The Hanging Wood (20 page)

Sunday lunch at The Tickled Trout, a welcome respite from a morning spent house-hunting for Louise. A cottage in Elterwater had looked perfect, with roses clambering around the door, but the rising damp would cost a fortune to eradicate. A swish apartment in Ambleside boasted every labour-saving gadget you could wish, but the block had been shoehorned in between a microbrewery and a garage, and if the exhaust fumes didn’t poison her, the smell of beer would make sure she had a permanent hangover. With houses, as with people, appearances deceived.

The Tickled Trout was an upmarket pub-restaurant down the road from Ambleside. Last January, in the car park on the other side of the window he was facing now, Daniel had kissed Hannah for the one and only time. He hadn’t planned it, and neither had she. But Marc found out about their meeting, and soon all hell broke loose, and Hannah found herself personally ensnared in a case of multiple
murder. Louise didn’t know the full story about Marc and Hannah, and at times she seemed to take it personally that her brother was testing her patience. In her black-and-white lawyer’s mind, Daniel was wimping out of the chance of happiness when he should have moved on from Aimee’s death and the mistake that had been Miranda.

Must it always be this way between siblings? He cared for Louise more than anyone in the world, yet sometimes he wondered why sororicide was rare. Probably she was tempted to fratricide once in a while. Now their adolescent arguments were a fading memory, they would fight to protect each other, but prolonged exposure to each other’s company sometimes stretched their nerves to breaking point.

Daniel savoured the taste of toffee. Clearly Aslan had taken the job at St Herbert’s with a view to getting to know his sister, and picking the right moment to introduce himself to his father. Lane End Farm was a good size and located in a beautiful part of Britain. It must be worth plenty, even in these straitened times, and Aslan would be more interested in money than orchestrating a sentimental family reunion. But Michael Hinds’ reputation was as Cumbria’s very own Mr Angry. Had Aslan provoked his father to such rage that he’d committed another of those rare – you might be tempted to say, astonishingly rare – crimes: filicide?

Louise put down her spoon and narrowed her eyes. ‘You look as though you’ve wandered into a different country. What’s going on in that brain of yours?’

‘I’m thinking about families, what holds them together, what drives them apart.’

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. ‘We’re hardly
experts on family life, you and me, after what happened with Dad.’

‘Or maybe we are. We’ve seen the ups and downs, more than most.’

‘I don’t remember that many ups after Dad walked out on us.’ She frowned. ‘Yet Hannah cared for him. I bet she sees something of you in him.’

‘I’m nothing like him. He was a hardened cop, spent his life turning over stones and seeing what lay beneath. Dangerous work. Academe is cosy, you know yourself – the main risk is RSI from writing too many articles in learned journals that hardly anybody wants to read.’

‘You are absolutely like him,’ she said. ‘Neither of you could ever let go without finding what you were looking for. My only question is this – have you any idea what you
are
looking for?’

St Herbert’s was open to residents and Friends of the Library and their guests on Sundays, and when Daniel said that he wanted to call in, Louise insisted on coming along for the ride. Whatever she said, she was every bit as nosey as him. Driving past the narrow reservoir of Thirlmere, he listened to the news on local radio. The main story was the discovery of a man’s body at a farm near Keswick, but he was not named.

‘You think you know who it is?’ Louise asked.

The road was clear, and he put his foot down. ‘Hope to God I’m wrong, but …’

Soon they were parking at St Herbert’s. As they jumped out of the car, Daniel spotted Micah Bridge trudging towards the front entrance. The principal’s stoop was more
pronounced than ever, and as they came up to him, a defeated look clouded his watery eyes. Daniel felt a gnawing sadness. Aslan may not have matched the profile of the typical habitué of St Herbert’s, but he’d been young and full of life. Less than a week ago, he’d shinned down that drainpipe from the parapet up on the first floor, seemingly without a care in the world. To picture him lying on a mortuary slab made Daniel’s stomach churn. No matter what Louise said, he could never have done his father’s job. How had the old man coped, dealing with violence as a way of life?

After introducing Louise, he said, ‘This latest death at Lane End Farm …’

Speaking in little more than a whisper, the principal said, ‘The victim is Aslan Sheikh, he was murdered. Daniel, I can scarcely believe what is happening. My God, two members of staff dead within a few days of each other.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Very little.’ The principal mopped sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The policeman wanted me to tell him about Aslan. What work he did, the people he dealt with. Whether he had any enemies.’

‘They aren’t suggesting an accident or suicide this time?’

Micah Bridge shook his head. ‘Surely you are not implying that Orla was murdered as well?’

‘I’m not implying anything, but hatred isn’t the only motive for murder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps Aslan was killed because of something he found out, or witnessed.’

‘Such as?’

‘He was here on Friday morning, wasn’t he? Sham told me he spent time in the library. She thought he was looking something up.’

The principal stared. ‘I find that hard to credit. He showed so little interest in our collections.’

‘Looks as though he stumbled across a reason to take an interest.’

‘For heaven’s sake, what could it be? This library is a place for quiet, scholastic research. We have nothing to do with the grubbiness of murder.’

Some have grubbiness thrust upon them, Daniel thought.

‘Are the police still here?’

‘They left an hour ago, once they had finished speaking to Sham.’

‘She’s working today?’ Daniel was surprised. ‘I thought she only—’

‘Works Monday to Friday, and then with the utmost reluctance?’ The principal sniffed. ‘She claims her aunt sent her, saying she ought to be here to lend a hand, given that the press may turn up at any moment with their flashbulbs and their prying questions. I’m not sure I believe her. It’s almost as if she’s … gloating over Aslan’s death.’

To spite Purdey, because Aslan had confided the truth about his identity to her and not to Sham? Daniel wondered.

‘Where is she now?’

‘On reception, as usual. Checking her lipstick so as to present her best face to the arriving media, no doubt.’

The principal couldn’t conceal his bitterness. He seemed to take the deaths of Orla and Aslan as a personal attack
on himself and St Herbert’s. Come to think of it …

‘When were you first appointed principal, Micah?’

‘Seventeen years ago. Though for some years before that, I regularly gave lectures and undertook academic work here.’

‘Were you around when Orla’s brother went missing?’

The principal pursed dry cracked lips. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. It was a dreadful time; that poor young boy who disappeared, never to return. Not that I ever met the lad. And to this day, I’ve barely exchanged a dozen sentences with his father. I made the mistake of seeking a donation to our funds on one occasion.’

‘So you know Fleur from way back?’

‘We were barely acquainted in those days. I knew her father better. He wasn’t a man of letters, but he did support the library.
Noblesse oblige
, I suppose. He was keenly aware of Sir Milo’s legacy, and that after Jolyon’s accident, the Hopes name would soon be dead. He was bitter that the money had run out, and that the only reason his daughter lived so well was that she’d married for money, rather than love. It wasn’t just that she married into a family that sold caravan pitches to the common herd. She picked the brother who held the purse strings, even though her father disliked him.’

‘Alfred Hopes was a snob, then?’

Micah Bridge coloured, and Daniel realised he’d struck a nerve. The principal’s academic elitism was as snobbish as Alfred Hopes’ condescension about class. ‘You might say so, but at least he wasn’t ruled by profit-and-loss accounts and balance sheets. But why do you ask?’

Daniel waved the question away, realising he didn’t
have a sensible answer. He’d become lost in a maze, taking one wrong turning after another in trying to make sense of the fates of Orla and Aslan. Time to start thinking like a historian again. Gathering all the scraps of evidence, seeing if they contradicted assumptions he’d already made. How often had he preached to students the importance of asking the right questions? He believed with a passion that understanding history helped you to make sense of the present, and so it must be with murder. The reasons for the deaths were rooted in the past, he was sure of it. Ask the right questions about what happened twenty years ago, and he’d find the right answers.

A squeal of brakes made him swivel round. An open-top sports car was screeching to a halt at the end of the drive. Fleur Madsen was hunched behind the wheel, dark glasses masking her eyes. The wind had tangled her hair; he’d never before seen her looking a fraction short of elegance personified. The principal, looking as though the arrival of his chair of trustees was all he needed to make his misery complete, dragged himself forward to greet her.

With a wave to Fleur and a nod to his sister, Daniel opened one of the double doors and came face-to-face with Sham Madsen, admiring her reflection in a compact mirror.

‘Didn’t expect to see you today, Daniel!’ Her eyes opened very wide. He thought she’d overdone the mascara. ‘Or you, Louise! Have you heard the dreadful news?’

‘I don’t know any details.’

‘Apparently,’ Sham lowered her voice, as if imparting a state secret, ‘poor Aslan’s head was bashed in and he was
dumped in a slurry tank. Yuck, can you imagine? Dad is worried sick about Mike Hinds. He wants to make sure he has the best defence.’

‘Why? Does he think Hinds is guilty?’

‘No, I’m not saying that, but it stands to reason the police think so. What if Aslan turned up at Lane End and demanded money? Old Mike would go apeshit.’

‘Killing his own son would be a bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t it?’ Louise asked.

Sham made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘Hey, you don’t know Mike.’

‘What was Aslan researching on Friday morning?’ Daniel asked.

She frowned. ‘Search me.’

He’d do better to search the archives instead, but before he could head off for the library, Fleur trotted through the door, Micah Bridge trailing in her wake. She had taken off the sunglasses; her eyes lacked their usual sparkle and her make-up didn’t disguise the pallor of her cheeks. She was wearing a plain white blouse and black trousers, and an expression as severe as her outfit. As they exchanged greetings and shock-horror exclamations about Aslan Sheikh’s death, he remembered Aslan describing her as a cougar. Had she flirted with him? Or even gone further? Today, for sure, she wasn’t in flirtatious mood.

‘What brings you two here on a Sunday?’ she asked. Unspoken was the rider:
I didn’t have you down as a rubbernecking sensation-seeker.

‘The day before he died,’ Daniel said, ‘Aslan checked something out in the library. I was curious about what it might be.’

Fleur looked at him in bewilderment. He’d never before noticed the faint worry lines around her eyes. ‘I simply cannot imagine.’

If she was feigning ignorance, she didn’t merely look a little like Audrey Hepburn, she was a better actor. Yet Daniel was gripped by a conviction that she could help him to unlock the mystery, even if she didn’t know where to find the key. He was tempted to cross-examine her. But did she really want the truth to come out?

His mind was made up by the roar of a car racing down the drive outside. Micah Bridge glanced through the open door and winced.

‘It seems that the first journalists have arrived.’

Sham said, ‘Are you sure they aren’t just Friends of the Library?’

‘These men do not look as if they have ever read a book in their lives.’

‘Ouch.’ Fleur raised her eyebrows. ‘Micah, I’ve never once heard you say anything bitchy before. You must be stressed. We all are, of course, but we must put on a brave face with outsiders. What happened to Aslan and Orla is nothing to do with their work at St Herbert’s.’

‘We’d better leave you to it.’ Seizing his chance, Daniel beckoned his sister to follow him down the corridor.

‘What exactly are you looking for in these archives, then?’ Louise asked as soon as they had closed the doors of the Old Library behind them.

He contrived an expression so inscrutable that she couldn’t resist the urge to giggle.

‘I want to find out about Castor and Pollux.’

It took less than thirty minutes for Daniel to trace what he was after. He spent another ten at his favourite desk, gazing at the yellowed sheets he’d borrowed from the archive downstairs, turning what he had discovered over in his mind. Testing hypotheses, in the way he’d once taught to students new to deductive reasoning, searching for answers that were not only valid but sound. After browsing for a while through the crammed bookshelves, Louise came up to join him, but soon she became bored by his reverie, and started drumming her fingers against the iron railing. She’d never been afraid to bring him back down to earth.

‘So was that a eureka moment, or not?’

He leant back in his chair. ‘You bet.’

‘Go on, then. Surprise me.’

‘John Everett Millais was a regular visitor to Keswick as guest of the Hopes family,’ Daniel said. ‘According to Sir Milo Hopes’ memoir, Millais repaid their hospitality by making them a present of this painting.’

He pointed to an old photograph of a painting in a heavy gilt frame similar to others they had seen at Mockbeggar Hall. Two labradors with huge brown eyes stood side by side, as if awaiting a command. The sunlit turrets, seen through the trees behind them, made the Hall seem like a palace from a fairy tale. Daniel suspected Millais had dashed the painting off as a thank you; he’d sought to convey the dogs’ unyielding loyalty and fidelity, yet the effect was cloying and sentimental, so that the picture was a long way short of a masterpiece. Hadn’t William Morris dismissed his fellow Pre-Raphaelite as
an artist bought and sold and thrown away
? He’d overdone the hasty hack work, and this was an example. But Morris’s sneer meant nothing to Milo Hopes,
who wrote in his memoir that he would always owe a debt to his distinguished guest for immortalising his beloved animals, and vowed that Millais’ gift should always have a place of honour in Mockbeggar Hall.