Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘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.’

The last time Hannah and Marc had met, the simmering tension between them almost exploded into all-out war. After Marc moved out of the house they shared, Hannah swore to herself that the break-up would be civilised. No ranting, no finger-pointing, no blame game. Even though the split was his fault. He’d cheated on her, but what made her determined to dump him wasn’t his betrayal — a symptom, not a cause — but his selfishness. It was in his DNA. People can apologise, and make amends; she even knew a couple of murderers who, on release from prison, had led lives as decent and worthwhile as others who never so much as nicked an office biro. But Marc would never change.

He didn’t get it. He wanted another chance, and was willing to beg. They’d been together so long that she could read him like one of his books, and he’d persuaded himself that if he grovelled for long enough, she would give in. A tried-and-tested tactic, but she’d stopped falling for it. Ditching him hurt, because he was a good companion, as well as good in bed and good to look at. But all good things came to an end. The decision was made, and if he put it down to stubbornness, too bad. And so, despite her best intentions, their skirmishes were becoming hostile. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since a huge row about putting Undercrag on the market.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

She heard him choke off a grunt of exasperation. ‘Bad day at the office?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry to hear it. I heard on the radio about cuts in police spending. Hope you’re not directly affected.’

On his best behaviour, then. He was seldom so sympathetic about her work. Last time, she’d made the mistake of venting about Lauren Self and her demands for ‘efficiencies’, provoking Marc into a homily about the cosseted life led by public sector workers. People in the private sector, who actually made and sold things, weren’t blessed with gold-plated pension benefits, taxpayer-funded early retirement schemes, and long-term occupational sick pay. She retaliated by asking if he really believed that selling second-hand books would kick-start economic recovery, and the conversation plummeted downhill from there.

‘Lauren is downsizing the team. I’ll be left with two detectives and a couple of kids in the back office.’

‘Jesus, after all you’ve done.’

‘Yeah, well.’ She’d blundered by giving him the chance to offer moral support. ‘You didn’t answer my question. What do you want?’

‘I saw Daniel Kind a few minutes ago. He asked after you.’

‘You rang to tell me that? Thanks, but I can’t see my desk for paperwork.’

Not literally true — otherwise, she’d have committed a hanging offence under the terms of the Clear Desk Policy — but she still had plenty to do before heading home for a quick shower and change before her rendezvous with Terri.

‘Hannah, I’ve been thinking. There’s so much we need to sort out. Talk over. There’s Undercrag, and everything else. Why don’t we get together, over a drink, or a meal if you’re up for that?’

‘We tried that, and nearly came to blows, remember?’

‘My fault, I’m sorry. I’ll keep my stupid mouth shut next time. Promise.’

‘Then it will be a rather one-sided conversation, won’t it? The estate agent will email you about the sales particulars, to check you’re happy with them. As for your books in the loft, we can sort out a date for you to come and collect. You still have your key, so I can make myself scarce while you’re shifting stuff.’

‘The last thing I want you is for you to make yourself scarce. Hannah, listen, I’m pleading here. Won’t you reconsider?’

‘I’ve done plenty of considering. My mind’s made up. End of.’

The brush-off sounded more brutal than she’d meant. His tone changed into something wintry and quite unlike Marc.

‘So who is your urgent appointment with? Not Daniel Kind.’

Who did he think he was? ‘You’re right. And you also need to start minding your own business.’

‘You are my business.’ His voice was clotted with anger and distress. Oh Jesus, was he about to burst into tears? ‘You’re seeing Greg Wharf, aren’t you?’

Hannah didn’t trust herself to answer without making things worse. He didn’t have a monopoly on anger and distress. She killed the call.