Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘He sustained a nasty gash to his forehead that needed a lot of stitches.’ The woman paused. ‘The other cuts are largely superficial. It will be several weeks before he’s posing for snapshots again, but the scars will heal. Two ribs are broken, and there’s a lot of bruising. Fortunately, there’s nothing more serious.’

Hannah ground her teeth. ‘You think he’ll make a full recovery?’

‘I’m absolutely confident. He’s sleeping now, totally out of it, and he’ll be sore and uncomfortable for a while, but he’s a fit and healthy man, and he’ll get through in decent shape.’

Hannah didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Don’t let him feel too sorry for himself when he comes back home. You know what men are like.’

Not really, Hannah thought: the more I know about men, the less I understand them. Do Greg, and Marc, and Daniel feel the same about me?

‘You’re sure …?’

‘He’s lucky, Detective Chief Inspector. Believe me, it could have been so much worse.’ The doctor fiddled with her spectacles. ‘How did the accident happen?’

Stupid, stupid idiot! Hannah only just stopped herself screaming in self-reproach. All she could do was mumble something hopelessly incoherent. Why hadn’t she prepared for the obvious, the inevitable question: had she completely lost the plot? Lurid visions had swum in her head. Marc in a wheelchair, Marc in a coma, Marc in a morgue. She hadn’t slept after waking from the nightmare, couldn’t rid her mind of the terror she’d felt when peering down into that open grave.

‘Are you okay?’ the doctor asked. ‘Sorry, silly question. This must all have come as such a shock. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Hannah shook her head again. ‘You’ve been very kind, Doctor Sharma. I know you have to do your rounds. I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’

They shook hands, and she made good her escape. As she turned into the corridor, it was hard to resist the urge to break into a run. Anything to get away in one piece. She’d dodged that tricky question, and though others would press her harder than a nice young medic with more important things on her mind, she’d worry about that some other time.

Marc was going to make it, and nothing else really mattered. She’d escaped from the dreaded hospital. Everything was going to be fine.

Outside, the rain was pelting down like tracer bullets, but she didn’t care. As she walked through the car park, she felt a sudden urge to sing and dance. Marc wouldn’t burden her conscience for the rest of her days. She could wriggle free of the handcuffs of moral obligation. Nothing now could stop them going their separate ways.

The words of an old movie song came into her head. Because I’m free, nothing’s worrying me.

Breakfast at Watendlath was a classic case of the morning after the night before. Daniel hadn’t stopped yawning since the stroke of seven, when Louise roused him with an imperious knock on his door. Her next lecture wasn’t due until late afternoon, but he’d promised to drop her off at the campus so she could finalise a paper about shareholder duties. A shower did nothing to invigorate him, and his brain was so fuzzy that he twice nicked himself shaving. It didn’t help that Louise looked so good in her pinstriped business suit that you’d never guess she’d been up in the early hours, searching for a ghost that refused to show. Daniel just felt like a ghost; the only bits of him that seemed real were the dry mouth and hangover-induced headache.

By quarter past, he was blundering down the stairs after her. The aroma of fresh toast wafted down the passageway linking their staircase to the rest of the house. The heating was on, and the cottage felt snug and secure from the clatter of the wind and rain outside. In the breakfast-kitchen, they found Jeffrey, plump frame enveloped in a silk dragon kimono, fussing over an elaborate bean-to-cup coffee maker like a fretful mother with a mutinous child.

‘Morning, both! Dreadful weather today, and the forecast is ghastly, but never mind. Help yourself to juice — orange, pineapple, cranberry, whatever. Cereals and fruit are on the table, pop a couple more slices of bread in the toaster if you like. Coffee will be ready in a jiffy.’

The over-the-top geniality was pure ham acting, his smile as much a disguise as a Hallowe’en mask. As he turned to resume his anxious scolding of the machine, Daniel spotted red rims around his eyes. Had Jeffrey quarrelled with Quin last night or this morning? The walls of Watendlath were as thick as a castle’s. Even if there’d been a screaming match, he’d have heard nothing.

‘Pity we didn’t manage to see Gertrude Smith on the prowl.’ Louise sank her teeth into a plump Orange Pippin. ‘I’ve caught the bug myself now. Do you think Dorothy suspected Roland of killing Gertrude, and tracked him down?’

‘Who knows? The possibilities are endless. What if she witnessed the killing?’

‘Yes, if she saw Roland Jones kill his girlfriend, she may have been too scared to say a word. Then when her mother killed herself so soon after Gertrude’s death, she’d have been even more terrified. Perhaps it took a lifetime for her to come to terms with the guilt of having kept her mouth shut.’

He smeared honey on his toast. ‘Plausible.’

‘Whoever killed Gertrude, it must have been a crime of passion. The catalyst was Gertrude’s pregnancy. It changed things for everyone at Ravenbank Hall.’

He glanced out into the wild garden. After another storm, ferns and shrubs dripped in the shadow cast by the copper beeches marking Watendlath’s boundary. The downpour had blurred the windowpanes, distorting the shape of the evergreens, turning them into dark green creatures, sombre and surreal.

‘I reckon Melody should collaborate with you on the case, not me.’

‘It’s your fault if I’ve caught the murder bug. And what I wonder about Shenagh’s murder …’

Quin strode through the door. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and the customary charmer’s smile was nowhere to be seen.

‘Shenagh’s dead, don’t you think we should let her rest in peace?’

He scowled at Jeffrey’s vast rump. His partner ostentatiously carried on pouring coffee into four mugs. Each of them was emblazoned with insults culled from the works of Shakespeare.

‘Sorry,’ Louise said. ‘That was insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to …’

Jeffrey wrapped the dragon kimono more tightly around him. His cheeks were bright pink. He handed out the coffees without a word. Quin grimaced at the writing on the side of his mug.

‘“Dissembling harlot”,’ he quoted. ‘Actions speak louder than words, eh?’

Louise threw a frantic glance at Daniel. A ringside seat to a domestic row was too close for comfort.

‘We’d better get out from under your feet as soon as we’ve finished our coffee,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much for your hospitality.’

‘Yes, you’ve been so kind,’ Louise said, desperate to ease the tension. ‘I’m so envious of you, living in such a …’

A ferocious battering on the front door interrupted her. Jeffrey plodded out to see who was calling so early in the morning. Daniel and Louise clambered down from their kitchen stools, but Quin did not move. While Jeffrey fumbled with the mortice key, the thunderous knocking began again.

‘Just a minute!’

At last the door swung open. A tall, haggard man whom Daniel had never seen before stood on the outside step. Rain rolled off his blue Barbour jacket, and down his cheeks. He’d been caught in the cloudburst, but didn’t seem to notice he was drenched. His blue eyes seemed unfocused, and he was breathing hard.

‘Robin, what is it?’ There was a tremble in Jeffrey’s voice.