Martin Edwards: The Frozen Shroud

Daniel had woken up wishing he’d never agreed to take part. The conference had seemed like a good idea at the time — but why return to a past he’d escaped? Yet he’d enjoyed the day, and the audience’s enthusiasm gave him a buzz. Now he wanted to unwind.

‘It was fun.’

‘Now, it just so happens that one of my clients is recruiting speakers for a month-long luxury cruise. Sail from Southampton to the Caribbean, the itinerary is incredible. Money no object for the right lecturers, and invitations are only going to Europe’s leading-’

Daniel held up his hand. ‘Stop right there! I’ve not been bitten by the bug all over again, you know. Today’s a one-off. When I quit the television series, I decided-’

‘Of course. I understand. You moved to the Lakes for a reason. Forgive me, I should never have mentioned it.’ A smile flashed, vivid as lightning. ‘You won’t blame me for trying, I hope?’

‘No problem.’

‘I’ll leave you to head back for the green room and a well-deserved break. I must find my wife. We need to schmooze the sponsors.’ Oz clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Forget what I said about the cruise, it was crass of me. A colossal opportunity, incredible exposure, and an itinerary to die for, but you don’t want to spend your life back on the treadmill, do you? The global speaker circuit. You have other fish to fry. Fame and money aren’t everything, you’re absolutely right. Catch you later, eh?’

Oz waltzed off, leaving Daniel — probably like most people he talked to — feeling his head had been pummelled. He doubted he’d heard the last of this cruise; it felt more like the opening skirmish in a campaign destined to become a battle of wills. Was this what it was like to fall prey to an accomplished seducer? Oz was legendary for his conquests, in his private life even more than in business; Daniel had asked around, after Oz made his original approach, and persisted after being turned down flat. The gossip was that he’d run wild until, at forty, he’d tied the knot with a girl who worked for his company. Not that marriage had cramped his style.

Money, Daniel presumed, made up for a lot, along with the mansion on Ullswater and holiday homes in Mykonos and Zermatt. One other thing he’d learnt was that Oz stood, not for Oswald, or even Osbert, but for Ozymandias. For God’s sake, what sort of parents would do that to a child? No wonder he had a healthy self-image, he’d have needed it to cope with the mockery at school.

He watched Oz greet the olive-skinned woman from the front row. They embraced, and Daniel noticed the woman’s wedding ring. So that was Melody Knight. As she held forth, Oz listened without a word. The king of kings had transformed into a dutiful husband.

Daniel squeezed into a seat where he could listen to the last presentation of the day. The speaker was Jeffrey Burgoyne, his topic the supernatural stories of Hugh Walpole. In the green room, Jeffrey had proposed a quick drink at the end of the day. He described himself as a jobbing actor, part of a two-man theatre company, and lived in Ravenbank, like Oz and Melody Knight.

Jeffrey didn’t stand at the lectern, or bother with notes. He strode up to the edge of the platform, determined to hold the audience in the palm of his hand. Overweight and red-faced, he looked more like a gentleman farmer than the Lake District’s answer to Kenneth Branagh. But he had presence.

‘When I listened to Daniel talking about Thomas De Quincey,’ he said, ‘I was reminded in a strange way of Hugh Walpole. Once the poor devil was a household name, now he’s forgotten. If people think of him at all, they pigeonhole him as a writer of sugary Lakeland sagas. Look beyond the Herries Chronicles, and you see a man who led a weird life, and wrote even weirder stories. If you fancy a masterpiece of the macabre, read Walpole’s last novel. A landmark in psychological suspense, yet few people know it. It was only published after he died, and it’s called … The Killer and the Slain.’

You could tell Burgoyne was an actor. This wasn’t so much a talk as a performance. Daniel saw Melody Knight note the book’s title.

‘As with De Quincey, the contradictions are mesmerising. Walpole lived in Brackenburn, his “little paradise on Cat Bells”. He designed his own lovely terraced garden, and was a generous host to everyone from J.B. Priestley to Arthur Ransome. He had the gift of friendship. Sadly, he also had a fatal flaw. He wanted everybody to love him.’

Jeffrey cleared his throat. ‘There was a dark side to Walpole. Something deeply unhappy about … the way he felt the need to keep so many secrets. When he proposed to a girl, he was heartily relieved when she turned him down. Even after his death, his biographer was tediously discreet. All he said was that Walpole found visits to Turkish Baths provided “informal opportunities for meeting interesting strangers”. But his stories give us clues to the terrors that came to him at night. He was obsessed with ghosts.’

The supernatural sparked Walpole’s imagination, Jeffrey said. In one story, a woman is condemned to spend her last days in the company of a clown’s mask, grinning at her in derision.

‘And then there is my favourite.’ Jeffrey beamed. ‘Shameless plug coming up, by the way, for the Ravenbank Theatre Company. Our latest production combines a trio of macabre stories, linked together like that wonderful old movie Dead of Night . We’re touring venues across the North, starting next week, with our premiere in Keswick, at the Theatre by the Lake. We call the show Tarnhelm after Walpole’s finest supernatural tale. Who knows, it might become the new The Woman in Black ! But I’m not going to spoil things by telling you much more …’

He beamed, allowing himself a suitably histrionic pause. ‘Except to say that the stories we’ve chosen are sure to make your flesh creep. Like “Lost Hearts” by M.R. James, about a young boy sent to stay with a cousin, a reclusive alchemist obsessed with making himself immortal. “The Voice in the Night” describes a sailor’s dreadful encounter with a mysterious oarsman. But my favourite is “Tarnhelm”, based on a legend of terrible misdeeds. Tarnhelm is a skullcap. Put it on your head, and it works a sort of magic. At once, you become an animal. And you become as wild as the animal you want to be.’

‘Time to come clean, Daniel. Do you believe in ghosts?’

Jeffrey Burgoyne’s voice penetrated the hubbub in the crowded bar. The Solitary Reaper took its name from Wordsworth’s poem, and was one of the busiest pubs in Grasmere, as well as the tiniest. People in the village nicknamed it the Grim Reaper, as oxygen was usually in short supply.

Daniel swallowed a mouthful of Old Speckled Hen. ‘I’m a sucker for stories of the uncanny. I must read The Killer and the Slain .’

‘Indeed you must, but that’s still an evasive answer. You sound more like a lawyer than that sister of yours.’ He waved a fleshy hand in the direction of Louise Kind, deep in conversation at a nearby table. ‘Nail your colours to the mast! You say a historian needs to dig up facts, like a sort of scholarly archaeologist. I bet you don’t think there’s enough hard evidence to justify a belief in ghosts — am I right?’

‘If you’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have said so.’

Jeffrey Burgoyne’s protuberant eyes scrutinised him from behind rimless spectacles. The loud, plummy voice, striped blazer and MCC tie suggested a cricket spectator from the fifties. Fixing a stern gaze on Daniel, he morphed into counsel for the prosecution.

‘But now you’re not so sure?’

Daniel gave a lazy grin. ‘The older I get, the less sure I am about anything. What about you, Jeffrey? You believe in the returning dead?’