The Frozen Shroud

by Martin Edwards

  ‘You’re not tempted to refuse?’

  ‘I’m just a girl who can’t say no,’ she sang. ‘As you well know, there’s always the outside chance of finding a nugget in amongst the dross. Not that we can possibly sift through everything ourselves. I’m a custodian, not a researcher. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to delve into the detail to prepare a catalogue or exhibition. Otherwise, we just make sure everything is carefully preserved in case one day it comes in useful. We can’t afford to get too engrossed. Not that I’m complaining, I’m a hoarder by nature.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘You look thrilled with my schedule. That’s wonderful, people usually groan and roll their eyes.’ She waved to a desk piled high with leather-bound journals and commanding a view of Fitz Park, still green despite the time of year. ‘I’ve reserved you a place, and the first ten volumes are waiting there for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it, and carry on writing out labels for packing cases.’

  Too right, he was thrilled. He’d suspected that a studious Edwardian like Jones might have kept a diary, but had hardly dared hope that it had been preserved, and found its way into the archive bequeathed to the museum. Feeling like a prospector panning for gold, he sat down to read.

  The eureka moment came twenty minutes later. His cry of delight had heads turning in bewilderment.

  He didn’t care – where better for a historian to make an exhibition of himself than in a museum? At last he’d found the truth about the Faceless Woman.

  ‘So the answer was lying in the archives of Keswick Museum all the time?’

  Hannah bit off some pitta bread. They’d found a quiet corner in the theatre’s café. Daniel looked and sounded exhilarated, more so than she’d ever seen before. Despite the aching void created by Terri’s death, her own spirits were lifting. His gift for communicating his passion for historical research must have inspired countless students, let alone telly viewers. Now she had him all to herself, and she was determined to make the most of it.

  ‘Archives are treasure trove, you never know what you may turn up.’

  ‘Thousand to one chance, though?’

  ‘No, the odds weren’t as long as you’d think. Lita at the museum checked the terms of Roland’s bequest. Apparently, he added a codicil to his will a week before his death, saying that the diaries should be included in the papers given to the museum.’

  ‘Why not tell what he knew much sooner? Come to that, what exactly did he know?’

  ‘He had precious little evidence. The question is, what did he believe, what did he work out for himself over a period of time? Remember, I’ve only read segments of the diaries so far, but enough to piece his story together.’

  She leant towards him. ‘Okay, you’ve built the tension to fever pitch, I can’t bear it any longer.’

  He teased her by taking a mouthful of spiced falafel, followed by a swig from a glass of sparkling water, before uttering another word.

  ‘When Roland Jones arrived at Ravenbank to take up his teaching duties, he was twenty-four years old. After public school, he’d studied English at Cambridge, and was a devotee of Robert Southey. A comfortable and sheltered life, with minimal experience of the opposite sex. My impression is of a reserved, academic type, a decent young man who seemed aloof unless you got to know him.’

  ‘And you think you’ve got to know him?’

  He took another sip from his glass, milking the suspense, but Hannah suppressed her impatience. It was no hardship to let his warm, husky voice wash over her.

  ‘When you read someone’s private thoughts, you develop a personal connection to them. He was writing for himself, not posterity. Describing his daily life, as he experienced it, without the benefit of hindsight or the wisdom of experience. That’s why I find archives so fascinating. Southey fans who want to see how Roland pieced together his thoughts on their hero will love wading through the notes he made for his book. But reading his own private diaries is like peeking over his shoulder.’

  He held her gaze for a moment before looking away, as if suddenly embarrassed by his excitement. There was something she found intensely attractive about a man with a thirst for knowledge. Marc’s obsessive love of books had been – she realised now – a huge part of his appeal, even though she would still rather read a pristine trade paperback than a grubby first edition.

  ‘Please, go on.’

  ‘Coming to a remote spot to teach a rich man’s daughter, he expected to have plenty of time to indulge his interest in literary research. He didn’t bargain for falling head over heels for a pretty young servant, but that’s what happened.’

  ‘And did she fall for him?’

  ‘Tricky question. I’ve spent the morning immersed in Roland’s inner life, and it’s tempting to see her through his eyes. He needed to be discreet, which complicated his pursuit of Gertrude, even though he was crazy about her. It wasn’t the done thing for a young girl’s private tutor to fall for a housemaid. Mind you, I bet he was more transparent than he realised, and that everyone at the Hall knew how the land lay. But although she was flattered by his attentions, she was aiming higher.’

  ‘She made a play for Hodgkinson?’

  ‘She figured out she could do better for herself than a gauche young academic. Day after day, poor Roland frets about her increasingly distant manner. She became reluctant to pass the time of day with him, let alone allow him to take any liberties. He was hopeless at reading between the lines.’

  ‘How did he get on with the Hodgkinsons?’

  ‘He gave Letty a wide berth. Her mood swings made him wary, though he mentions her devotion to Dorothy more than once. No hint that she was equally devoted to her husband. The marriage had soured long before Roland came on the scene. Letty had said some unpleasant things which caused his predecessor to walk out. A successful entrepreneur like Hodgkinson must have hated the situation. He was a winner, and a mentally screwed-up wife dented his image. Dorothy was a conscientious student, but Roland never warmed to her. She frustrated him because, he said, she lacked a sufficiently enquiring mind.’

  ‘A plodder, in other words.’

  Daniel was enjoying telling the story. Leaning back in his chair, using his slim hands to emphasise points, relishing the role of raconteur.

  ‘She committed the cardinal sin of disliking Southey’s poetry, and to make matters worse, she idolised her father, whereas Roland found him overbearing and self-important. To him, Hodgkinson didn’t deserve Dorothy’s adulation – he showered her with expensive presents, in lieu of spending quality time with her. What Roland didn’t realise was how, exactly, Hodgkinson was spending his time.’

  ‘By seducing Gertrude?’

  ‘The affair seems to have been taking place under Roland’s nose for weeks, yet he never got wind of it.’

  ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘Dorothy told him.’

  Hannah put down her knife and fork. ‘You mean, she egged him on to kill Gertrude?’

  ‘Hey, don’t jump to conclusions.’ He grinned. ‘And don’t steal my thunder. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to reveal a murderer’s identity in a conversation with a DCI.’

  ‘Your dad would have been proud,’ she laughed.

  ‘The day Gertrude died, Dorothy didn’t show up for her first lesson. She was invariably punctual, so Roland went to search for her. He found her near the boathouse, crying her eyes out. When he’d calmed her, she said she’d overheard a row between her parents. Clifford had told Letty that he was leaving her – and Dorothy. He and Gertrude were lovers, they used Beck Cottage – which was newly built and unoccupied – for their trysts. Now she was expecting his baby, and he was going to sell his business and the Ravenbank estate, and make a new life with her.’

  ‘Quite a bombshell. How did Roland take it?’

  ‘He wrote up his journal that same night. He said he found it almost impossible not to burst into tears himself. All he could do was to have it out with Gertrude.
Which he promptly did.’

  Hannah groaned. ‘With disastrous results?’

  ‘You said it. She gave him a severe kicking. According to her, Hodgkinson was putty in her hands. She’d always wanted a baby, and now she would not only achieve her ambition, but live in luxury to the end of her days. She was determined that Hodgkinson must drive a hard bargain with Letty. She and Dorothy would have enough to live on, but not a great deal more.’

  ‘How did Roland take that?’

  ‘Her onslaught sent him into a tailspin. He was losing the woman he loved, and a comfortable, well-paid job into the bargain. Not only had he never had any luck getting into Gertrude’s knickers, she’d been two-timing him with the master of the house. There was no hope of winning her back. Soon she would be out of reach in every possible respect. Her dream was to return to Edinburgh as a lady of leisure, and Hodgkinson had promised to make it come true.’

  Hannah pursed her lips. ‘Did Roland decide to stop them?’

  ‘Nothing so decisive. He crumpled into a heap. He actually wrote in his diary that evening that it was the last entry he would ever make. Not true, as things turned out – he said it in the heat of the moment – but six weeks passed before he picked up his pen again. By then, he’d left Ravenbank, and was trying to make sense of what had happened. So his account of Gertrude’s death and its aftermath weren’t contemporaneous.’

  ‘Gertrude was the love of his life, he can be forgiven for crumpling.’

  Terri’s face came into Hannah’s mind; she’d come close to falling apart herself after her friend’s death. Roland Jones was unaccustomed to the cruelty of crime, and Gertrude’s betrayal of him, and subsequent murder, must have felt too much to bear.

  ‘Presumably that’s why he never married in later years. It’s abundantly clear from everything I’ve read that he could never have harmed her.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘He was a gentle, introspective man. Violence horrified him. Dorothy was obviously desperate for him to intervene somehow, that’s why she confided in him, but from her point of view, he proved a broken reed. Later that day, she sought him out, and he had to admit she was right. Gertrude had Hodgkinson in her clutches, and wasn’t letting go. Dorothy became hysterical, and beat him with her own little fists. Of course he sympathised, he was on her side, but he had to be firm. There was nothing either of them could do.’

  ‘Except that somebody did … do something.’

  ‘Yes. This was Hallowe’en, but the occupants of Ravenbank Hall weren’t in the mood to party. The weather was bitterly cold, and Roland went to bed early, but he was so stressed, he hardly got a wink of sleep. Next morning, he was greeted with the news that Gertrude’s body had just been found, covered with the Frozen Shroud. He wrote afterwards that the whole day was a blur. The police were called, the Hall was in uproar. And then Hodgkinson went to Letty’s room, and discovered that she’d committed suicide.’

  ‘There’s no doubt it was suicide?’

  ‘None. According to Roland, she did leave a note, written in her own shaky hand. Just five little words.’ He paused. ‘“I had to do it.”’

  Hannah considered. ‘Ambiguous.’

  ‘Precisely. Those five words offered a narrative to suit the survivors. Letty had killed Gertrude out of jealousy, and for fear of what would happen if Clifford threw her and Dorothy onto the scrapheap.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Roland was confined to bed with a fever for a week after the two deaths. Nerve-related, I guess. As soon as he was fit enough, he had to pack his bags and leave. Over time, he began to put pieces together. On Hallowe’en, because he couldn’t sleep, he’d got up just before midnight, and gone downstairs to make himself a drink. From the window, he glimpsed a slight figure wrapped in a heavy coat and scarf, sneaking out of the house. The figure stayed under the trees, skirting the open drive, but heading for Ravenbank Lane.’

  ‘Gertrude, off to meet Hodgkinson?’

  As she spoke, instinct told her she was on the wrong track. So did the look on Daniel’s face.

  ‘Dorothy, on her way to kill Gertrude.’

  For a moment, Hannah was lost for words. He grinned. ‘Okay, let me get the coffees.’

  When he returned from the counter with two steaming cups, Hannah said, ‘Call myself a detective? I should have seen that coming.’

  He didn’t patronise her by arguing. ‘Roland didn’t recognise Dorothy at first, but the more he mulled it over, the more convinced he became that he’d seen his pupil, setting out to murder her father’s mistress. And she was carrying something. Roland’s theory was that it was a large stone, wrapped in a blanket.’

  ‘Right.’ Hannah exhaled. ‘The murder weapon and the Frozen Shroud.’

  ‘Once his suspicion focused on the girl, everything made sense. In particular, Letty’s note. Of course, in her mentally and emotionally fragile state, she felt she had to do it. She had to kill herself and take the blame for Gertrude’s murder, because otherwise her daughter’s guilt would be discovered.’

  ‘Why did Letty suspect her own daughter of murdering a servant?’

  ‘Letty knew Dorothy better than anyone, much more than doting Daddy. She had an idea what the kid was capable of. She was also an insomniac. The doctor had prescribed heavy duty sleeping pills, but she kept refusing to take them. Roland suspected that she’d looked outside and spotted Dorothy, just as he’d done. He also wondered if Dorothy had said something to her mother that gave the game away.’

  ‘I hate to be a damp squib, but aren’t there holes in this theory? How did Dorothy lure Gertrude out onto Ravenbank Lane?’

  ‘She didn’t. Gertrude was due to head for Beck Cottage that night, as usual, for her rendezvous with Hodgkinson. But Hodgkinson was out for the count. When news came that Gertrude’s body had been found, he had to be roused from a deep sleep, though he was usually an early riser. Roland reckoned Dorothy slipped some of her mother’s sleeping pills into her father’s cocoa. Having knocked him out, the coast was clear for her to kill the housemaid.’

  ‘Dorothy was only a little girl.’

  ‘Five years younger than Gertrude, but fit and strong. Her obituary mentioned she was a keen mountaineer. Polio had withered Gertrude’s right arm, and if she was attacked out of the blue, she couldn’t have defended herself.’

  ‘But the brutality of the murder …’

  ‘Children are as capable of hate as any adult. Dorothy battered Gertrude’s face with the stone, and then she draped the blanket over the bloody mess. My guess is that the enormity of her crime struck her as soon as she took a look at what she had done, and she couldn’t bear the sight of it. Hence the shroud.’

  ‘Why in God’s name did Roland keep his mouth shut?’

  ‘He recorded his agonies in the diary. Harrowing to read, but also frustrating. Poor Roland made Hamlet look decisive. To be fair, he had no corroborative evidence. It was all guesswork, and he baulked at accusing a child of a brutal murder when everyone blamed it on her mother. Besides, he felt personal responsibility. When he told Dorothy what Gertrude had said to him, he robbed her of the last hope that her family could remain intact. She blamed Gertrude, not her father. I suppose she couldn’t face the thought that he was prepared to abandon her for someone she regarded as a trollop. Roland took his duties seriously. He was in loco parentis, and he’d failed to understand the extent of Dorothy’s desperation. If he spoke out, he ran the risk of making a catastrophic situation even worse.’

  Hannah said slowly, ‘And when the war broke out, he joined up, reckless as to whether he lived or died.’

  ‘Correct. Afterwards he forged a new life as an educator. Trying to atone? I dunno, I need to read the rest of the diaries. It wasn’t until he was dying that he met Dorothy again.’

  ‘When they had the exchange that Miriam Park overheard.’

  ‘Hence the codicil to his will. He couldn’t expose Dorothy at that late stage, and probably he didn’t want to. She ackn
owledged her guilt to him, if only tacitly. Nor did he want the truth to be buried forever. He was dying, and it mattered little to him whether the story came out in five years or fifty. He settled for leaving it to be dug up by a researcher who shared his academic interests, and had the time and inclination to wade through his journals.’

  ‘Enter Daniel Kind.’

  ‘It had to be someone. It just so happened it was me.’

  She tasted her coffee. ‘It’s taken a very long time.’

  ‘Unravelling secrets of history often does.’

  ‘Meanwhile Dorothy salved her conscience by involving herself with good works?’

  ‘It’s not such a bad way to pay your dues. The murder was horrendous, but she was only a child. I’m sure she killed Gertrude because she couldn’t imagine how else to prevent the destruction of everything she held dear.’

  ‘So Melody Knight got it spot on,’ Hannah said. ‘Gertrude was denied justice, because her murderer was never identified. No wonder her ghost has continued to walk. Will you tell Melody what you’ve discovered?’

  ‘I doubt she still cares.’ He shrugged. ‘Right now, Melody has more to worry about than a mystery that’s taken a century to solve.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘How is Terri’s father coping?’ Daniel asked, as they made their way to the Studio Theatre. ‘She said he’d been unwell lately.’

  ‘No idea, to be honest. I’ve never had his contact details, but he left a message at Divisional HQ for me yesterday, saying he wasn’t fit enough to fly back to England for the funeral. It was the first time I’ve heard from him since Terri and I were kids, before he ran off with another woman. Terri’s mum died some years ago, and so did her brother, who was older. Neither of our families was close-knit, it was one of the things we had in common.’