Louise left Tarn Cottage for work, still munching her toast. Cutbacks had led the university to offer her only a part-time contract this academic year. She’d taken the financial hit for twelve months, as a quid pro quo for a better work-life balance, yet a sadistic twist of timetabling fate had landed her with a nine o’clock lecture on Monday morning. Insider trading for a bunch of half-asleep first years. No wonder she was monosyllabic over breakfast. Neither she nor Daniel was a morning person, and after a few weeks of careful politeness, they’d eased back into territory familiar from their teens. Arguing about what to watch on television, and whose turn it was to load the dishwasher.
The air in Tarn Fold was damp as Daniel trundled the wheelie bin along the rough track. The trees that formed a thick summer canopy were shedding their leaves, the birds flitting through twisted branches had lost the urge to sing. Somewhere in the distance, a sheep bleated as if in mourning. After a rainy summer, the autumn hues remained vivid, but winter was inching closer, ready to clutch Brackdale in an icy embrace. He parked the bin at the lane end where the refuse lorry stopped, and scooted back to the centrally heated sanctuary of his study.
A deadline loomed for an article commissioned by an American journal, but he excelled at displacement activity. Anything to put off the moment of truth: fashioning the first sentence that set the tone for everything that followed.
Louise had developed a passion for tidying the cottage, so he found it too easy to fritter away time trying to find where she’d hidden the keys or book or CD that he wanted. She could never understand the strange comfort he found in chaos and clutter.
He made a fresh mug of coffee, dug out an album of Dusty Springfield covers by Shelby Lynne, decided against answering a stroppy email from his accountant about his tax return, and finally flicked on to Google, wanting to learn about the Frozen Shroud while listening to a breathy paean to the joys of just a little lovin’, early in the morning.
Too right, Shelby; it beat a cup of coffee any day. Daniel turned up the volume a shade. He’d been celibate for too long; another thought to push out of his mind. He forced himself to focus on the screen.
The wealth of knowledge available on the internet amplified Jeffrey Burgoyne’s account. Clifford Hodgkinson, a builder from Blackburn, moved to the Lakes at the turn of the century with his wife Letitia, and their newborn daughter. He bought a stretch of land on the east bank of Ullswater, known as Satan’s Head. Fearing the old name might depress property prices, he rechristened the area Ravenbank, and set about creating a private fiefdom beside the lake. Long before planning laws and National Park regulations prevented large-scale speculative development, his dream was to preside over a small, exclusive community with its own village shop, post office and pub. He started by rebuilding a half-derelict house on Ullswater’s shore, and transforming it into Ravenbank Hall, a testament to his wealth and status. Two roads were laid out, and individually designed homes built. The fifth was completed a week before Gertrude Smith’s murder.
The housemaid had come down from Glasgow in search of work, and Hodgkinson offered her a job at Ravenbank Hall eight months before she died. She had been ‘courted’, as the old reports quaintly put it, by Roland Jones, a tutor hired to teach Dorothy Hodgkinson at home, but Hodgkinson admitted he’d been having an affair with her. According to some websites, Gertrude was pregnant, but whether the father was Jones or Hodgkinson wasn’t revealed. What was certain was that, less than twenty-four hours after the discovery of Gertrude’s corpse, Hodgkinson’s scorned wife took a fatal dose of veronal.
Letty Hodgkinson had a history of jealous rages, and she’d suffered from depression since Dorothy’s birth. She’d spent time in a sanatorium, and the police took her suicide as proof that she was guilty but insane. There was mention of a suicide note in which Letty admitted killing Gertrude, and the authorities were quick to treat the case as closed. Letty was buried, not in the graveyard at Martindale, but in the grounds of Ravenbank Hall. That was why Gertrude’s ghost was supposed to walk endlessly down the lane leading to the Hall. She wanted to know why she and her unborn child had to die.
The scandal wrecked Hodgkinson’s reputation, and his plans for Ravenbank collapsed. He died of heart failure not long afterwards, ‘a broken man’. Dorothy never married, but became well known in the county for charitable work. After the end of the First World War, Roland Jones rose to prominence in the field of liberal education. And that was pretty much that.
The phone rang just as Shelby launched into ‘Wishin’ and Hopin”. He pressed pause and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Daniel? This is Melody Knight. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘Glad of an interruption.’ He gazed through the window. Beyond the rambling back garden rose the slopes of Tarn Fell. A view he loved at any time of year, although a fleecy mist obscured Priest Ridge, and he couldn’t make out the dark outlines of the Sacrifice Stone. ‘Any excuse not to write.’
‘We agreed to get together so you could tell me more about your book. It just so happens that this afternoon I’m in your neck of the woods, picking up supplies for the party in Brack. We could have a cuppa and a chat about The Hell Within. If you can spare the time.’
Spending an hour with Melody would be no hardship. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone.
‘As a matter of fact, I was meaning to visit Amos Books. I wondered if they had anything on Ravenbank, or that legend of the Frozen Shroud. They have a cafeteria there, if that suits you.’
‘Oh, I adore that shop! Not just the books, did you know their cakes have won awards? Not that I dare gobble many of them. I’d need to buy a whole new wardrobe. Or rather, talk Oz into buying it for me.’
‘Three o’clock suit you?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
After she rang off, Daniel googled Shenagh Moss. Tales of Gertrude Smith’s ghost, coupled with the murderer’s decision to cover Shenagh’s face with a blanket, had been a gift for the media. The crime was a nine days’ wonder. Craig Meek, the ex who turned into a stalker, was described by an unnamed ‘friend’ as ‘a bit of a lunatic, really’ and ‘sort of a Mr Angry’, which made Daniel wonder what his enemies thought of him. Nobody suggested that Meek might not have killed Shenagh.
And so, despite the link with a pleasurably macabre ghost story, Shenagh’s murder soon slipped out of the headlines. The presumed killer was dead, the narrative complete. There was nothing more to say.
Yet five years after Shenagh’s murder, something kept alive Jeffrey Burgoyne’s scorn for her. Possibly others felt the same. Daniel couldn’t help wondering if Ravenbank was home to more than one ghost.
He arrived at the converted mill occupied by Amos Books in time to search for books about the Faceless Woman before Melody arrived. He loved the shop, with its sloping floor and narrow aisles threaded between rows of crammed shelves, loved the mustiness of the old tomes even more than the seductive smell of coffee and cakes wafting from the cafeteria. Hidden away in his office, Marc kept his computer, and even an e-reader, but the shop remained a temple for worshippers of the printed word. This afternoon, it was quiet except for a group of voluble German walkers examining a set of signed Wainwrights, and the usual stream of people wanting food and drink rather than books. He was leafing through a dusty volume called Ullswater Lore and Legends when a hand clapped him on the back.
‘Daniel! How are things?’
Marc Amos sounded glad to see him. They enjoyed each other’s company, and even though Hannah had confided that her former partner was always jealous of her friendships with other men, he seemed to make an exception in Daniel’s case.
‘Good, thanks. How’s business?’
Marc pushed a hand through his thick fair hair. ‘Keeping the wolf from the door. Footfall is steady, and revenue from the cafeteria is on the up. When you see what’s happening to retail in this country, let alone to second-hand bookshops, we’ve got plenty to be thankful for.’
‘Glad to hear it. I can’t be the only person who still loves wandering around a bookshop.’
A woman in a blue uniform waved hello as she walked past the far end of the book stacks. Leigh Moffat, brisk and businesslike, was in charge of catering. She and Marc had gone into partnership, and Hannah reckoned that one fine day, the two of them would move in together.
‘I should have joined forces with Leigh years ago,’ Marc said. ‘I used to be a control freak, thought I’d only be happy if I stayed in charge of everything. But Leigh’s far better at the business side than me. Not just the finances, but negotiations with the landlords, marketing, all the crap I hate. She actually enjoys it. Thanks to her, I can focus on scouting out rare books, and tracking down collectors who might want to pay good money for them.’ He grinned. ‘It’s like marrying a pristine first edition with a fine dust jacket from a second impression copy. The two are worth more together than apart. Now, what do you have there?’
Daniel flourished the book. ‘Someone told me about the legend of the Frozen Shroud. And do you have any books dealing with the real-life murders at Ravenbank? Not just the killing of Gertrude Smith, but the Shenagh Moss case too?’
‘Check out the true crime section. We’re more likely to have something about the old case. Shenagh was the Australian woman, wasn’t she? Your best bet is the newspaper archives. I remember Hannah talking about the investigation, though she wasn’t involved directly. Fern Larter was on the team, but she wasn’t the SIO.’
Daniel nodded. Hannah had introduced him to Fern, a friend as well as colleague. ‘I gather the killer died in a car crash.’
‘Well, if you accept that the obvious solution is almost always right. The man’s name was Meek, I remember. What sticks in my mind is that Fern wasn’t happy about the case.’
‘Why was that?’
‘She didn’t care for the SIO, said he was idle and far too quick to close the file. You’ve met Fern, haven’t you? Once encountered, never forgotten. And never afraid to say what’s on her mind. She had a row with her boss, and finished up with her wrists slapped, and forced to toe the line.’
Daniel leant forward. ‘Didn’t she believe Meek was guilty?’
‘They were presented with a story that was too neat. Her theory was that someone took advantage of the old legend to settle a score with the woman who died, and used Meek as a scapegoat. Unfortunately, she had no evidence, she was relying on gut feel.’
‘And what did Hannah think?’
Marc sighed. ‘You know Hannah.’
‘She agreed with Fern?’
‘She trusts her instinct. They both hated the idea that someone might just have got away with murder.’
One coincidence about the two murders in Ravenbank had already struck Daniel. In each case, the prime suspect died within a day of the victim. Case closed. Neat and tidy, and convenient for everyone.
A woman whose appearance and demeanour reminded him of the trout who wanted to swallow Jeremy Fisher accosted Marc. She demanded to know where she might find a biography of Beatrix Potter costing no more than two pounds. The answer was the biography shelves, but Marc dressed it up with such tact and charm that by the time she strutted off, she’d morphed into a beaming Mrs Tiggy-Winkle.
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.’