniel duly admired her handiwork before switching the subject.

  ‘So Ravenbank was the scene of two separate murders. You knew Shenagh Moss. What was she like?’

  ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Shenagh was engaging company.’ Melody considered. ‘She … certainly had the knack of making herself popular.’

  Hardly the most fulsome obituary. ‘Nobody disliked her, apart from Craig Meek?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Marc told me that one or two police officers weren’t sure that Meek was guilty.’

  Melody pulled a face. ‘They can’t be serious.’

  ‘A friend of Hannah’s was on the team, and she had doubts.’

  ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Even as a local journalist, someone who was on the spot?’

  ‘Hey, I’d never published anything at that point. It’s only lately that I’ve built up the courage to submit pieces to the local press. It’s not like I’m trained, or anything. I never made it to uni, I spent a few years as a model, would you believe?’ Yes, Daniel could easily believe. ‘I even tried a bit of acting, but I wasn’t much good, not in the same street as Jeffrey or Quin. At the time Shenagh died, I was helping Oz to build up the business. I found myself copywriting, and that led to an interest in journalism. I’ve had a little more time for writing since we employed someone to help with the work.’

  He dragged the conversation back to Shenagh Moss. ‘So you never heard any whispers around Ravenbank, nobody hinted that that Craig Meek might have been
innocent, after all?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. Craig Meek was a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Besides, if he was innocent, someone else must have been guilty.’ A wary smile. ‘It could be anyone. Goodness, even me.’

  ‘But you didn’t have any reason to kill her.’

  She considered. ‘As it happens, an outsider might think I had every right to kill poor Shenagh. You see, before she turned her attention to Francis Palladino, she’d been shagging my husband.’

  Follow that, her disarming smile seemed to say. Daniel was supposed to be good at diplomacy, but her pleasant candour left him choking on his cake. And groping for a suitable response. Two elderly women at the table on their left were debating the best way to make treacle toffee; to their right, a well-dressed couple were moaning about the cost of their kids’ student fees. A cafeteria in a second-hand bookshop in the Lakes wasn’t an obvious venue for a confessional about adultery and murder. Melody Knight was testing him.

  ‘Did I shock you?’ Her eyes stretched wide in pretend astonishment.

  ‘I was wondering if you were equally frank with the police after Shenagh died, that’s all.’

  ‘Ouch!’ She grinned. ‘Oz reckons I talk too much. He says so much for ethnicity, I’m the polar opposite of an inscrutable Oriental. Though I was born in Morpeth, would you believe? Yes, yes, it’s true. My dad was a Geordie, my mum came over from Singapore when she was seventeen. Unfortunately, my dad ran off with a barmaid when I was a baby, and Mum died when I was five, so I finished up living with my uncle and aunt.’

  Daniel wasn’t prepared to be sidetracked. ‘About Shenagh …’

  ‘What happened between Oz and Shenagh was an open secret. I’m not telling you anything you wouldn’t find out if you speak to anyone at Ravenbank.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Was Melody’s frankness misleading? Why had she wanted to meet today? She’d learnt little more about his book or the history of murder than she’d heard in his lecture. A quick internet search could have answered the biographical questions she’d asked.

  ‘Oz is fantastic, but he’s also notorious, he’s the first to admit it. When he and I got together, he did make it clear I was buying into the whole package, not just the lovely bits. His affairs never last long. But you know something? I’m the only woman he’s ever stayed with for more than eighteen months. Let alone married.’

  ‘Must be love, eh?’

  ‘Whatever it is, it works.’ Protesting too much, Daniel thought. ‘Anyway, Oz wasn’t the only notch on Shenagh’s bedpost. But in my honest opinion, it’s barking up a blind alley to suggest Meek didn’t murder her. The case of Gertrude Smith was much more puzzling and macabre.’

  ‘Although everyone thought it was open and shut?’

  ‘Exactly. But I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s an intriguing case.’ Her expression suggested an angler, about to reel in her catch. ‘The build-up to this Hallowe’en started me thinking about it properly for the first time. And the more I mull it over, the more I’m convinced Letty Hodgkinson suffered an injustice.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t believe she battered Gertrude to death. No wonder the housemaid’s ghost walks at Hallowe’en. The culprit escaped scot free – but not by committing suicide.’

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ Daniel said. They’d strolled back into the bookshop, ensconcing themselves in the old leather armchairs thoughtfully positioned close to the inglenook fire. ‘Your theory that Letty was innocent is based on a hazy, second-hand account of a conversation between her daughter Dorothy and her old tutor when they were both in their dotage?’

  ‘Roland Jones was Gertrude’s lover. Nobody was more likely to know the truth about her death. And I suspect he killed her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to find out. I suspect he was jealous because of her affair with Hodgkinson, but that’s supposition.’

  ‘Did he confess to Dorothy?’

  ‘He may not have made an outright confession, but if Dorothy had already guessed the truth, he didn’t need to. When they met, he was dying. If the crime had weighed on his conscience all those years, he might have been glad of the chance to let her know she was right, and that her mother was innocent.’

  ‘You’d need evidence to make that stack up.’

  ‘Who knows? There might even be a book in it.’ Melody leant across the table, her fingers almost touching his. Her eyes shone. The Chablis had energised her, and he found her enthusiasm infectious. ‘I’d like you to talk to Miriam Park. She holds the key.’

  ‘Because she overheard what Roland Jones said to Dorothy Hodgkinson?’

  ‘When she was working at the Hall all those years ago, when it was a care home.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  Melody sighed. ‘To be honest, it was her son, Robin, who told me the story. Miriam keeps herself to herself, and she’s incredibly discreet. But she told Robin and …’

  ‘He’s not discreet?’

  Melody laughed. ‘Robin has the gift of the gab. Plays jazz piano, and likes to have a good time.’

  ‘Does he believe Letty Hodgkinson was innocent?’

  ‘He couldn’t care less. Robin lives in the here and now, he only mentioned the story in passing. When I quizzed him, he told me to pump his mother instead. But she gave me the brush-off.’

  ‘She might do the same to me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re well known, you’ve published books and appeared on the box. Miriam is bound to be impressed.’

  ‘Will she be at your party?’

  ‘Of course, all our neighbours are invited. I’m sure you’ll have more luck than me. When I tried to interrogate her, she made me feel like a nosy cow for prying.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she like talking about what she overheard in the care home? Does she think it’s unseemly?’

  ‘Yes, there is that. But if you ask me, she’s afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Superstition, plain and simple. The poor old thing is convinced that the Faceless Woman still walks down Ravenbank Lane on Hallowe’en. She’d rather let sleeping ghosts lie. Yet I’m sure poor Gertrude would want the truth to come out.’ She checked her watch. ‘God, is that the time? I really must dash. It will be dark long before I get home, and I have pumpkin lanterns to get ready and God knows what else to do. We can talk again about Gertrude Smith at the party.’

  He held out his hand. ‘See you on Hallowe’en.’

  She curled her warm fingers around his. ‘Don’t forget your mask.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The last time Hannah and Marc had met, the simmering tension between them almost exploded into all-out war. After Marc moved out of the house they shared, Hannah swore to herself that the break-up would be civilised. No ranting, no finger-pointing, no blame game. Even though the split was his fault. He’d cheated on her, but what made her determined to dump him wasn’t his betrayal – a symptom, not a cause – but his selfishness. It was in his DNA. People can apologise, and make amends; she even knew a couple of murderers who, on release from prison, had led lives as decent and worthwhile as others who never so much as nicked an office biro. But Marc would never change.

  He didn’t get it. He wanted another chance, and was willing to beg. They’d been together so long that she could read him like one of his books, and he’d persuaded himself that if he grovelled for long enough, she would give in. A tried-and-tested tactic, but she’d stopped falling for it. Ditching him hurt, because he was a good companion, as well as good in bed and good to look at. But all good things came to an end. The decision was made, and if he put it down to stubbornness, too bad. And so, despite her best intentions, their skirmishes were becoming hostile. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since a huge row about putting Undercrag on the market.

  ‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

  She heard him choke off a grunt of exasperation. ‘Bad day at the office?’

  ‘Yes.’


  ‘Sorry to hear it. I heard on the radio about cuts in police spending. Hope you’re not directly affected.’

  On his best behaviour, then. He was seldom so sympathetic about her work. Last time, she’d made the mistake of venting about Lauren Self and her demands for ‘efficiencies’, provoking Marc into a homily about the cosseted life led by public sector workers. People in the private sector, who actually made and sold things, weren’t blessed with gold-plated pension benefits, taxpayer-funded early retirement schemes, and long-term occupational sick pay. She retaliated by asking if he really believed that selling second-hand books would kick-start economic recovery, and the conversation plummeted downhill from there.

  ‘Lauren is downsizing the team. I’ll be left with two detectives and a couple of kids in the back office.’

  ‘Jesus, after all you’ve done.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ She’d blundered by giving him the chance to offer moral support. ‘You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?’

  ‘I saw Daniel Kind a few minutes ago. He asked after you.’

  ‘You rang to tell me that? Thanks, but I can’t see my desk for paperwork.’

  Not literally true – otherwise, she’d have committed a hanging offence under the terms of the Clear Desk Policy – but she still had plenty to do before heading home for a quick shower and change before her rendezvous with Terri.

  ‘Hannah, I’ve been thinking. There’s so much we need to sort out. Talk over. There’s Undercrag, and everything else. Why don’t we get together, over a drink, or a meal if you’re up for that?’

  ‘We tried that, and nearly came to blows, remember?’

  ‘My fault, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my stupid mouth shut next time. Promise.’

  ‘Then it will be a rather one-sided conversation, won’t it? The estate agent will email you about the sales particulars, to check you’re happy with them. As for your books in the loft, we can sort out a date for you to come and collect. You still have your key, so I can make myself scarce while you’re shifting stuff.’