Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘You believe the murder was premeditated?’ Louise’s eyes widened. ‘Someone wanted to make Stefan a scapegoat?’

‘Just like Craig Meek.’ Daniel said. ‘And possibly like Letty Hodgkinson, all those years ago.’

‘I’m not saying there wasn’t an element of opportunism, taking advantage of Robin’s illness. Did anything unexpected happen at the party?’

‘Nothing,’ Daniel said. ‘As you’d expect from a couple who specialise in events management, Oz and Melody are very good hosts. They’ve invited me back to the Hall tomorrow.’

‘Really?’

‘Melody rang. She and Oz are still reeling from the shock of Terri’s murder. I told her I was researching the Gertrude Smith case, and she invited me over for lunch.’

Hannah sipped her wine, thinking about what Josh and Fern had said. Was it possible that Oz Knight had fancied Terri, and been so jealous of her relationship with Robin that he’d begun to stalk her? Or had Melody been the jealous one?

‘I find it so hard to believe someone we met that night could do such a thing,’ Louise said. ‘Everyone we met was pleasant company. No deranged lunatics, no monsters. What would drive an ordinary person, not only to kill Terri, but also to disfigure her so horribly?’

Hannah forced herself not to think about the damage done to Terri’s lovely face. She didn’t care whether Stefan was responsible, or one of the supposedly pleasant partygoers. Never would she rest until the killer paid the price. It wasn’t simply a matter of doing justice. Her grief was so raw that she wanted revenge. She caught Daniel’s eye, and felt herself blushing. It was as if he could read her mind.

‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘let’s not talk any more about murder, shall we?’

‘What you mean is,’ Louise said, ‘you don’t want to be distracted while you gorge on your Chateaubriand.’

He grinned at Hannah. ‘Can’t get away with anything, can I?’

The moment they arrived back at Tarn Cottage, Daniel brought out a bottle of cognac. Not Hannah’s favourite tipple, and it was years since she’d last tasted the stuff, but she let him fill her glass to the brim.

‘Tell me about your day,’ she said, curling up in the vast armchair like a well-fed cat. After feasting at the Brack Arms, she felt as though she’d put on half a stone. Worth it, though. And the brandy tasted silk-smooth. ‘What news of Gertrude Smith?’

‘We agreed we wouldn’t discuss murder any more.’

‘Terri’s murder is one thing. Gertrude Smith’s is different. None of the people involved is alive. It’s much more remote. What Miriam Park overheard seems like a puzzle, a challenge to be solved.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve been piecing scraps of information together about the dramatis personae . I found some titbits at the Armitt this morning, and a few more this afternoon in Kendal. The Carnegie Library holds the archives of most of the county’s old newspapers.’

‘And?’

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ he said with a grin. ‘Then I’ll begin.’

His sister contrived an elaborate yawn. ‘I’ve already heard the edited highlights. To be honest, I’m knackered, must be delayed reaction after the horrors of yesterday. Daniel, you finish off my brandy. I’ll … leave you two to it. Goodnight.’

Her parting smile was almost as suggestive as Efthalia’s. As the door closed behind her, Daniel uttered a low groan.

‘Sorry about that. You’ll have gathered, Louise fancies herself as a matchmaker. Worst possible timing, and horribly embarrassing. She’s not usually this insensitive. Just ignore her.’

The food and the cognac and the company had mellowed Hannah. Just as well, after recent events. Not that she was mellow enough to make a fool of herself with a man twice in quick succession. She waved away his apology.

‘Louise has been great. I’m just interested to hear about your researches.’

He cleared his throat. ‘It wasn’t hard to put together biographies for Roland Jones or Dorothy Hodgkinson. They were both sufficiently well known to merit obituaries in the local press. Roland made quite a name for himself as an educator, and specifically for writing about Robert Southey. I guess he was drawn to the Lakes by his love of one of its major poets.’

‘I don’t know much more about Southey than his name.’

‘Most people don’t, but he was a celebrity in his day. Chum of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and a radical supporter of the French Revolution who mutated into a pillar of the establishment. So much so that he became Poet Laureate. His sarcastic line “’twas a famous victory” belongs to one of the first anti-war poems ever written. He recognised Charlotte Bronte’s talents, but told her a woman shouldn’t pursue a literary career. Shades of the guy who said The Beatles would never amount to much.’

‘Any idea why Southey’s work appealed to Roland Jones?’

‘I’m sure it’s because they were both romantics. I’ve not read Roland’s book about Southey, but a Google search suggests it’s devoted to the poems, not his biographies or his politics. Unlike Southey, Roland never married.’

‘Gay?’

‘Not necessarily. What if he never got over the death of Gertrude Smith?’

‘You think he was tormented by guilt after killing her?’

‘It’s possible. Or he may simply have been devastated by the loss of someone he adored. Grief takes people in different ways.’

‘Like guilt,’ she said softly.

‘Immediately after his wife committed suicide, Clifford Hodgkinson sent his daughter to stay with relations in Pickering, in North Yorkshire. Roland was out of a job, but once war broke out, his life changed forever. He joined the Army, but although he was a member of the officer class, he didn’t hide away at a safe distance from the enemy lines while his men were blown to smithereens. By the time he was severely wounded in heavy shelling, he’d twice been decorated for bravery. As soon as he was discharged from hospital, he returned to the Somme, where he promptly lost a leg and almost died. Only then was he invalided out for good.’

‘Losing Gertrude may have made him reckless whether he lived or died.’

‘Again, that could be due to grief or guilt.’

Hannah pictured those young men in France, risking sudden death or catastrophic injury, while fighting over a few inconsequential yards of muddy and featureless land.

‘What a transition. From teaching a thirteen-year-old girl in a comfortable rural environment, to the terror of the trenches.’

He nodded. ‘After the war, he met Charlotte Mason, and worked at her House of Education in Ambleside, training governesses in Charlotte’s philosophy of teaching. Later, he was a senior master at a number of small private schools in Cumberland and Westmorland, and found time to turn his love of Southey’s lyrical ballads into a book. Despite his wartime injuries, he lived into his late eighties.’

‘And he and Dorothy met just before he died.’

‘I’ll come on to that. The first major event in her life after Gertrude’s murder was the death of her father. Clifford sank his fortune into the Ravenbank project, and when it collapsed, he had to sell the Hall to stave off his creditors. He died of TB not long afterwards. A life insurance payout meant Dorothy had no need to dirty her hands with a job, or feel compelled to find a rich husband. She became a lady of leisure, passionate about climbing and walking the fells. All the same, she bore a stigma. The daughter of a woman who had murdered her father’s mistress won’t have been regarded as absolutely respectable.’

Hannah savoured her brandy. The fire was blazing, the cottage was snug, and this seriously charming guy had turned into her own personal storyteller. How long was it since she’d last felt so much at ease with herself, and with a man?