Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘So that’s why Ravenbank was originally called Satan’s Head,’ Daniel said. There was scarcely a breath of wind, but he felt a chill. ‘Seems to me that Clifford Hodgkinson was an Edwardian Canute, trying to push away the darkness of the past. Even when the sun is out, Satan’s Head seems like its rightful name.’

‘Oh well, we all know you should never fight against the tide of history.’

Her teasing amused him. After so many years when the slightest provocation had her at his throat, today they were at ease in each other’s company.

‘The peninsula was always distinct from the valley. People viewed it with suspicion and fear. Its sinister reputation predates all talk of faceless women and frozen shrouds. So the story goes, pagan rituals were commonplace at Satan’s Head. Animals were sacrificed to appease the gods, and maybe not only animals.’

Louise, the rational lawyer, made a sceptical noise. ‘You’ll be telling me next that the place is cursed.’

‘People used to say so, long before the murder of Gertrude Smith, let alone the death of Shenagh Moss. Hodgkinson took no notice, and paid the price. Like his successor at Ravenbank Hall, Francis Palladino.’

The sun reappeared as they scrambled back down the fell-side. Tiny and remote Martindale might be, but it boasted two churches. They stopped to look at the ancient chapel of St Martin’s. The font had once been part of a Roman altar, a wayside shrine; the gnarled yew outside was supposed to date back to Saxon times. People had worshipped on this site for a thousand years. Had they prayed for protection from the dark forces of the nearby headland?

Britain’s oldest herd of red deer roamed in the upper part of the valley, where public access was forbidden. Daniel’s researches had yielded the titbit that Kaiser Wilhelm II once visited Martindale as a guest of the Earl of Lonsdale. He’d come here to take part in a deer shoot. Four years later, the Kaiser’s war brought about an even bloodier slaughter.

Half a mile from St Martin’s, a wooden signpost to Ravenbank directed them along a narrow, uneven lane winding between two fells. Bad for the car’s suspension, but once they had bumped over a small humpbacked bridge, Daniel caught glimpses of Ullswater between the sombre mass of trees. He pulled up beside the moss-covered drystone wall, and they walked on a little way for their first close look at Ravenbank. Hodgkinson had planned a boulevard by which to approach his estate, but the straight edges of his proposed boulevard had long since vanished beneath grass and brambles. All that remained was a country lane. A heavy fall of snow would cut Ravenbank off from the valley. This was as isolated a spot as anywhere he’d found in the Lakes.

‘So this is where the Faceless Woman walks,’ Louise said. ‘Perfect for a ghost. Even in broad daylight, you can’t help feeling shivery.’

‘I wonder why Gertrude’s face was covered with a shroud. To say nothing of Shenagh’s.’

‘Presumably Shenagh’s was a copycat killing?’

‘Aren’t copycats usually psychos who murder for the sake of it, not stalkers with a personal axe to grind against the victim? Craig Meek had it in for Shenagh — but why bother covering her face with a blanket in imitation of a crime from the past?’

‘A mark of respect?’

‘After smashing her features beyond recognition? I don’t think so.’

The only signs of life were a rabbit scuttling across the lane into the undergrowth, and the mournful cawing of a crow. Daniel understood how the people of the valley had regarded this small, secretive enclave as alien and frightening, set apart from the civilisation they knew. Solitary by instinct, he found the quiet desolation of Ravenbank, and the sense that time had passed it by, weirdly exhilarating. He felt shivery too, but with excitement. Ravenbank had an air of mystery. Anything might happen here.

‘Have you brought Jeffrey’s sketch map?’

Satnav was redundant in Ravenbank, so Jeffrey had drawn a map with directions to the cottage he shared with Quin. Louise dug the sheet of paper out of her bag. Their destination stood close to the lake, at the end of a narrow lane intersecting with Ravenbank Lane, which ended at the gates of the Hall.

‘Their cottage is called Watendlath,’ she said. ‘Why does the name seem familiar?’

‘It’s a pretty hamlet above Borrowdale, where Hugh Walpole set part of his Herries stories. Jeffrey named his house in honour of his hero.’

‘I’ve never read Walpole. Any good?’

‘He was famous in his day, and incredibly prolific. Even earned a knighthood, and how many writers can say that? The Herries books were popular, but Jeffrey Burgoyne is right, his darker stories have worn better. He was snobbish and thin-skinned, and when Somerset Maugham caricatured him in Cakes and Ale , the ridicule tormented him. Once he was dead, his books vanished from the shelves, and they’ve stayed out of sight ever since. Sobering, when you think his admirers included the likes of Conrad, Eliot, and Virginia Woolf.’

‘You’re such a bloody know-all.’

‘You did ask. Okay, now we’re in the mood for the macabre, let’s press on for Tarnhelm Towers.’

Watendlath stood in a large wild garden of tall grasses, creeping ivy, and rotted tree trunks. It was a sturdy stone cottage with mullioned windows and an old-fashioned bell push. Quin answered the door, and ushered them in through a low-beamed hallway festooned with colourful posters and photographs from past productions of the Ravenbank Theatre Company.

‘Each of our shows is a two-hander, and we play multiple parts. Jeffrey does the writing, then we block it — that is, work out our movements — together. It’s scarcely Ibsen, just light entertainment, but plenty of fun.’ He gave a suggestive wink and pointed to the photographs. ‘That’s us as a very Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And here is Jeffrey playing Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman, with me as his faithful chum Bunny.’

The living room bore such a strong resemblance to a set for The Antiques Roadshow that Daniel was tempted to peer at the mahogany sideboard and say, ‘Marvellous example of late Chippendale, if it wasn’t for that tiny nick, it would be worth thirty thousand.’ A single shelf held calfskin-bound books by Lakeland writers: Ruskin, Walpole, and the poets. Logs crackled on an open fire; the warm, heady aroma of mulled wine filled the air. Jeffrey was due back soon, Quin explained as he waved them onto a deep leather sofa, he’d stayed in Keswick for a meeting with their financial adviser.

‘Rather him than me,’ he grinned, pouring wine into three huge glasses. ‘In another life, Jeffrey would be a top-notch accountant, like his father and grandfather before him. Business is bollocks, as far as I’m concerned. I hate it when money gets mixed up with art. Cash exists to be spent, end of story. Probably explains why I’ve never had a penny to my name.’

Nice not to need to worry about the sordid realities, Daniel thought. Presumably financial security made it worth tolerating the occasional slap when Jeffrey was in a bad mood. Quin had done well to find a partner who could keep him in style. For Watendlath was undoubtedly stylish, every touch of decor demonstrating impeccable taste. A painting hanging above the fireplace made a vivid splash of blue and sea-green against the white stone wall. Quin pointed out the signature, and Louise gasped. It was a Hockney original.

‘Jeffrey’s parents bought it at auction thirty years ago. God knows how much it’s worth. When he told me how much he pays for the insurance premium, I almost had a stroke.’

‘Surely you needn’t worry too much about burglars,’ Louise said. ‘There must be easier pickings, posh houses in villages that are much more accessible.’