The Grave Tattoo (15 page)

Jane looked at her watch. She’d give it another quarter of an hour, then she’d see whether a cup of coffee could revive her enough to continue. With a sigh, she reached into the third box and pulled out a cardboard folder containing half a dozen sheets of yellowing paper with the familiar brown spots of foxing. They were covered in a tight slanting script which Jane recognised as that of William’s eldest son John. All of the letters seemed to be addressed to his brother Willy, written on various dates in the summer and autumn of 1850, mere months after William’s death. The first three contained only routine family news with nothing of note. But as she began the fourth sheet, she realised this was something different. It appeared to be the second page of a letter and, as Jane read it, she felt her face flush and sweat break out along her hairline.

At first she could scarcely believe her eyes. She wondered almost whether the intensity of her desire had somehow brought into being the very thing she sought. But it was no illusion. The more she read it, the clearer it was to Jane that what she held in her hands was another brick in the wall.

Her fingers shaking, she slid the brittle sheet into a transparent plastic envelope. She stared long and hard at it for a few minutes, then stood up on almost steady legs. She needed to find Anthony.

15

Anthony held the plastic sleeve by the corners and frowned in concentration. Jane bit her lip and waited for the verdict. Time stretched till he put it down on his desk, fiddled with his ponytail then finally dragged his eyes back to hers. ‘Do you want to call Jake, or shall I?’ he asked.

His words sent a frisson of shock through Jane’s stomach. ‘Jake?’

‘It needs to be authenticated. As indeed does Mary’s letter. On the face of it, you seem to have uncovered another supporting element for your theory, but before we can be certain that this is not some elaborate hoax, the documents must be examined.’ He smiled. ‘It gives young Jake the perfect excuse to come and visit us. Not that I imagine he needs an excuse.’

A confusion of embarrassment and foolishness swept over Jane. It was thanks to Anthony that she and Jake had met in the first place. He’d been summoned to Dove Cottage to authenticate a bundle of letters that had been offered for sale to the Trust. Because of her particular interest in Wordsworth, Anthony had brought him through to the café to meet her. Anthony hadn’t exactly played Cupid; he would have shivered with horror at the mere idea of being thought to have such base motives. But he had invited them both for dinner with him and his wife Deborah and if not exactly the midwife, he had certainly been present at the birth of their interest in each other. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate to ask Jake,’ she stalled, trying to find a way to tell Anthony it was over without making them both uncomfortable.

Anthony’s eyebrows rose as he reached the right answer. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you two are no longer stepping out together?’

Jane felt her cheeks flush. ‘We’re not seeing each other any more, but that’s neither here nor there as far as the letters are concerned. Jake’s the wrong person for the job because he’s left the museum.’

‘Really? I hadn’t heard.’

Jane was too fond of Anthony to point out that the depths of Lakeland was hardly gossip central. ‘He’s gone off to work for a woman called Caroline Kerr. She’s a–’

‘Dealer,’ Anthony said, a world of disdain in the single word. ‘I know Caroline Kerr. I have conducted business with her. Not from choice, you understand, but because she has been in possession of something we wanted rather badly. She had a suspiciously fine estimate of how much we wanted it and how much we were prepared to pay, and she took us to the last penny available.’ His mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Bright woman, and passionate about her field, but I didn’t like her style. Well, what a disappointment Jake has turned out to be on all fronts. I’m sorry, Jane.’

She managed a weak smile. ‘Given that he’s gone to the dark side, it’s probably for the best, Anthony. I’m sure the museum can provide you with someone at least as well qualified.’

‘Oh, no doubt,’ he said, impatient to move on, away from the awkwardness. ‘And I will set matters in train at once. But let us assume for now that both documents are what they purport to be. This really is rather a find, Jane. At the very least, it does not contradict your theory. And there is this telling sentence: “I cannot see that I should be expected to countenance more shame and misery brought to my door because of my connection to that unfortunate family.” That does seem to point ineluctably towards the Christian Curwens. I can’t think of any other family of whom John would speak in such terms. He was very bitter about Isabella, even after her death.’

‘You couldn’t make this stuff up, could you?’ Jane said. ‘Some historians think Fletcher Christian was in love with Isabella Curwen, and that’s the reason he named his Tahitian wife Isabella. But for whatever reason, she chose his cousin John and he went off to sea. Then Fletcher comes back after the
Bounty
, is probably protected by John Christian Curwen and Isabella, then confides in William, who writes the story but keeps it hidden. Then fifteen years later, his son marries Isabella’s daughter. It’s like a Barbara Cartland novel.’

‘It’s another connection that strengthens your theory, though. If William had been remotely tempted to publish later in life, the connection to his son would have been a powerful brake.’ He picked the letter up again. ‘The question we really have to ask is whether this takes us any further forward.’

‘It would if I knew who Dorcas was.’

Anthony looked faintly surprised. ‘Sorry, I thought you realised.’

Jane groaned. ‘No, Anthony, I don’t have your encyclopaedic knowledge of the
dramatis personae.
I have no idea who Dorcas is.’

‘Dorcas was taken on as a maid at Dove Cottage after the long-serving Janet died in 1847.’ Anthony frowned. ‘Dorcas Mason, that was her name. It can’t have been a very jolly time to have been employed by the Wordsworths. William plunged into grief by the death of his favourite child, Dora; sister Dorothy becoming more and more tyrannical; then Isabella’s death and all the attendant issues around the grandchildren. That’s probably why she didn’t stay very long.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘That I will need to check.’ He reached for his mouse and began to click, glancing up at her with a twinkle. ‘You see, I’m not entirely the fount of all knowledge, Jane.’ He paused for a second, typed something on his keyboard then clicked the mouse again. ‘Here we go. Letter from Mary Wordsworth to her friend Isabella Fenwick, August 1851. A year and four months after William’s death. “We are to lose our loyal and hard-working Dorcas, who is to be married before the month’s end. She will make a fine wife and deserves a share of happiness after enduring this grieving household with such forbearance.” There you go, Jane. Now you know all I know about Dorcas Mason.’

‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t really give us any clue as to what she might have done with the manuscript after John handed it back to her.’ Jane sighed. ‘It’s so frustrating.’

‘I suppose it depends on how literally she took John’s instructions. She might have taken it back to Mary, but that would have been going against John’s wishes. She might have taken his words to mean she should destroy it. But she had been part of that household for three years–long enough to have been indoctrinated with the notion of William’s godlike standing in the world of letters. It’s possible she couldn’t bring herself to do anything other than preserve his words. She may have kept it, Jane. Kept it and never showed it to a living soul, in accordance with John’s wishes.’

Jane leaned forward in her chair. ‘If Dorcas kept it, surely it would have surfaced by now?’

‘One would imagine so. But it’s possible it was passed on to her descendants with other papers that have never been properly examined. Or that it was impressed upon whoever inherited it that it didn’t belong to the family and must be held in trust.’ Anthony shrugged. ‘We’ve had papers handed over to us that had been sitting in deed boxes for three or four generations.’

‘I’d like to think it might have survived,’ Jane said wistfully. ‘But it’s not likely, is it?’

‘It’s possible, and that’s enough. Jane, you need to start tracking down Dorcas Mason’s descendants. You can’t afford to pass up the chance, however slim it might appear.’ Anthony pushed back from his desk, the castors of his chair rumbling on the wood floor.

Jane nodded, knowing he was right. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea where to start. I don’t know anything about genealogy.’

‘The County Record Office at Carlisle has all the old parish records. Births, marriages and deaths. And then there’s the censuses. And St Catherine’s House in London. You’re a trained researcher, Jane, it’s not beyond your capabilities.’

‘I’m working with a colleague, he’s still in London. He could get cracking there while I make a start up here,’ Jane said, her expression lightening at the thought.

‘There you go.’ Anthony stood up. ‘Now, be off with you. I need to make arrangements for these documents to be authenticated.’

By the time she emerged from Anthony’s office, the blue skies had disappeared behind a low muffle of cloud. Large drops of rain splattered on the ground, leaving marks like scattered handfuls of coins on the ground. She ran for the café, pulling out her mobile and calling her mother. Martyrdom had never been Jane’s strong point. No way was she cycling home in this.

There’s no middle way with teenage despair. Either it vanishes like a chalk mark in a rainstorm or it acquires the immovable weight of a granite slab. With Tenille, it was the former. Within minutes of plunging into the depths with the realisation that her chances of escape from Jane’s flat were minuscule, she was developing a plan to put into action if the slenderest of opportunities presented themselves.

The most important thing was to put some distance between herself and the Marshpool. Let the dust settle while she came up with a way to get out from under. The only place she could think of where she might find shelter was with Jane in Fellhead. So the first priority was to figure out how to get there. She had some money, but she wasn’t daft enough to consider taking the train or the express bus. If the cops were looking to put her in the frame, they’d have spread her description and maybe even her picture around. Every cop would be looking for her, and the bus and train stations were where they’d look. Hitching was out of the question for the same reason. That only left local buses. She had to plot a route that would take her from London to Fellhead by hopping from town to town.

Tenille logged on and found a journey planner site for motorists where she asked for a route avoiding motorways. That would give her an idea of the waypoints she should be aiming for. She printed out the map of the route and circled the towns she needed to get through. Then she started to hit the bus company websites. It was achingly tedious stuff, but eventually she had printed out a list of local bus timetables that more or less linked together to get her to Fellhead. It would take a couple of days, but she was pretty sure she could make it.

It didn’t do to take chances, though. She wasn’t going to make it easy for them. She needed to change her appearance, just in case any eagle-eyed smartass was looking to make a name for themselves. She looked at herself critically in the mirror. Chopping off her dreads would be a start. But she could do,
had
to do better than that. In tight clothes, there was no mistaking her gender. But in the baggy threads that were the uniform of young black rappers, she could pass for a boy, easy. Anybody with their eyes peeled for a teenage girl wasn’t going to look past the slouch and the style. They just wouldn’t see her under the camouflage. Especially since the last thing most people wanted was to make eye contact with a young black male. The stereotyping sometimes had its advantages.

She wondered whether Jane’s wardrobe might provide her with the right disguise. Jane wasn’t big, but she was both taller and broader than Tenille. A quick search revealed she was out of luck. Nothing with the right logos, nothing any street rapper would be seen dead in. And crucially, no big bulky jacket to keep out the weather and prying eyes alike.

Tenille went through to the bathroom and raked around in the wall-mounted cabinet till she found a pair of nail scissors. Then she carefully snipped away at her hair, leaving tight little spirals all over her scalp where the dredds had been. The face in the mirror was a stranger to her; losing the frame of hair emphasised her good bones and her full lips. She could pass for an adolescent boy, she thought. She certainly didn’t look like Tenille any more. She scooped up the hair from the sink and crept back to the study. She wasn’t about to leave a big clue for the cops. She reached across the desk and cracked open the window, then she let her shorn locks fly out into the chill darkening air. She watched them spiralling earthwards, imagining them scattered on the ground below like strange hairy caterpillars.

Next, she tiptoed through to the kitchen. She knew where Jane kept what she needed. Under the sink she found a hammer and, in the drawer, a torch. She took them with her and stashed them in her backpack.

Tenille stared out into the empty evening. All she could do right now was done. And she was still trapped, still with no way out. Deflated, she slumped in the chair and wondered how the hell she was going to get to a place where she could put her plan into action. She’d been sitting staring gloomily at the bus timetables for about ten minutes when she almost started out of the chair. The sudden sound of knocking on the wall completely freaked her out. What the hell was mad Noreen Gallagher up to? There was a swift tattoo of half a dozen knocks, then a pause, then another short salvo. Then silence.