Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘That’s appalling. She was a victim, like Gertrude.’

‘Dorothy’s solution was to involve herself with good works. Over the years, she became a mover and shaker in the charitable world. Her death notice listed a dozen pet causes, ranging from the Cat Bells Climbing Society to the RSPCA. I’ve seen her photograph — hair in a bun, gimlet eye, hatchet chin. A formidable character, and it sounds like she put a few noses out of joint along the way.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘One or two of the tributes sounded double-edged. Plenty of talk about her strength and her iron will, nothing about her compassion or generosity of spirit. Her climbing days came to an abrupt end when she fell off Helvellyn and broke her back. Her doctors said she’d be crippled for life, but she taught herself to walk again. If she set out to win people’s respect, rather than their love, she achieved her aim.’

‘But she failed to clear her mother’s name.’

‘She may have decided it was too late, even before her path crossed again with Roland’s.’

‘Strange how things come round full circle.’ Just as she’d learnt about police work from Ben Kind, and now she was talking murder with his son.

‘Yes, the Ravenbank Trust, which ran the home, was wound up when it merged with a bigger charity. The Hall was too remote for it to be easy for people to visit residents, especially in winter. So Francis Palladino bought it and turned it back into a private home. The Trust’s main aim had been to look after patients with serious lung diseases, and towards the end of his life, Roland suffered from emphysema. That’s why he finished up at Ravenbank.’

‘So Dorothy was involved with the Trust?’

‘She chaired the board of trustees. The fact that her father had died of TB, and that the Trust owned her old home meant it was a cause dear to her heart.’

‘Must have been a shock, seeing Roland Jones there. A face from the past.’

‘A real-life ghost, yes.’

‘If Roland killed Gertrude — in a fit of jealous passion, say, because of her affair with Hodgkinson, or her pregnancy, or both — he may have been ready to make a deathbed confession.’

‘Miriam didn’t hear it.’

‘But did she say he didn’t confess? If he did, Dorothy may have decided to do nothing about it. The satisfaction of being sure that her mother wasn’t a murderer may have been enough.’

Daniel finished his drink. ‘Suppose there’s a totally different explanation.’

‘Such as?’

‘What if Dorothy and Roland shared a secret? That Gertrude was killed by Dorothy’s father?’

Lying in bed, Hannah found sleep elusive. What happened at Ravenbank a century ago would tell her nothing about Terri’s murder, but wrestling with the puzzle offered a form of escapism. Had Clifford Hodgkinson murdered Gertrude Smith, and then committed the ultimate betrayal, allowing his wife to commit suicide and posthumously take the blame for his crime?

Daniel’s suggestion had startled her. ‘What’s your evidence?’

‘Give me a break. It’s a century-old mystery. It’s asking a bit much to crack it in twenty-four hours.’

She’d had to laugh. ‘Sorry. Once a police officer, always a police officer.’

‘I’m the first to admit, it’s pure guesswork.’

‘If you’re right, and Roland Jones knew that Clifford Hodgkinson killed the woman he’d loved, why keep his mouth shut all those years?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t have any evidence, either. Or perhaps he kept quiet for his pupil’s sake. Bad enough to lose one parent through suicide — for the other to be hanged would be the stuff of nightmares.’

‘You’re sure Letty did commit suicide?’ It was almost a game. So very different from a savage killing in the here and now. ‘Suppose Hodgkinson poisoned her …’

‘If only I could track down Letty’s suicide note. But none of the newspaper accounts of the case shed light on what it said.’

‘If Clifford was the killer, and Dorothy guessed as much, it might explain why she didn’t campaign to clear Letty’s name.’

‘Precisely. Not much reputational benefit in having an innocent mum if you wind up with a guilty dad.’

‘Was reputation all she cared about?’

‘I may be doing her an injustice, but the signs are that she enjoyed having her photograph in the local press, opening a youth club or day centre, or whatever it might be. The glow that gave her was a payback for all the time and effort she put in.’

A woman like Dorothy must have hated being typecast as the daughter of a killer, Hannah thought. The Faceless Woman had become a legend, the Frozen Shroud part of Lakeland folklore. No wonder she’d done her best to build a life in which she commanded respect. If not, perhaps, love.

She shifted under the duvet. The bed was comfortable, and she felt exhausted, but her mind couldn’t stop roaming. What motive could Clifford have for killing Gertrude? Suppose she’d got above herself, and started making demands that he couldn’t or wouldn’t meet. Even if Roland was the father of her unborn child, Clifford might not know the truth. What if she wanted him to dump his mentally disturbed wife, and make his pretty young mistress the second Mrs Hodgkinson? She might have tried her hand at a spot of blackmail. Hard to see the prosperous businessman reacting well to pressure from a servant. In those days, rich men shagged the staff, but rarely married them. You didn’t need to be a professional historian to know that.

Or perhaps Gertrude had fallen for Roland Jones, and Clifford had taken it badly. Suppose she’d mocked his lovemaking, or she told him they were running away to start a new life together. He might have erupted with jealous rage.

Murder had so many motives. Her thoughts drifted back towards the one question that she meant to answer, whatever it took. Even as she drifted to sleep at last, her fuddled brain could not let it go.

Terri never harmed anyone. So why would someone want to murder her?

Next morning, Hannah was up at six. Fog was forecast, and the journey through the twisting lanes of Brackdale was bound to take an age. When she opened the bedroom curtains, Tarn Fell was invisible, and she could barely see the spiky branches of the monkey puzzle, poking through the mist.

She and the Kinds had croissants and coffee together before going their separate ways. Louise was scheduled for a teaching day, and Daniel was due back at Ravenbank for his lunch with Oz and Melody.

‘Let’s speak at the end of the afternoon,’ she said, buttoning her coat. ‘I’m not asking you to spy on your friends, but …’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do to find out what happened to Terri, I will do. Promise.’

They brushed each other’s cheeks with a kiss. He smelt good; his aftershave had the faintest tang of citrus. She picked up her case, and hurried out into the cold without a backward glance.

Greg Wharf found her at the water cooler five minutes after she arrived at Divisional HQ. His eyes travelled up and down her body, more out of habit than lust, she thought. His mood seemed to match the weather.

‘What’s this I hear about that shit who killed Terri? Word on the street is that Fern’s bottled out of charging him.’

‘She’s never bottled out of anything in her life. It looks like he was set up. Someone nicked Terri’s phone and texted him to come to Ravenbank in the small hours after the Hallowe’en party.’

‘You can’t be serious. Why would anyone other than Deyna want to hurt her?’

‘If Fern knew that, she’d have made an arrest by now.’

A theatrical noise of despair. ‘I hope she knows what she’s doing.’

‘You can bet on it.’