Daniel put down the book. ‘You and Quin were together then?’
‘No, we met a couple of years after that, during a production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses at the Theatre by the Lake. We discovered we had so much in common. Not only writing and acting, but a passionate desire for creative control. I had this dream of forming my own company, and when I suggested to Quin that he join me, he leapt at it.’ An indulgent smile. ‘He’s always so impulsive.’
Creative control, yes, Daniel understood its appeal. He’d become sick of the demands of the television world, and nauseated by its shallowness. Moving to the Lakes had given him a fresh start. At last he could please himself, not just other people.
Aloud, he said, ‘You have so few neighbours. Claustrophobic, surely, when you’re snowed in together?’
‘Very The Mousetrap, eh?’ Jeffrey chortled. ‘We don’t all live in each other’s pockets, thank heavens. Two of the six houses here are empty most of the year. We saw precious little of the property trader who owns Hallin House, even before he ran into trouble with the taxman. Same goes for the Bresnans who own the Corner House; they spend most of their time abroad in the sun. But the Knights are sociable, and so is Robin Park. As for Miriam Park, she’s a decent old stick in her way.’
‘Robin’s house is where Oz and Melody used to live?’
‘Fell View, yes, it’s on the far side of Ravenbank Corner. The Knights moved there a year or so before Shenagh Moss died. At that time, Robin lived with his mother at Beck Cottage. It’s the smallest house in Ravenbank, but she’ll only leave when they take her away in a box. Miriam’s husband was a musician who fancied himself as a businessman, but he ran up big debts. The only smart thing he ever did was to buy the cottage, and put it in her name. When he eventually went bankrupt, his creditors were powerless to force a sale. He died of a coronary, but at least Miriam kept a roof over her head. Working at the Hall as a housekeeper helped her to keep Robin in the style to which he’d become accustomed.’
‘So how did Robin come to buy Fell View?’
‘He didn’t. When Francis Palladino died, he left most of his estate to medical charities, but a fifth of the residue went to Miriam, in recognition of the kindness she’d shown, especially in caring for his late wife.’
‘A lot of money.’
‘Money doesn’t mean much to Miriam.’ His eyes twinkled, and he couldn’t resist adding, ‘If you saw the clothes she wears, you’d realise that. She stayed put in Beck Cottage, and used the legacy to buy Fell View for Robin.’
‘It was still a very generous bequest.’
‘Nobody was surprised. Francis didn’t have any other family, and Miriam was very good to Esme, as well as to him.’
‘Were she and Palladino …?’
Jeffrey guffawed. ‘You must be joking. Miriam wasn’t in the front row when good looks were handed out, and after he was widowed, Francis didn’t look at another woman until Shenagh Moss came on the scene. After Shenagh died, Miriam did her utmost to look after him, but he went into a steep decline.’
‘The murder broke his heart?’ Louise asked.
‘You could say so. For Miriam, it was an ordeal, watching him fade away. The money couldn’t make up for that. I didn’t care for Shenagh, but there’s no denying that Francis was besotted.’ He sighed. ‘No fool like an old fool, I’m afraid.’
‘She was a mercenary?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’ Jeffrey’s tone suggested he’d like nothing better. ‘What Craig Meek did to her was dreadful.’
‘You knew about Meek before the murder?’
‘Everyone did. Shenagh was a brash Australian, no British reserve about her. Frankly, she gave us far too much information about Craig Meek and how horrendously he’d treated her. As for her behaviour with Oz Knight, it was shameless. Melody is such a sweet girl, I felt so sorry that she was humiliated by a woman like that. It was inevitable it would all end in tears.’
‘But it wasn’t inevitable that Shenagh ended up battered to death, with a rough blanket thrown over her face?’ Quin was barefoot now, and he’d come down the stairs so quietly that none of them had heard him enter the room.
Jeffrey flushed, and downed the rest of his mulled wine in a single gulp. ‘Of course not. It was a human tragedy. I didn’t mean to suggest that she deserved to die.’
Daniel saw Quin’s eyes narrow, and guessed what was in his mind.
Yet that’s what you really believe, isn’t it, Jeffrey?
‘You look vile,’ Daniel said.
‘Really?’ Louise asked.
‘Creepy, disgusting, sinister …’
‘Flatterer!’
She laughed and did another twirl in front of her brother. Their large and airy rooms occupied a self-contained part of the house, accessible from a separate staircase leading out to the back garden. Jeffrey had explained with a shudder that the previous owners had actually taken paying guests.
‘I must say you’re pretty unpleasant yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
He bowed stiffly. The waistcoat of his Grave Groom suit was tight, perhaps because he wasn’t as skeletal as the ribcage overprinted on his black polyester top. The outfit was grey-brown cotton, with tattered gauze fabric. Overprinted gloves, bloody necktie, and a soft fabric top hat lay on his bed.
Louise had morphed into a Skeleton Bride, the perfect companion for a Grave Groom, or so the people at the fancy dress shop assured them. Black and white dress with a tie bodice, spooky veil, choker and glovelets.
‘You’ll knock ’em dead,’ he said.
‘You don’t think we’ll be bored out of our skull masks, trying to make small talk with a load of events management zombies?’
He laughed. ‘I know it’s not your sort of thing, but thanks for coming along.’
‘I’m probably making a huge mistake, pandering to your curiosity about those old murders. Mum would have been furious.’
After their father deserted them, Mrs Kind hated any mention of the police or criminal investigation. Whenever Daniel started watching crime shows on the television, she insisted on changing channel. Louise had been in her mother’s camp, until her own close brush with murder brought them closer together.
‘I’ve spent years writing and lecturing about historians acting as detectives. Since coming to the Lakes, I’ve found digging into past crimes is as fascinating as making sense of social history, or how the Empire worked, or …’
‘You’re a murder addict, worse than Dad ever was.’ She hesitated. ‘What do you make of the fact that such a small place – barely a hamlet – has seen two murders? It must be coincidence, but …’
‘One thing is for sure. Even if neither Letty nor Craig Meek was guilty, as everyone thought, the same person didn’t commit both murders. But it is a bizarre coincidence, and the fact that a blanket was put over Shenagh’s face indicates a connection. What it might be, God knows.’
‘Shenagh Moss’s death is a cold case. Tailor-made for Hannah Scarlett.’
He refused to rise to the bait. ‘We said we’d join Jeffrey and Quin downstairs at half six.’ He checked his watch. ‘Ready for the feast, Skeleton Bride?’
CHAPTER NINE
If Marc had ranted and raved, if his volcanic jealousy had erupted as so often before, Hannah could have eased her humiliation by flaying him with her tongue. He had no rights over her, he’d come to stand for everything wrong in her life. If not for him, she’d have put her career first; by now, she might be vying for promotion to ACC. However much he cared for her, it had never been enough.
Just as well it was left unsaid. No need to twist the knife. His aching silence only lasted seconds, but said far more than any protestations about lessons learnt, or promises to mend his ways. Pain and loss crumpled his face. The message was as vivid as a neon sign: I needed you more than you ever knew.
The slam of the front door was a thunderclap. Through the window, she heard the frantic roar of his car engine. He was rev
ving like a drunken boy racer. Desperate to get away.
Greg shifted his weight off her stomach, but – thank God – knew better than to utter a word. Heaving herself upright on the sofa, she glared at the watercolour of Wasdale. Had Marc meant to collect his favourite picture, along with all his other stuff? Shit, why had she let him keep his key? His shock was genuine; of course, he’d never really believed she would be unfaithful to him.
As the shock wave subsided, she felt drenched with dismay, as much at her own stupidity as at Marc. Whatever his preconceptions about her, consciously or otherwise, she’d played up to them. Striving to be all things to all people. At home, the main breadwinner, at work, the single-minded career woman. When she’d had a miscarriage, she’d kept it quiet; hardly anyone knew what had happened. She was mistress of her emotions, blotting out the person she knew herself, deep down, to be. Even Marc, who knew her better than anyone alive, had been deceived.
He’d never dreamt she might succumb to a smooth-talking womaniser, or have a one-night stand with someone like Detective Sergeant Greg Wharf. Except that Greg was more than merely a smooth-talking womaniser, and this didn’t feel like a one-night stand. But what else could it be? Not therapy, for God’s sake?
‘Sorry.’ Embarrassment choked her voice. God, she sounded wretched; she daren’t imagine what she looked like.
Greg swallowed. ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’
Scooping up her jersey, she pulled it on in a swift, decisive movement. ‘I didn’t mean any of this to happen. Not …’
When in a hole, rule one is to stop digging. She let her voice trail away. Anything she said now would only make things worse.
‘You’re not going after him?’
She winced, said nothing. Chase after Marc? As if.
Greg coughed. ‘I’d better make myself scarce. Unless – you want some company? To be with someone, I mean. Nothing more than that, no hidden agenda. Honest.’
She shook her head. ‘Like I said, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault.’
He started buttoning his shirt, with a rueful glance at the lacy black pants visible beneath her unzipped jeans. ‘Well, some of it is.’
Following his gaze, she zipped up. ‘We’re both grown up.’
‘Yeah.’
She mustered a bleak smile. ‘Joint enterprise, then?’
‘That’s right. Joint enterprise.’
Should she add: but not to be repeated? This evening had turned into a disaster. She’d never believed in mixing work with pleasure, perhaps that was why she’d never slept with Ben Kind, though subconsciously at least she’d recognised his yearning. Greg needed to know where he stood. But if she started laying down the law at this precise moment, it would seem false and pathetic. She clamped her mouth shut.
‘You left my jacket in the hall cupboard, didn’t you? Stay where you are, I can get it myself.’
‘Uh-huh.’
If she was in the mood to argue, she might have said: Don’t treat me like an invalid. Five minutes ago, you were about to shag me. But all the fight had drained out of her. All she wanted was to close her eyes and sink into a long and dreamless sleep.
‘Can I use your phone to call a taxi? Once I’ve rung, I’ll walk down the lane, they can pick me up on the main road. No point in hanging around, I’d only be in your way. Besides, I need a breath of night air to clear my head.’
He dropped a kiss on her cheek. Very chaste; he might have been the brother she’d once longed for, and never had.
‘Listen to me, Hannah. One thing I promise. Nobody at work will hear about this, okay?’ A strained grin. ‘What happens in Undercrag, stays in Undercrag.’
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was scratchy.
He strode out of the room, still the big, confident man she’d shown in here less than an hour before. But Hannah wasn’t sure she was the same woman.
‘Wonderful to see you both!’ Oz Knight was a brash and breezy Lucifer, resplendent in red robe and bronze mask. Resting his trident against a lacquered table weighed down by bottles of Bollinger, he embraced Louise, and pumped Daniel’s hand. ‘Welcome to Ravenbank Hall!’
‘Amazing home you have,’ Louise said.
Darkness hadn’t disguised the impressive proportions of the Knights’ mansion, or the uniqueness of its site, on the crest of a gentle slope above the inky depths of Ullswater. If the setting reflected an Edwardian grandeur of vision, its interior was a no-expense-spared triumph of sleek decor and state-of-the-art technology, while dry ice filled it with more mist than you’d find on Blencathra in the depths of winter. Black-and-white movies starring Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Boris Karloff as Frankenstein flickered on vast screens in the main reception rooms, ‘Toccata and Fugue’ and ‘Carmina Burana’ played through concealed speakers, and laser light shows conjured spooky images ranging from diabolic pumpkins and scary skulls to garish reproductions of Munch’s The Scream.
‘Have some bubbly.’ He handed them each a glass. ‘Here’s to the spirits of Hallowe’en!’
‘This was your dream house, Melody told us.’
‘Too right. Dear old Francis Palladino never realised its potential. He wanted to keep it just as Charlie Hodgkinson intended, but where’s the fun in the status quo? You can’t go back in time. Throughout the time we lived in Fell View, I was itching to get my hands on the Hall. Make it into somewhere special.’
Daniel savoured the champagne. ‘You weren’t superstitious?’
A sceptical grunt. ‘I never bought the notion this was an unhappy house. Even though poor Letty Hodgkinson is buried in our grounds. Shit happens, that’s the top and bottom of it.’
‘Melody seems fascinated by the old legend.’
‘The Frozen Shroud makes a great backdrop for a party, tonight of all nights. Even if you don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Has she convinced you that Letty Hodgkinson didn’t murder Gertrude Smith?’
‘The woman was off her head, wasn’t she?’ Oz was loud and boisterous, sounding as though he’d enjoyed plenty of bubbly. ‘Killed her husband’s mistress in a jealous rage, and then took an overdose because she couldn’t handle the guilt.’
‘Melody tells me she’d like to write about the case.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He glanced over to his wife, an exotic devil woman in red PVC and velvet with matching wings and horns, making conversation with a couple of paunchy werewolves. ‘Melody gets these enthusiasms, but they never last. I worry that someday she’ll become bored with me too.’
He guffawed at the unlikely prospect. Daniel decided to venture onto dangerous ground.
‘What about Shenagh Moss?’
‘What about her?’ The bonhomie faded, and Daniel felt Louise tug his sleeve in warning. If only he could see their host’s expression; impossible to read anything through the eye slits of his mask.
‘Do you believe Craig Meek killed her?’
‘Obviously. He was a sicko who couldn’t take rejection.’
‘Shenagh installed herself here as Francis Palladino’s partner. Did she antagonise anyone else, besides Meek?’
‘Why would she?’
‘Surely a woman like Shenagh raised hackles in a place as tiny as Ravenbank?’
‘A woman like Shenagh?’ Oz glared. ‘She was a … delightful lady.’
‘And an outsider who stole an old man’s heart. Was it a love match, or was there another reason why a nubile woman teamed up with the man who owned this wonderful house?’
Oz picked up his trident. ‘Who’s been talking about her? Not Melody?’
Daniel felt a kick on his shin. Louise, fretting that he’d tested Oz’s hospitality to the limit. Just as well the trident was made of plastic, otherwise he might end up gored by the prongs.
He said, ‘Melody goes along with the consensus, that Craig Meek was guilty.’
‘Naturally. By all accounts, Meek was a big man with an ego to match, but a conscience the size of a pea. If something didn’t suit him, he used brute for
ce to get his own way. The case was open and shut. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better circulate. Do come and meet some of our friends.’
Oz beckoned over a stringy-haired zombie and a toothy vampire, who proved to be the Knights’ accountant and solicitor, before disappearing into the crowd. The lawyer evidently fancied sinking his fangs into Louise, and his drink-lubricated small talk soon had Daniel’s eyes glazing behind his mask, but regular refills of Bollinger helped deaden the pain. He wanted to talk to Miriam and Robin Park. At last he spotted Jeffrey Burgoyne, a hooded Grim Reaper stuffing canapés into his mouth, and edged in his direction, leaving Louise to fend off her admirer. She was more than capable.
‘Robin has cried off,’ Jeffrey said. ‘Taken poorly today, and confined to bed. But his mother’s here, and so is his partner.’
He waved to two women in the corner of the room and motioned them over. ‘Ladies, a chance for you to meet one of our local celebrities! This is Daniel Kind, the historian. You must have seen his television programmes, he’s one of the country’s leading historians.’
A sturdy witch gave him a brisk nod. Her companion, an extravagantly attired black widow, exclaimed with delight.
‘Miriam Park.’ The witch kept a tight grip on her broomstick as they shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You don’t recognise me, do you, Daniel?’ the black widow demanded. ‘Is it the wig or the mask that’s my best disguise?’
Or perhaps the daringly cut dress, with jewelled belt, three-quarter length arms flaring out into cobweb lace-effect sleeves, and fishtail silhouette formed by another cobweb? A woman who liked to be noticed, and yes, there was something familiar about her cheerful voice. But she was wearing a full-face mask, and out of context, he couldn’t place her.
‘Sorry,’ he confessed with a grin. ‘You’ll have to give me a clue.’
‘This is my prospective daughter-in-law,’ Miriam Park said.
The black widow whipped off her mask with a theatrical flourish and crowed with laughter at his astonishment.
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