‘So Melody’s succeeded in stirring your curiosity.’
Something in her tone made him look up. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘She told you her husband was unfaithful. Better watch out, in case she’s in the mood to pay him back.’
He shook his head. ‘Have you ever known me get involved with married women? She wasn’t chatting me up. What Melody fancies is the idea of collaborating on the Gertrude Smith story.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. She’s decided my name might help her sell a book. Probably it’s just a rich woman’s passing whim. But she has interested me in the Ravenbank murders. Both of them.’
‘Don’t let her use you.’
Closing his eyes, he listened to the deluge rage below, as he puzzled over the contrast between Melody’s conviction that Letty Hodgkinson was innocent, and her refusal to accept the same might be true of Craig Meek.
After lunch in a tea room overlooking the River Eamont at Pooley Bridge, they followed pony trekkers along the road that clung to the east bank of the lake, and past the small harbour at Howtown, before zigzagging up the hairpin bends of the Hause towards Martindale. Parking at St Peter’s Church, they climbed the gentle contours of Hallin Fell to the stone cairn at the summit. Mist clung to the distant fells, far below the steamer chugged away from Howtown pier, and an instructor in a wetsuit bellowed commands at a group of teenagers with dinghies.
As the sun dipped out of sight, Louise waved a hand, indicating a small, wooded promontory poking out into the lake to the south of the fell. The peninsula was shaped like a human skull, connected by a neck of land to the valley of Martindale. The trees formed a copper, brown, and green mosaic. Close to the water’s edge stood a large triple-gabled house. Even at this distance, Ravenbank Hall looked lonely and bleak. Somewhere in the grounds, Letty Hodgkinson, the supposed murderer of Gertrude Smith, was buried. From their vantage point, it was impossible to make out the design planned by Letty’s husband. The Hall was undeniably imposing, but its design was curiously irregular and idiosyncratic, so that it seemed slightly strange and out of kilter. Ravenbank’s other buildings were invisible, and so was the lane prowled by the Faceless Woman. A century after Hodgkinson had set out to master the landscape, Nature had reclaimed most of its own.
‘So that’s why Ravenbank was originally called Satan’s Head,’ Daniel said. There was scarcely a breath of wind, but he felt a chill. ‘Seems to me that Clifford Hodgkinson was an Edwardian Canute, trying to push away the darkness of the past. Even when the sun is out, Satan’s Head seems like its rightful name.’
‘Oh well, we all know you should never fight against the tide of history.’
Her teasing amused him. After so many years when the slightest provocation had her at his throat, today they were at ease in each other’s company.
‘The peninsula was always distinct from the valley. People viewed it with suspicion and fear. Its sinister reputation predates all talk of faceless women and frozen shrouds. So the story goes, pagan rituals were commonplace at Satan’s Head. Animals were sacrificed to appease the gods, and maybe not only animals.’
Louise, the rational lawyer, made a sceptical noise. ‘You’ll be telling me next that the place is cursed.’
‘People used to say so, long before the murder of Gertrude Smith, let alone the death of Shenagh Moss. Hodgkinson took no notice, and paid the price. Like his successor at Ravenbank Hall, Francis Palladino.’
The sun reappeared as they scrambled back down the fell-side. Tiny and remote Martindale might be, but it boasted two churches. They stopped to look at the ancient chapel of St Martin’s. The font had once been part of a Roman altar, a wayside shrine; the gnarled yew outside was supposed to date back to Saxon times. People had worshipped on this site for a thousand years. Had they prayed for protection from the dark forces of the nearby headland?
Britain’s oldest herd of red deer roamed in the upper part of the valley, where public access was forbidden. Daniel’s researches had yielded the titbit that Kaiser Wilhelm II once visited Martindale as a guest of the Earl of Lonsdale. He’d come here to take part in a deer shoot. Four years later, the Kaiser’s war brought about an even bloodier slaughter.
Half a mile from St Martin’s, a wooden signpost to Ravenbank directed them along a narrow, uneven lane winding between two fells. Bad for the car’s suspension, but once they had bumped over a small humpbacked bridge, Daniel caught glimpses of Ullswater between the sombre mass of trees. He pulled up beside the moss-covered drystone wall, and they walked on a little way for their first close look at Ravenbank. Hodgkinson had planned a boulevard by which to approach his estate, but the straight edges of his proposed boulevard had long since vanished beneath grass and brambles. All that remained was a country lane. A heavy fall of snow would cut Ravenbank off from the valley. This was as isolated a spot as anywhere he’d found in the Lakes.
‘So this is where the Faceless Woman walks,’ Louise said. ‘Perfect for a ghost. Even in broad daylight, you can’t help feeling shivery.’
‘I wonder why Gertrude’s face was covered with a shroud. To say nothing of Shenagh’s.’
‘Presumably Shenagh’s was a copycat killing?’
‘Aren’t copycats usually psychos who murder for the sake of it, not stalkers with a personal axe to grind against the victim? Craig Meek had it in for Shenagh – but why bother covering her face with a blanket in imitation of a crime from the past?’
‘A mark of respect?’
‘After smashing her features beyond recognition? I don’t think so.’
The only signs of life were a rabbit scuttling across the lane into the undergrowth, and the mournful cawing of a crow. Daniel understood how the people of the valley had regarded this small, secretive enclave as alien and frightening, set apart from the civilisation they knew. Solitary by instinct, he found the quiet desolation of Ravenbank, and the sense that time had passed it by, weirdly exhilarating. He felt shivery too, but with excitement. Ravenbank had an air of mystery. Anything might happen here.
‘Have you brought Jeffrey’s sketch map?’
Satnav was redundant in Ravenbank, so Jeffrey had drawn a map with directions to the cottage he shared with Quin. Louise dug the sheet of paper out of her bag. Their destination stood close to the lake, at the end of a narrow lane intersecting with Ravenbank Lane, which ended at the gates of the Hall.
‘Their cottage is called Watendlath,’ she said. ‘Why does the name seem familiar?’
‘It’s a pretty hamlet above Borrowdale, where Hugh Walpole set part of his Herries stories. Jeffrey named his house in honour of his hero.’
‘I’ve never read Walpole. Any good?’
‘He was famous in his day, and incredibly prolific. Even earned a knighthood, and how many writers can say that? The Herries books were popular, but Jeffrey Burgoyne is right, his darker stories have worn better. He was snobbish and thin-skinned, and when Somerset Maugham caricatured him in Cakes and Ale, the ridicule tormented him. Once he was dead, his books vanished from the shelves, and they’ve stayed out of sight ever since. Sobering, when you think his admirers included the likes of Conrad, Eliot, and Virginia Woolf.’
‘You’re such a bloody know-all.’
‘You did ask. Okay, now we’re in the mood for the macabre, let’s press on for Tarnhelm Towers.’
Watendlath stood in a large wild garden of tall grasses, creeping ivy, and rotted tree trunks. It was a sturdy stone cottage with mullioned windows and an old-fashioned bell push. Quin answered the door, and ushered them in through a low-beamed hallway festooned with colourful posters and photographs from past productions of the Ravenbank Theatre Company.
‘Each of our shows is a two-hander, and we play multiple parts. Jeffrey does the writing, then we block it – that is, work out our movements – together. It’s scarcely Ibsen, just light entertainment, but plenty of fun.’ He gave a suggestive wink and pointed to the photographs. ‘That’s us as a very Butch Cassidy
and the Sundance Kid. And here is Jeffrey playing Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, with me as his faithful chum Bunny.’
The living room bore such a strong resemblance to a set for The Antiques Roadshow that Daniel was tempted to peer at the mahogany sideboard and say, ‘Marvellous example of late Chippendale, if it wasn’t for that tiny nick, it would be worth thirty thousand.’ A single shelf held calfskin-bound books by Lakeland writers: Ruskin, Walpole, and the poets. Logs crackled on an open fire; the warm, heady aroma of mulled wine filled the air. Jeffrey was due back soon, Quin explained as he waved them onto a deep leather sofa, he’d stayed in Keswick for a meeting with their financial adviser.
‘Rather him than me,’ he grinned, pouring wine into three huge glasses. ‘In another life, Jeffrey would be a top-notch accountant, like his father and grandfather before him. Business is bollocks, as far as I’m concerned. I hate it when money gets mixed up with art. Cash exists to be spent, end of story. Probably explains why I’ve never had a penny to my name.’
Nice not to need to worry about the sordid realities, Daniel thought. Presumably financial security made it worth tolerating the occasional slap when Jeffrey was in a bad mood. Quin had done well to find a partner who could keep him in style. For Watendlath was undoubtedly stylish, every touch of decor demonstrating impeccable taste. A painting hanging above the fireplace made a vivid splash of blue and sea-green against the white stone wall. Quin pointed out the signature, and Louise gasped. It was a Hockney original.
‘Jeffrey’s parents bought it at auction thirty years ago. God knows how much it’s worth. When he told me how much he pays for the insurance premium, I almost had a stroke.’
‘Surely you needn’t worry too much about burglars,’ Louise said. ‘There must be easier pickings, posh houses in villages that are much more accessible.’
‘That’s the beauty of Ravenbank. Only one way in, only one way out. If you exclude a marine landing, that is, and the currents can be tricky enough to test Admiral Nelson. But Jeffrey’s cautious. It’s the accountancy in his genes. Never takes anything for granted, that’s why he spent a fortune on the alarm system, let alone insurance. Fair enough, I suppose. Ravenbank is hardly a capital of crime, but since we do have the occasional savage homicide, I guess we can’t take anything for granted.’
‘Melody and I were talking yesterday about Shenagh Moss,’ Daniel said.
Quin raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, really?’
‘I gather she wasn’t a paid-up member of Shenagh’s fan club?’
‘Understatement of the century, my friend. Don’t get me wrong, Melody’s a sweetheart. But Ravenbank isn’t big enough to accommodate two beautiful women. Robin Park’s mum is an old battleaxe, so no worries there, and his latest lady friend is too loud and in-your-face to be serious competition for Melody.’
‘But Shenagh was more of a threat?’
Quin nodded. ‘Seriously glamorous, and Melody didn’t care for her. She aspired to be the lady of the manor, even when Francis Palladino still owned the Hall. Shenagh’s arrival put her nose out of joint. Even before …’
He paused, seemingly irresolute. As if encouraging Daniel to quiz him, to drag out gossip he didn’t want to seem eager to share.
The mulled wine burnt Daniel’s tongue. ‘Even before Shenagh had a fling with Oz Knight?’
Quin sniggered, but Daniel sensed irritation that his thunder had been stolen. ‘Oh, you heard?’
‘Melody’s very frank.’
‘When it suits her. Everybody this side of the M6 knew about the affair. Oz hasn’t a discreet bone in his body, and Shenagh was too thrilled by her conquest to keep it quiet. The whole thing fizzled out once she realised Palladino was smitten. So Melody has nothing to lose by being upfront about what happened. And she gains marks for honesty.’
‘You’re a cynic.’
‘And you’re not?’ Quin pursed his lips. ‘Come on, Daniel, you’re fascinated by murder, curious to the point of obsession. That was clear from your lecture. Am I right, Louise?’
She nodded. ‘Our dad was in the CID, nosiness runs in the blood.’
‘Well, then. Isn’t that why you’ve come to Ravenbank for Hallowe’en? Neither of you strikes me as a party animal. But who wouldn’t be fascinated by the legend of the Frozen Shroud, and Ravenbank’s history of murder most foul?’
Daniel said, ‘Melody wants to persuade me that Gertrude Smith wasn’t killed by Letty Hodgkinson. She thinks there might be a book in it.’
‘Hodgkinson’s wife confessed to the crime, didn’t she?’
‘I don’t know what her suicide note said.’
‘Well,’ Quin said. ‘We do know she took an overdose by way of reparation, which seems pretty conclusive to me. So what does Melody base her theory on?’
Daniel outlined what Melody had told him. ‘Of course, it’s guesswork. There may be nothing in it. And one thing did strike me. Keen as Melody was to talk about Gertrude, she clammed up when I asked about Shenagh’s murder. Any idea why that might be?’
Quin rubbed his chin. ‘Melody’s an unusual woman, not easy to read. Perhaps she felt guilty about Shenagh.’
‘Guilty?’
‘She’s a gentle soul, but I suppose she wished Shenagh ill when she was alive. But the horrific way Shenagh died …’
His voice trailed away, as if he were reliving the past.
‘Did you ever meet Craig Meek?’
‘Never. By all accounts, he was a loser who couldn’t control his temper or handle rejection. She should never have got involved with him. Big mistake, and in the end, she paid for it with her life. Desperately sad, but … it happens.’ He looked Daniel in the eye. ‘For the rest of us, life went on.’
‘So you accept that Craig Meek killed Shenagh?’
‘Of course. Everyone does.’
‘I’ve heard that at least one of the police officers on the investigating team had doubts.’
‘Based on what, for goodness sake?’
‘There you have me.’
Quin breathed out and laid a hand on his shoulder. His fingers were thin and bony, his grip tight.
‘Idle speculation, if you ask me. Pointless, and potentially hurtful.’ His tone was clipped, as if he were choking back anger. ‘Craig Meek battered poor Shenagh to death. Anyone who suggests otherwise is making mischief.’
‘Getting into the mood for the horrors of this evening?’ Jeffrey asked, peering over Daniel’s shoulder at the book he was reading.
He’d returned in high spirits, proclaiming that advance bookings for the tour exceeded all expectations. Quin had disappeared upstairs, to try on his party outfit, while Daniel was leafing through an anthology of Gothic stories he’d picked off the bookshelf.
‘I see you’ve made margin notes on this story. “The Voices in the Night”.’
‘An old favourite. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies whenever I reread it. And joy of joys, there’s even a Ravenbank connection. So I simply couldn’t resist adapting it for the middle section of our show, in between the tales by M.R. James and Walpole. Amazing the atmosphere you can conjure up with two actors and a few eerie sound effects.’
‘What’s it about?’ Louise asked.
‘A sailor’s encounter with a lone oarsman in the middle of the ocean,’ Daniel murmured, ‘one dark and starless night.’
Jeffrey said softly, ‘In a strangely inhuman and throaty voice, the oarsman describes the catastrophe that has befallen him and his fiancée. As he rows away …’ He indulged in a theatrical pause. ‘As he rows away through the mist for a final reunion with the woman he loves, the sailor sees the horror of what has happened to the oarsman, and understands why death will be a welcome release.’
Louise pretended to shiver. ‘And the link with Ravenbank?’
‘The author, William Hope Hodgson. In the early years of the last century he ran a forerunner of a health club, and challenged Harry Houdini, of all people, to an escapology contest. Not only that, he won.’
&nb
sp; ‘He sounds like a real character.’
‘Very much so. All this happened in Blackburn, Clifford Hodgkinson’s home town, and when Hodgkinson built the Hall, he invited Hope Hodgson to stay.’ Jeffrey gave a casual wave towards a Chippendale sideboard. ‘In there is the copy of The Blue Book Magazine, where the story first appeared, which Hope Hodgson inscribed to Clifford and Letty. Oz sold it to me for a song after he bought the Hall.’
Daniel whistled. ‘A good buy.’
Pleased with himself, Jeffrey poured more mulled wine. ‘Needless to say, I haven’t scribbled on that copy. Oz never realised the magazine’s value, but my conscience is clear. Oz spends money like there’s no tomorrow, and for all the literary events he organises, he understands as much about culture as the average Premier League footballer.’
‘You’re just like Daniel,’ Louise said, with a touch of malice. ‘A mine of information.’
Jeffrey chortled. ‘You must excuse my braggadocio. It’s not every day we entertain an expert in murder and the macabre. Now, is everything all right with your rooms?’
‘Perfect, thanks,’ Louise said. ‘This is such a delightful home.’
‘Our very own bijou residence!’ Jeffrey’s token effort to make fun of himself was hampered by his supreme self-satisfaction. ‘We’re very lucky to have it. Houses in Ravenbank rarely change hands.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Ten years. Before then, I lived with my dear old mater in Cockermouth, when I wasn’t traipsing up and down the country, playing chief inspectors or lascivious uncles in stagey old thrillers and comedies. I did odd bits of telly, nothing you’d remember – a slithery alien in Doctor Who, a chap killed by a hedge-trimmer in Midsomer Murders before the first commercial break. When Mother died, I was ready for a change, and fortunate that I could pay over the odds to snap this place up the instant it came on the market.’
The Frozen Shroud Page 10