‘The prevailing wind rushes down from the top of the Kirkstone Pass,’ Robin muttered. ‘It would blow a boat further on, towards the north end of the lake.’
His mother said, ‘If he has any sense, he’ll be lying down in that boat, trying to keep warm.’
‘In weather like this,’ Jeffrey pronounced, ‘your core temperature can drop like a stone.’
‘It’s getting darker,’ Robin said. ‘Chances are, they’ll call off the search until first light tomorrow.’
‘Oh God!’ Melody said. ‘They can’t do that, surely? He won’t survive a night out in … that.’
‘They won’t give up easily, take it from me,’ Jeffrey said. ‘All we can do is wait for news.’
‘The lake is so deep,’ Melody said. ‘I can’t bear to think of it …’
‘Ullswater is deceptive,’ Quin said. ‘Only sixty metres deep, but under the surface, it’s like … well, the Mariana Trench. Tiered, like a huge jelly mould, the sides don’t taper away gradually. Anyone who goes overboard will likely finish up on one of the shelves.’
‘That’s enough!’ Jeffrey snapped. ‘Can’t you see what Melody is going through?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’
Quin’s voice trailed away. Difficult to make out his expression, in conditions as vile as these, but he didn’t sound apologetic. Daniel thought he was more like a small boy, thrilled by the drama, moving restlessly up and down the shoreline, barely able to contain his excitement.
Was he hoping Oz wouldn’t make it?
‘Major new development.’ Fern tried in vain to suppress a note of jubilation. ‘Sorry I’m running late, but I had to stop on the road and take the call.’
‘No worries,’ Hannah said into her phone. ‘What’s up?’
‘Oz Knight is lost on Ullswater. Apparently he set off in a rowing boat with the fog coming down. Melody and Daniel raised the alarm. An intensive search is under way.’
‘Jesus. Suicide attempt?’
‘Looks that way. I hope to God they find him soon. Out there on a night like this, he won’t last too long. Drowning himself in lieu of a confession would be deeply unsatisfactory. Though look on the bright side, it would save a lot of paperwork.’
‘Yeah,’ Hannah said coolly. ‘Like Craig Meek’s car crash.’
‘Ouch.’ Fern hesitated. ‘Of course, you’re right. Don’t want to jump to conclusions, do we?’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Okay, my wrists are duly slapped. I’ll get to Undercrag as soon as I can.’
After much patient coaxing, Jeffrey convinced Melody that the six of them were doing no good, standing outside in the freezing cold, staring into nothingness. Better to get into the warm, and await developments. At first, she insisted on remaining there on her own, keeping a vigil on the shore, but her resolve crumbled, and in the end she trudged back with them through the fog towards the safe haven of the Hall.
Once they were inside, Miriam took charge, making strong tea, and fussing around as if Melody was a patient from the days when the Hall was a care home. She’d nursed Esme Palladino here, and the thought struck Daniel that Francis Palladino might have ended up happier if he’d made a new life with his unprepossessing but capable housekeeper, rather than glamorous Shenagh Moss. But experience had taught him that life and love have little to do with logic.
He shared the colossal L-shaped sofa with Jeffrey sprawling on one side of him, Quin and Robin Park on the other. Robin said sotto voce, ‘If you ask me, this could be a blessing in disguise.’
‘Too right,’ Quin murmured. ‘Frankly, he had this coming.’
Daniel glanced at Jeffrey, and saw that he’d heard the exchange. He was keeping his counsel. Brow furrowed, lips clamped shut. A faint sheen glistened on his forehead. He must be out of condition if the mild exertion of walking up from the shore made him sweat.
Both Robin Park and Quin were constructing narratives that cast Oz as Terri’s murderer. Daniel wasn’t sure whether they genuinely believed this or simply found it convenient to have a fresh scapegoat in place of Stefan. As for Melody, how much did she know, and what did she believe? Sitting in a vast recliner, with her eyes closed, she looked unexpectedly at peace. Impossible to guess what thoughts were spinning through her mind.
The phone rang, shattering the quiet. With a muffled cry, Melody opened her eyes. She put her hand to her mouth.
‘I’ll get it.’ Miriam picked up the receiver. ‘Hello? Do you want to speak to Mrs Knight?’
Melody shook her head frantically. Miriam listened to someone speaking at the other end of the line. Her eyes flickered with anxiety.
‘Yes? … yes, I see. Well, thank you … I’ll tell her, of course.’
She put the receiver down and heaved a sigh.
‘They’ve found Oz …’
‘Thank God!’ Jeffrey interrupted, wiping his forehead with a theatrical flourish.
Miriam’s frown of reproach reminded Daniel of a teacher rebuking an ill-mannered pupil. ‘The wind had driven his boat to Sharrow Bay.’
‘How is he, Mum?’
Robin sounded nervous, and Quin was chewing his fingernails.
‘He’s still breathing, but barely conscious. They reckon he’s suffering from hypothermia. An ambulance is taking him to hospital right now. He’s in a bad way.’
Fern was still tucking into her Stromboli De Luxe when Hannah took a call from Daniel. Leaning against the kitchen table, she listened to the latest news, along with an outline of the Knights’ troubles, and Jeffrey Burgoyne’s habit of inflicting domestic violence on Alex Quinlan.
‘Interesting,’ Hannah said. ‘Fern is spending the night here, so I’ll brief her. I’d be glad of full chapter and verse about your conversations with people who were at the Knights’ party. Can we get together tomorrow? Will you be at Brackdale, or are you on your travels?’
‘I was planning to go back in time. I’ve decided the history of murder suits me much better than homicide in the here and now. When Melody begged me to come back to Ravenbank, I was on my way to Keswick Museum. I meant to go there tomorrow morning, but if …’
‘No, no, don’t change your plans. Let’s meet in Keswick.’
‘Fine, lunch at the theatre? With any luck, we’ll bump into Jeffrey and Quin, so you can kill two birds with one stone. Their show launches next week, and they will be rehearsing.’
‘Perfect.’
Fern refilled their glasses with Chablis as Hannah updated her. Marc had laid down some cases of fine wine a few weeks before moving out, and she’d come across them at the weekend during a clear-out of the cellar. It would be rude, as Fern agreed, to let them go to waste. And absolutely stupid to hand them back to him.
‘Well, well.’ She washed down the last of her pizza with a large gulp of wine and burped happily. ‘So Ben’s lad is doing some detective work of his own?’
‘He’s in the thick of this case, after helping to find Terri’s body. Possibly he’ll get more out of one or two witnesses than we can. People find him easy to talk to, he’s a brilliant listener. Plus, I suppose, they enjoy rubbing shoulders with someone who used to be on telly.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m not complaining. We keep running these campaigns to ask members of the public to help us, after all. Daniel’s one of the good guys.’ She chortled. ‘Wouldn’t kick him out of bed, either.’
‘Behave.’
‘Just saying.’ Fern guffawed, but a piece of pizza stuck in her throat, and she half-choked herself. ‘Oh God, serves me right, I know. All right, where are we up to? Let’s kick off by leaving Deyna out of the equation. Odious creep, but I’m sure he was set up.’
‘Like Craig Meek.’
‘Yeah, yeah, déjà vu all over again. Daniel guessed right, by the way. The Knights sleep in separate rooms. They were totally upfront about it when they were interviewed. According to their statements, they went straight to bed after the ghost hunt. With an estimated time of death in the early hours of that
morning, neither of them has an alibi.’
Hannah fished a couple of Mars bar ice creams out of the freezer. Fern’s ideal dessert recipe involved having her Mars bars deep fried, but this was the best she could do. ‘Five years ago, they were sleeping together. At least, that’s what they said at the time when they made statements and gave each other alibis. Question is whether they were telling porkies.’
‘Why would they lie last time, but tell the truth now?’
‘Relationships change over time,’ Hannah said. ‘Cold case work has brought that home to me. Love fades, loyalties shift.’
‘Ha! Tell me about it.’ Fern had had her share of romantic disasters.
‘Say Oz was afraid of being suspected of Shenagh’s murder, and spun Melody a yarn, asking her to lie for him. I bet she was under his thumb. He was rich, powerful, controlling. With Shenagh out of the way, she’d have him to herself again. It’s different now. If his business is stuffed, she’ll need to make a new life. He’s lost his hold on her, she doesn’t need him any more.’
Fern sank her teeth into the chocolate. ‘Mmmm, just what the doctor ordered. The stress counsellor, anyway. Seems to me, we need to have a word with Mr Knight, as soon as he’s in a fit state.’
‘Assuming he recovers.’
‘He’ll recover,’ Fern said briskly. ‘Mild hypothermia won’t kill him, he won’t so much as lose a little toe. His body has a decent layer of fat. All those expense account meals have come in handy, even if he couldn’t afford the expense account.’
‘I’m assuming you see this as attempted suicide?’
‘Well, he wasn’t admiring the scenery on a day like today, was he?’
‘So it’s a sign of guilt?’
‘I’d prefer a signed confession approved by his lawyers, but beggars can’t be choosers. This little mishap will take some explaining. Oh, if he doesn’t cough when he wakes up, I expect he’ll say he couldn’t face the prospect of financial ruin, and decided to row off into oblivion. But I’ll get the truth out of him, one way or another.’
‘You’re confident he did it?’
‘He has to be a strong favourite. Obsessed with Shenagh, unable to let go.’
‘I see from the old file that Francis Palladino said she’d persuaded him to go out to Australia with her.’
‘Yeah, that tickled me. She was giving up Oz – so she could go to Oz.’ Fern’s massive boobs wobbled as she guffawed. ‘Francis said the Hall held unhappy memories because of his wife’s long illness, and a warmer climate would benefit his arthritis.’
‘According to the notes Les made, Oz had already put in an offer to buy the Hall.’
Fern rubbed her chins. ‘Actually, you’re right. I remember now. Though with Shenagh dead, Francis stayed put until he died.’
‘Which means Oz had conflicting emotions about Shenagh’s impending emigration. He’d lose an ex-lover, and gain a big posh house.’
‘Swings and roundabouts, huh? I see where you’re going with this. If Oz meant to buy the Hall, he’d reconciled himself to losing Shenagh.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Unless the offer to buy was a sham, to cover his tracks.’ Fern ingested the last piece of chocolate, and leant back in her chair, well-fed and content. ‘If he simply couldn’t face losing Shenagh …’
‘What about Melody’s motive? Shenagh had shagged her husband, and even thought the affair was supposed to be over, Oz was still slavering after the woman. You’d have to be a saint not to be pissed off.’
‘If Oz had offered to buy the Hall, she must have known Shenagh would soon be out of temptation’s way, on the other side of the world. The same goes for Jeffrey Burgoyne. You say Daniel has some evidence that Jeffrey has a violent streak, and he was jealous because Quin had something going with Shenagh. But Shenagh wasn’t going to stick around much longer.’
Hannah switched on the coffee maker while Fern replenished her glass. ‘Perhaps he simply lost the plot. It happens.’
‘Yeah, murder is a desperate act, but don’t forget, there are different kinds of desperation. Whoever killed Shenagh did a fair amount of planning. Especially as regards luring Craig Meek to the scene.’
‘From the notes I’ve seen, I’m not clear whether he received a call or text to his mobile, in the same way as Stefan.’
‘Pass.’ Fern shook her head. ‘I’ll check, but I’m not sure we ever worked that out.’
‘You take the point?’ Hannah took a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. ‘It’s hard to see why Jeffrey Burgoyne would kill her in that particular way.’
‘Isn’t he a ghost story fan? He fancied imitating the legend of the Frozen Shroud.’
Hannah thought about it. ‘Yes, that makes psychological sense. But it’s equally true of Quin. Suppose Shenagh’s decision to waltz off to Australia tipped him over the edge. He couldn’t face losing her, so he killed her. Murder’s often paradoxical.’
‘Can’t get my head round that.’ Fern grunted. ‘How about Robin Park? I mean, I know he was Terri’s squeeze, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a guilty past. Suppose he was a secret admirer of Shenagh’s, who couldn’t handle rejection? If he let something slip to Terri …’
‘Hard to see it.’ Hannah poured the coffee, while Fern emptied what was left in the Chablis bottle into her glass, downing it in one. As they moved into the living room, she continued, ‘Robin’s a mummy’s boy. Beneath the charm lurks a spoilt kid’s ego, I’m sure. If Shenagh snubbed him, he’d have taken it hard. But there’s no evidence he took a serious interest in her – is there?’
‘He denied they ever got beyond low-key flirting.’ Fern’s amiable expression hardened. ‘Then again, he would, wouldn’t he? For Shenagh, Miriam Park was a sort of mother-substitute. What if that made Robin jealous?’
‘I doubt he’s that unbalanced, frankly. But I can’t see from Les’s notes whether he had any sort of alibi for Shenagh’s murder?’
‘Only what you’d expect. He and his mother were living together in Beck Cottage. She said she was a light sleeper, and she’d have heard if Robin had been up and about that night. It’s a tiny place, and all the floorboards creak. But he’s her son, her only child. She’s bound to want to protect him. The so-called alibi wasn’t remotely watertight.’
‘Whereas Jeffrey and Quin presumably swore they spent the night in bed together.’
‘You presume right.’ Fern yawned. ‘God, I’m shattered. Early night for me, kid. As for Quinlan and Burgoyne, if one of them did kill Shenagh, the other knows the truth, and helped in a cover-up.’
The wine and the warmth from the fire were making Hannah drowsy too. The fog was as thick inside her brain as outside Undercrag.
‘But?’
‘But as of this moment, the smart money has to be on Oz Knight. He murdered Shenagh in a fit of passion, and then Terri came across something – maybe through working for the man – that incriminated him.’ Fern scowled at the flames. ‘So he didn’t dare let her live, and tried to frame Deyna just as he’d done with Craig Meek. When we released Deyna, he saw the writing on the wall.’
She drank a mouthful of coffee before adding in a savage undertone, ‘Pity they rescued him.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Keswick Museum called itself ‘a cabinet of curiosities’, and with good reason. A late Victorian building in the arts-and-crafts style, it housed a bizarre and extraordinarily diverse collection, ranging from Musical Stones and a man-trap to a giant cobra skin and a skeleton of a cat that was nearly seven hundred years old. The Robert Southey archive was its most extensive special collection of manuscripts, letters, maps and other documents, but there was also a wealth of material concerning De Quincey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Walpole, Rawnsley, and Ruskin. Daniel had first visited the museum while researching De Quincey for The Hell Within, and promptly fell under its spell. Every time he turned his head, something different caught his eye.
‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ Lita Bosman, the Principal Archi
vist, pushed a hand through her frizzy dark hair. ‘Talk about leaving it to the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour.’
He grinned. After Oz Knight’s brush with death on Ullswater, returning to the calmer waters of historic research was a joy. This morning, the mist clinging to the valley of Brackdale had little in common with the opaque grey morass of last night. He’d crawled home from Ravenbank along the endless winding roads at little more than walking pace, and by the time he reached Tarn Cottage, he was fit for nothing except bed.
‘You close on Monday?’
‘Yep, and we’ve barely started packing. The weekend’s gonna be a write-off. Nightmare!’
The Heritage Lottery Fund had coughed up a couple of million to fund a refurbishment that would bring the museum into the twenty-first century, and Lita and her colleagues were determined that modernisation would not affect its character and charm. A likeable South African from Kimberley in Cape Province, Lita had fallen in love with the Lakes while studying at Lancaster Uni, and her passion for the museum was fierce and unyielding.
‘Thanks for sparing your time when you’re up to your eyes.’
‘No problem, Daniel, though I can’t imagine why you’ve jilted old Thomas in favour of Southey?’
‘Long story,’ he grinned.
‘Me, I prefer Coleridge. So you want to inspect what Roland Jones donated to the museum? Trust me, there was a shedload of material. You’ll need to be selective if you’re not planning on an overnight stay.’ She handed him a couple of sheets of paper. ‘I printed off this schedule of documents. You said you were keen to read any diaries he may have left. This lot will keep you out of mischief.’
‘You’re a star.’
On the phone, she’d said she was sure there were personal diaries among all Roland Jones’s working papers covering everything and anything to do with Southey. Holding his breath, he scanned the long list of items. ‘Is this right? “Private Journals, 1910 to 1974”?’
She hooted with laughter. ‘Yeah. Donors are often – shall I say overgenerous? They don’t just leave essential manuscripts, but reams of peripheral stuff as well. When we receive gifts by way of a legacy, the executors are usually desperate to wrap up the estate, and they throw in the kitchen sink.’
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