The Frozen Shroud (24 page)

‘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.’

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 Archivist, 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.’

‘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.”’