Martin Edwards: The Frozen Shroud

Reaching a gap in the mass of trees, he began to climb towards the heart of Ravenbank. The downpour had made the ground treacherous, and his boots kept sliding as he struggled up the slope, but he pressed on. He knew this place like the back of his hand, and since Esme’s death he’d found comfort in the familiar, yet Shenagh was right. He was too set in his ways. If he didn’t change them now, he never would. She had opened his eyes to fresh horizons that he was desperate to explore, before it was too late.

Where the hell was she?

His boots pinched, and he could feel blisters forming on his heels. The wind blew a thin, spiky branch into his face, almost taking out his eyes. He brushed it out of his face, and carried on until he reached the spot where a stony lane petered out into a rough track.

‘Hippo! Hippocrates!’ He whistled twice before he called again. ‘Are you there, boy? Shenagh, where have you got to?’

The fog clutched at his throat as he approached the Corner House. Wheezing noisily, he stopped to rest his aching back against the For Sale sign. In case Shenagh had taken shelter inside the empty cottage, he peered through the cobwebbed windows, but saw nothing. Taking a deep, rasping breath, he limped on down Water Lane. His torch beam picked out Watendlath, the whitewashed home of that pansy Jeffrey Burgoyne and his boyfriend. Francis didn’t care for the boyfriend, or the way he looked at Shenagh when he thought nobody else could see. Was he wondering what it would be like with a woman? People nowadays hadn’t the faintest idea of how to behave.

A tall hawthorn hedge marked the boundary of the Hall’s grounds. He decided to retrace his steps, and follow one of the paths that led through the wooded area. Near to the beck, not far from where the two lanes crossed at Ravenbank Corner, Gertrude Smith’s corpse had been discovered. And this was where Esme insisted she’d seen Gertrude’s ghost, a shimmering white phantom with a bloodied, unrecognisable face.

Absolute bunkum. Esme had downed too much gin while he was at the hospital, that long ago Hallowe’en.

‘Hippo!’

At last his patience was rewarded. His tired eyes detected a movement in the distance, moments before a familiar bark ripped apart the silence of the night. Within seconds his torch fastened on the big, awkward dog, bounding towards him. Relief washed through him as he bent down, and patted Hippo. The fur was sodden.

‘So what have you done with Shenagh, old fellow?’

Hippo whimpered.

‘Is she hurt? Don’t tell me she’s taken a tumble, and fractured her ankle?’

The dog pulled away from him, and loped over the grass towards a clump of silver birch trees. Francis hurried after him, stumbling in his efforts to keep up. Somehow he managed not to lose his balance, but his heart was thudding and the throbbing of his back made every movement a test of will.

Suddenly, the narrow beam of light from his torch caught a huddled shape on the ground.

He’d found Shenagh.

‘For God’s sake, what has he done to you?’

He’d forgotten that he didn’t believe in God.

Hippo stood panting over the motionless form. It took Francis an age to catch up, but he recognised Shenagh’s black anorak, jeans and boots. They were designer cowboy boots; he’d bought them for her birthday, stifling his horror at the ridiculous price.

As he drew closer, his torch beam moved up towards her neck and face. They were covered by a rough woollen blanket. He pulled it away and hurled it onto the sodden ground.

Shenagh had lost her face. The lovely face he had so often kissed.

As he stared at the bloody, ruined features, he let out a howl of rage and pain. A fearful noise, the cry of a beast with a mortal wound.

‘Murder for pleasure was invented by a man who lived down the road from here,’ Daniel Kind told his audience. ‘Thomas De Quincey moved into Dove Cottage a year after the Wordsworths left for Allan Bank. You can understand why the tourist board highlights the poetic daffodil fancier. Better PR than a self-confessed opium eater obsessed by serial murder.’

Laughter drowned the rain drumming on the skylights of the lecture theatre. Two hundred and fifty paying customers had come to Grasmere for a Saturday conference on Literary Lakeland. Daniel had turned down countless speaking invitations since quitting academe and starting a new life in the Lake District. In Oxford, he’d lost his zest for lecturing, but the sea of faces in front of him gave him that old adrenaline rush.

‘De Quincey wasn’t a monster, any more than people who enjoy a good murder — any more than Mr Wopsle in Great Expectations , or people flocking to watch The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo , are monsters. The world in general is, De Quincey said, bloody-minded. “All they want from murder is a copious effusion of blood … but the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste.” De Quincey was no different from me or you. We all like a good murder.’

He always made eye contact with his audience, and now his gaze was drawn to a woman in the front row. Wherever she’d sat, you couldn’t miss her. Not among the grey hair and cardigans, and not only because she was olive-skinned, not white. Glossy black hair, black eyes, high cheekbones. Her lipstick and nails were crimson, the silk blouse dazzling yellow. A tablet computer rested on her lap, but her tiny hands were motionless.

‘He was an eccentric, De Quincey, a mishmash of contradictions. A solitary soul who fathered eight children. A satirist with a morbid cast of mind. An addict who was also a notable journalist — though come to think of it, that might not be such a contradiction after all.’

The woman tapped into her tablet. Oops. For all Daniel knew, she worked for the Westmoreland Gazette , whose long ago editor was — Thomas De Quincey.

‘I’m not saying De Quincey lacked sympathy for victims of crime. He points out that Duncan’s graciousness, his unoffending nature, makes his murder in Macbeth all the more appalling. But what fired the man’s imagination was the nature of murder. Macbeth, and Lady Macbeth, intrigued him more than their victim. He was the first writer to focus on a burning question. A question that has fascinated people ever since.’

Daniel paused. The woman leant forward, lips slightly parted. Their eyes met.

‘The fundamental question about the ultimate crime. The question that haunts us all. Just what is it that drives someone to kill?’

As Daniel inscribed a hardback for the last woman in the queue, he spotted through the crowd the leonine hairstyle of Oz Knight. Tall, tanned and trim, he was making for the authors’ table. That hair was unmissable — waves so sweeping you could almost surf them. He wore a hand-tailored black jacket — Charvet, at a guess — and a white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. For a man close to fifty, his physique was enviable, and he relished giving people a chance to envy it.

‘A fabulous lecture, and an even more fabulous book! Treasure that personalised copy, madam, it’s one for the pension fund!’

Oz’s voice was melodious, if unnecessarily loud. A touch of humorous self-parody made his egotism almost tolerable. Yet it was lost on the woman, a slim redhead who was obviously no fan of chest hair. She rolled her eyes, and hurried off in search of refreshments.

‘Great audience today,’ Daniel said.

‘Sold every ticket months in advance!’ Oz gave a theatrical bow. Over-the-top dandyism was part of the package he’d constructed to create a high-profile business, the events management company which had organised this conference. A past master of the technique of persuasion, he was charming and persistent enough to tempt even Daniel to be a speaker. ‘But it’s not simply about putting bums on seats. It’s about creating a buzz, and a wonderful experience for everyone here. To miss the chance of talking about De Quincey in the village where he made his home would be — simply criminal.’