The Cipher Garden (22 page)

‘No need to wait for the train.’

‘I enjoy your company.’

She blinked. ‘You’ve never said that to me before.’

‘It’s never occurred to me before,’ he said with a grin.

She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘It’s best that I disappear. Miranda’s not comfortable when I’m around.’

‘It’s nothing personal. She’s just…’

‘Insecure?’

‘Unaccustomed to family life. Her adoptive parents were elderly, no kids of their own; she became accustomed
to being the centre of attention. Since they died, she feels the lack of a past. That’s why she seems jealous of you and me. There’s so much stuff that she isn’t part of. But – you do like her?’

Louise laughed. ‘Now who’s insecure? Of course I do. You’re not stupid enough to fall for just a pretty face. Though I must admit I wondered if it was too soon for you – after Aimee, I mean. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure you’ve ever faced up to how hard her death hit you.’

‘We can’t plan our lives like train timetables. Pick the perfect moment to fall for someone new.’

‘No, of course not. And she’s a lot of fun when she’s so inclined. But you’ll have to persuade her – either she lives the dream up here with you, or she does the London journalist thing.’

‘She can combine the two.’

Louise shrugged. ‘I hope you’re right.’

Me too
. He devoured the last piece of cream cake and said nothing.

‘So where does Hannah Scarlett fit in?’

He felt colour rising in his cheeks. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw the way she looked at you, Daniel. You said yourself, she told you about that old murder.’

‘She worked with Dad, he was her mentor. She’s talked to me about him. That’s all.’

‘And she’s married to this chap you went to see, the bookshop owner?’

‘Not married. They live together, have done for years.’

‘What about the cipher garden, then? You kept your cards close to your chest when you got home.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Let me share something with you, Daniel. The air of
casual unconcern you cultivate when you’re trying to hide something isn’t as convincing as you’d like to think. Perhaps it fools Miranda, but not me. I’ve known you a long time, remember.’

He managed a rueful grin. ‘Probably as well you’re leaving, then.’

She kicked him under the table. ‘Yes, you and I would soon be at each other’s throats if I hung around. Now – the garden.’

He recounted his discoveries of the previous day. When he told her about the fragment of conversation he’d overheard between Chris and Roz Gleave, she wanted to know what he thought they were talking about.

‘Presumably Roz has an idea about what drove Kirsty to take her own life.’

‘Are you intending to tell the police?’

‘I’m hoping the Gleaves will save me the trouble.’

‘You should mention what you heard to your mate Hannah.’

He gave her a sharp look, but her expression was all innocence. ‘When she’s fit again, perhaps I will.’

‘Carry on with the story.’

When he’d finished, she pulled a face. ‘It’s weird. People don’t die of broken hearts.’

‘You never were much of a romantic, were you?’

‘Come on. They expired on the same day, which just happened to be the anniversary of their son’s death?’

‘Too much of a coincidence, but a hundred years after they were buried, there’s not much to go on. You need to make a leap of imagination to have a chance of making sense of it.’

She laughed. ‘You used to wear that expression when you figured out the solution to an Agatha Christie five
chapters before that old Belgian big-head. Let’s hear about where the leap has taken you.’

A disembodied voice announced that the train would be arriving shortly and apologised for any inconvenience. Daniel swallowed the last of his drink.

‘Suppose you are Alice Quiller. Brought up to fear God. Perhaps you’ve seldom ventured far outside the valley you were born in. For upwards of half a century, your faith is unquestioning. Until tragedy tears your small, comfortable world apart. Your only child, the apple of your eye, dies in a foreign land. No good reason for his death, you can’t even console yourself with the fiction that he sacrificed his life defending freedom. The stupid war he’s been fighting is as good as over, but he succumbs to sickness and dies a rotten, miserable death. You’ve devoted your life to the boy, you’re crazy about him. Obsessed, maybe. All of a sudden, the world becomes worthless. You cut yourself off from it. Your husband is the only person you will speak to, but even he can’t reason with you, even he can’t make everything right. Nothing can make it right. You’re left not knowing what to believe any more. Not wishing to live any more. What do you do?’

She said slowly, ‘I might not want to go on living.’

He mimed applause. ‘Spot on.’

‘You’re suggesting they decided – or Alice persuaded her husband – that they should kill themselves? To take part in a suicide pact?’

‘For her, death must have seemed the only way out.’

She winced. ‘Shit.’

‘Only one snag. In those days, suicide was a mortal sin. Worse than that, a crime. The rector reminded me, suicides weren’t even permitted the dignity of burial in consecrated ground. In those days, you were expected to cope with
whatever lousy hand life dealt you. No therapy, no bereavement counselling, just get on with it. In England it was still the age of the stiff upper lip. For the Quillers, the public disgrace of a double suicide would have been intolerable. Not to be contemplated.’

‘So they disguised their intentions?’

‘A triumph of appearance over reality. As prominent Brackdale folk, well respected, they’d have been on good terms with the local medics. So long as there was an opportunity to write off their deaths as due to natural causes, honour would be satisfied all round. Jacob and Alice Quiller could be buried in the same grave as their beloved son John.’

‘And the garden?’

‘I’d guess Jacob was familiar with the Victorian fashion for gardens that conveyed messages. Often to celebrate religious beliefs, or represent Bible stories or mystical revelations. Jacob turned all that upside down. His mind was in turmoil. While his wife pined away inside the cottage, he transformed their garden to simulate a kind of spiritual anarchy. No “paths of life” for the Quillers. Instead, nothing but tracks that wound back on themselves, false turnings and dead ends.’

‘The pattern was that there was no pattern?’

‘Jacob was mocking the pious certainties that he’d subscribed to all his life. Yet even in his dark despair, he couldn’t abandon every last vestige of faith. He couldn’t help minding what happened after he died. Perhaps Alice felt the same, perhaps she was past caring, who knows? One thing’s for sure, it was impossible for them to write a straightforward letter declaring their intention. But they could leave a hidden message in the garden for anyone who cared to know what they’d done.’

‘Such as Richard Skelding?’

‘The man who inherited his land back, yes. My guess is that he discovered the truth. A handful of people in the valley kept the legend alive.’

‘Including later owners of the cottage?’

‘Notably the Gilpins. They didn’t disturb the cipher garden, or betray the Quillers’ secret. Why should they? It was a private sorrow. For all I know, Eleanor Sawtell tried to pump Mrs Gilpin for information. I can’t imagine her giving any change to a nosey parker.’

Louise tapped her spoon against her saucer. ‘You’re right. All this does require a leap of the imagination.’

‘There is a crazy logic to the garden. The monkey puzzles symbolised Jacob and Alice and the weeping willow John. The yew tree stood for the eternal life that Jacob hoped against hope might yet await all three of them in Heaven.’

‘And the death from broken hearts?’

‘The clue to the means of suicide is in the planting, as well as the words on the tablets. Of course, those foxgloves have spread far and wide over the past hundred years. They grow like weeds, you find them everywhere. But you have to treat them with care.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘They’re poisonous, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right, foxglove leaves are the source of digitalis. In small quantities it stimulates the heart, but a large dose is apt to be fatal.’

‘Leaves from the garden,’ she quoted.

He nodded. ‘Will take our leave.’

The train was pulling in. Time to go. Daniel picked up Louise’s cases and they hurried outside. Once she’d scrambled into the carriage, she opened the window.

‘How are you going to break the news to Miranda?’

He sighed. ‘That her dream cottage boasts a garden that celebrates death and hides a coded suicide note?’

She contrived a wry smile. ‘Tricky, huh? Best of luck.’

The doors closed and Louise waved. He blew a kiss and called out to her as the train pulled away from the platform.

‘I may need more than luck.’

Gail Flint stood in the doorway of her grey cottage, tightly wrapped in a silk kimono, screwing up her eyes against the early morning sunlight. It was only half seven and she hadn’t had a chance to disguise her bleariness with
make-up
.

‘May we come in?’

Hannah caught a fruity whiff of stale gin on Gail’s breath as she squinted at the warrant card. ‘The organ grinder as well as the monkey? My, my. I suppose I ought to be honoured, Chief Inspector, but it’s really not a good time.’

‘We’ll only take a few minutes, Mrs Flint.’

Hannah glanced past Gail into the hallway. A large blue nylon jacket, bearing the legend Allin of Esthwaite Drains and Rodding Services, hung from a coat-stand. A rusting Ford van similarly emblazoned was parked on a yellow line outside the cottage. A thud came from upstairs. Someone overweight, clambering out of bed.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘You’re not interrupting anything at all,’ Gail muttered.
‘Though couldn’t you make an appointment? I do have a business to run, as I told DC Waller here the other day.’

‘We thought an informal conversation might be preferable to asking if you’d come to the police station with us.’

Gail glared. ‘This is about Kirsty Howe?’

‘It would be easier to talk indoors, Mrs Flint.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Upstairs, a lavatory flushed. ‘All right, have it your own way.’

She padded unsteadily along the hall carpet, shepherding Hannah and Linz into a large and crowded sitting room. A leather suite jostled with a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and a computer. A Bang and Olufsen hi-fi system gleamed in one corner, a plasma television screen was suspended from the wall in another. On the table by the sofa were a couple of empty bottles of Rioja, two unwashed glasses and a CD of
Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits
. She drew the curtains to reveal a pergola hung with fronds of Virginia creeper. The patio commanded a view of a lawn cut in immaculate stripes and in the distance the brooding bulk of the Old Man of Coniston.

‘I insist on Peter mowing for me personally,’ she said. ‘I made my lawyer include it in the terms of settlement.’

‘You didn’t prefer a clean break?’

‘Where’s the fun in that? He may not have been the ideal husband, but he is a bloody good gardener. Besides, a monthly alimony cheque didn’t seem penance enough.’ Gail waved the detectives towards the armchairs. ‘Go on, then. Take the weight off your feet.’

Hannah nodded at the PC. ‘You run your business from home?’

‘Why spend precious cash on fancy office premises? I’ve survived one or two business mishaps over the years, but
Roz Gleave has given me good advice on keeping control of cashflow. I don’t hold too much stock.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Besides, I’d be tempted to guzzle it, and that would never do, would it?’

Hannah heard someone – or perhaps a small army – tramping down the stairs. Gail shuddered and called out, ‘And don’t think you can send me an invoice, Tod Allin!’

The front door slammed and moments later the van’s engine started up. Gail curled up on the sofa, tucking her bare legs beneath her, and pouted at the two women.

‘Tradesmen are so unreliable these days, aren’t they? Tod assured me that blocked passages were his speciality.’ A rictus smile. ‘Very well, Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’

‘A few days ago, we received information about the murder of Warren Howe. An anonymous message accused his wife Tina of the crime.’

‘So what, she’s the obvious suspect, isn’t she?’

The skin seemed to have been stretched too tightly over Gail’s cheekbones. On close inspection, not a marvellous advertisement for cosmetic surgery. The main benefit of entrusting your face to the surgeon’s knife, Hannah decided, is to make it difficult for people to figure out when you are lying.

‘You believe Tina killed Warren?’

‘Your colleagues never came up with a better solution.’

‘And the motive?’

‘Jealousy, rage, a combination of the two, how would I know?’

‘No reason for her to be jealous of your affair with Warren, was there?’ Hannah asked softly. ‘It was over.’

‘He didn’t dump me! It was a joint decision, perfectly amicable. Our relationship had run its course, that’s all.
The affair might not have been going anywhere, but then neither was his marriage.’

‘And yours?’

‘I went back to Peter, didn’t I?’

‘How did he feel about being cuckolded by his business partner?’

‘Cuckolded?’ Gail savoured the word as though it were a vintage wine. ‘Oh, poor Peter. He didn’t murder Warren, if that’s what you’re hinting. There was no need. He turned a blind eye; he knew I cared for him more than Warren.’

‘So why the affair?’

‘I wanted a change, a touch of passion in my life. Is that so terrible? Excitement’s in short supply after you’ve been married a number of years.’ Gail’s high-pitched giggle set Hannah’s teeth on edge. ‘The temptation to sample forbidden fruit becomes impossible to resist. Perhaps you find that yourself, Chief Inspector?’

Hannah wasn’t going there. ‘The excitement died for both you and your husband, didn’t it? Hence the divorce.’

Gail made a dismissive movement with her shoulders. ‘These things happen.’

‘You didn’t want it to happen, though.’

‘As a matter of fact, the divorce was my suggestion.’

‘Anticipating the inevitable, surely? When you realised that your husband had fallen for Tina Howe.’

‘She started working in the business. Called herself a personal assistant, but she was no more than a shorthand typist with attitude. And a skirt short enough to let the boss catch a glimpse of knickers. Flaunt yourself long enough and you’ll hook your man. It’s the oldest trick in the book.’

‘You were the jealous one, not Tina.’

Gail sat upright. ‘Rubbish!’

‘She has the settled relationship. With a man you still care for.’

Linz said, ‘While you’re left – waiting for your annual service from the plumber.’

Gail folded her arms. ‘Don’t think your sidekick can rattle me, Chief Inspector. I’ve got a pretty thick skin, you know.’

‘I can tell.’ Hannah’s gaze lingered on the chiselled features. ‘Is this why the divorce took so long to finalise – you were fighting a rearguard action, trying to slow it down, hoping he’d change his mind?’

‘Bollocks!’

‘And when everything was finalised, you took revenge. Not against Peter, but against Tina and her family. You accused her of murdering Warren.’

Gail lifted her chin. It was as pointed as a dagger. ‘If you think I’m going to admit writing anonymous letters, you’re mistaken.’

‘You know there have been several letters, then?’

Gail’s eyes darted from Hannah to Linz. ‘Watch my lips, will you? I can’t help you.’

‘Can’t or won’t, Mrs Flint? I believe the person who sent us the tip-off also wrote to Kirsty Howe.’

‘Oh no, you don’t! You’re not blaming me for that stupid girl’s death.’

‘Why do you think she killed herself?’

‘
De mortuis
, Chief Inspector.’

‘Sorry, they don’t do Latin at police college.’

Gail’s withering look suggested that this in itself explained the rise in crime. ‘I don’t care to speak ill of the dead.’

Hannah said coolly, ‘Try to overcome your finer feelings.’

‘Listen, then. The plain truth is, she was an ungainly lump who couldn’t keep a man. A waitress mooning after a man who was devoted to someone else. A shame, but she really didn’t have too much going for her.’

‘She was young,’ Linz said. ‘She had the whole of her life ahead of her.’

Gail hissed, ‘Try this, before you get too dewy-eyed. Her mother killed her father. Isn’t that reason enough?’

‘You’re forgetting that she gave her mother an alibi.’

‘Oh yes, the watertight alibi.’ Gail gave a scratchy laugh. ‘Tina, Kirsty and Sam, the three of them were supposed to be together, weren’t they? But they were telling fibs.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because while Tina was taking a scythe to her husband, I was in bed teaching Sam Howe a thing or two.’

‘So at the time of the murder, Sam wasn’t up the Hardknott Pass…’ Linz chortled as they turned into Tilberthwaite Avenue.

Hannah kept her eyes on the road and resisted the temptation to supply a punchline. ‘If Gail is telling the truth.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘Reluctant as I am to believe a word she says, the story hangs together. Gail didn’t want her latest peccadillo to wreck her marriage. Peter overlooked her sleeping with the father, but he might have drawn the line at her bedding the teenage son. The sprained ankle didn’t prevent her misbehaving with Sam, but with a little exaggeration it sufficed for an alibi. Quite right, she never left the cottage that day. Why would she want to?’

According to Gail, it was the one and only time she’d slept with Sam. It hadn’t exactly been a match made in
Heaven. Just a bit of a laugh, really. The two of them had been flirting for a while. When he’d rung to commiserate over her sprained ankle and asked if she’d like him to kiss it better, she’d said it was the best offer she’d had in ages. Probably he fancied a slice of what his dad had been having, but Gail wasn’t bothered about his motives. She knew too much about men to entertain illusions. As a lover, the son didn’t compare to the father. Youth and virility were all very well, but no match for experience, in her book.

The three-way alibi was Tina’s idea. Neither Tina nor Kirsty knew what Sam had been up to and at first he refused to say. They panicked out of fear that his tense relationship with Warren might make him a suspect. Only later did it strike Gail that, just as Tina had persuaded Sam to lie about his whereabouts, so she might have inveigled Kirsty into shielding her from a murder charge.

‘Gail sent us the note about Tina, didn’t she?’

‘Racing certainty,’ Hannah said. ‘Not that we can prove it.’

‘God, she’s a bitch.’

All of a sudden, and against all logic, Hannah felt sympathy stabbing at her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But a very unhappy bitch.’

Linz’s brow creased in disapproval – keen young DCs didn’t do sympathy. She’d learn. They drove on for a few minutes until Linz broke the silence.

‘On the radio this morning, the forecaster said that humidity levels have never been so high in this country. I’m sweating like a pig.’

‘They’ve promised a storm before the end of today.’

‘Can’t come a moment too soon, as far as I’m concerned. All right, ma’am, where do we go from here?’

‘To Old Sawrey. Time for another word with Tina Howe.’

‘Gail Flint?
Gail Flint?
’

If Hannah had accused her son of having had his wicked way with the late Myra Hindley, Tina Howe might have been more relaxed. Gail Flint? This was sleeping with the enemy.

‘The bastard told me she was a tourist from Sweden. Just passing through on her way to Scotland, that’s why she wasn’t around to back up his story. And you’re telling me it was that hatchet-tongued lush! A natural blonde, he said!’

Natural? At least a sense of irony must lurk beneath Sam’s sullen exterior. Hannah asked when he would be back and Tina spread her arms.

‘He’s supposed to be working, but he’s just as likely to be propping up some bar or having a leg-over with some scrubber in a caravan park. He doesn’t bother about keeping appointments. We’re trying to keep going as best we can after – what happened to poor Kirsty, but he isn’t helping. We’ve had loads of complaints, haven’t we, Peter?’

Peter Flint gave a nervous cough of assent. The four of them were in his office; this was his domain, but he’d hardly uttered a word since their arrival. His bony frame was squashed up in his chair and Hannah supposed this was how he’d managed to stay married to Gail for so many years. When the going got tough, he pretended to be invisible.

Tina shook her head. ‘There’s only one thing that lad seems to care about, and it isn’t his work, I can tell you. He takes after Warren, and he won’t pay attention to what I say any more. Just like his dad.’

‘We’ll talk to Sam later.’

Tina put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘Go on, then. Who told you this?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Howe, we can’t…’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be Sam, would it?’ Tina’s voice rose. ‘Not exactly something to boast about, having it off with Ms Nip and Tuck. It was her, wasn’t it? That reconstructed cow.’

‘You’ll appreciate the implications of the information we’ve received,’ Hannah said. ‘You and your children maintained that you were together when your husband was killed. If your son was – otherwise engaged – then the question is obvious. Were you with Kirsty at all?’

‘How do you think we managed to take the fucking photographs?’ Tina was almost screeching.

‘Photographs?’ Hannah shrugged. ‘Of course, in this day and age, all kinds of technological jiggery-pokery is possible. Isn’t that right, DC Waller?’

Linz nodded sagely. ‘Dead right, ma’am.’

‘For Christ’s sake, we were there! Up at the old Roman fort, on the Hardknott Pass, just as we said!’

Hannah felt a surge of triumph.
She’s losing it.

‘Who precisely was there?’

Tina swallowed. ‘OK, let’s just assume that Sam didn’t come along that day. What does it prove?’

‘You’re going to tell me you’re still protected by Kirsty’s statement, that she was with you all the time?’ Hannah turned to Linz. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘Trouble is, ma’am, Kirsty’s not here to corroborate the story any more.’

Tina said in a low voice, ‘My daughter died two days ago, Chief Inspector.’

‘I was there, Mrs Howe.’

A bitten-off laugh. ‘Yeah, I remember you puking your guts out.’

‘Tina!’ Peter Flint’s tone was despairing rather than authoritative. ‘I know you’re upset…’

Tina turned on him, crimson with anger. ‘That bloody old sow Gail, you’ve always let her walk all over you. All those years you were married, and now you’re paying through the nose for the privilege of divorcing her. You’ve let her get away with murder.’

Hannah said, ‘One thing is for sure, Mrs Howe. For years someone did just that. They got away with your husband’s murder.’