Martin Edwards: The Frozen Shroud

‘Exactly.’

‘Unless the offer to buy was a sham, to cover his tracks.’ Fern ingested the last piece of chocolate, and leant back in her chair, well-fed and content. ‘If he simply couldn’t face losing Shenagh …’

‘What about Melody’s motive? Shenagh had shagged her husband, and even thought the affair was supposed to be over, Oz was still slavering after the woman. You’d have to be a saint not to be pissed off.’

‘If Oz had offered to buy the Hall, she must have known Shenagh would soon be out of temptation’s way, on the other side of the world. The same goes for Jeffrey Burgoyne. You say Daniel has some evidence that Jeffrey has a violent streak, and he was jealous because Quin had something going with Shenagh. But Shenagh wasn’t going to stick around much longer.’

Hannah switched on the coffee maker while Fern replenished her glass. ‘Perhaps he simply lost the plot. It happens.’

‘Yeah, murder is a desperate act, but don’t forget, there are different kinds of desperation. Whoever killed Shenagh did a fair amount of planning. Especially as regards luring Craig Meek to the scene.’

‘From the notes I’ve seen, I’m not clear whether he received a call or text to his mobile, in the same way as Stefan.’

‘Pass.’ Fern shook her head. ‘I’ll check, but I’m not sure we ever worked that out.’

‘You take the point?’ Hannah took a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. ‘It’s hard to see why Jeffrey Burgoyne would kill her in that particular way.’

‘Isn’t he a ghost story fan? He fancied imitating the legend of the Frozen Shroud.’

Hannah thought about it. ‘Yes, that makes psychological sense. But it’s equally true of Quin. Suppose Shenagh’s decision to waltz off to Australia tipped him over the edge. He couldn’t face losing her, so he killed her. Murder’s often paradoxical.’

‘Can’t get my head round that.’ Fern grunted. ‘How about Robin Park? I mean, I know he was Terri’s squeeze, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have a guilty past. Suppose he was a secret admirer of Shenagh’s, who couldn’t handle rejection? If he let something slip to Terri …’

‘Hard to see it.’ Hannah poured the coffee, while Fern emptied what was left in the Chablis bottle into her glass, downing it in one. As they moved into the living room, she continued, ‘Robin’s a mummy’s boy. Beneath the charm lurks a spoilt kid’s ego, I’m sure. If Shenagh snubbed him, he’d have taken it hard. But there’s no evidence he took a serious interest in her — is there?’

‘He denied they ever got beyond low-key flirting.’ Fern’s amiable expression hardened. ‘Then again, he would, wouldn’t he? For Shenagh, Miriam Park was a sort of mother-substitute. What if that made Robin jealous?’

‘I doubt he’s that unbalanced, frankly. But I can’t see from Les’s notes whether he had any sort of alibi for Shenagh’s murder?’

‘Only what you’d expect. He and his mother were living together in Beck Cottage. She said she was a light sleeper, and she’d have heard if Robin had been up and about that night. It’s a tiny place, and all the floorboards creak. But he’s her son, her only child. She’s bound to want to protect him. The so-called alibi wasn’t remotely watertight.’

‘Whereas Jeffrey and Quin presumably swore they spent the night in bed together.’

‘You presume right.’ Fern yawned. ‘God, I’m shattered. Early night for me, kid. As for Quinlan and Burgoyne, if one of them did kill Shenagh, the other knows the truth, and helped in a cover-up.’

The wine and the warmth from the fire were making Hannah drowsy too. The fog was as thick inside her brain as outside Undercrag.

‘But?’

‘But as of this moment, the smart money has to be on Oz Knight. He murdered Shenagh in a fit of passion, and then Terri came across something — maybe through working for the man — that incriminated him.’ Fern scowled at the flames. ‘So he didn’t dare let her live, and tried to frame Deyna just as he’d done with Craig Meek. When we released Deyna, he saw the writing on the wall.’

She drank a mouthful of coffee before adding in a savage undertone, ‘Pity they rescued him.’

Keswick Museum called itself ‘a cabinet of curiosities’, and with good reason. A late Victorian building in the arts-and-crafts style, it housed a bizarre and extraordinarily diverse collection, ranging from Musical Stones and a man-trap to a giant cobra skin and a skeleton of a cat that was nearly seven hundred years old. The Robert Southey archive was its most extensive special collection of manuscripts, letters, maps and other documents, but there was also a wealth of material concerning De Quincey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Walpole, Rawnsley, and Ruskin. Daniel had first visited the museum while researching De Quincey for The Hell Within , and promptly fell under its spell. Every time he turned his head, something different caught his eye.

‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ Lita Bosman, the Principal Archivist, pushed a hand through her frizzy dark hair. ‘Talk about leaving it to the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour.’

He grinned. After Oz Knight’s brush with death on Ullswater, returning to the calmer waters of historic research was a joy. This morning, the mist clinging to the valley of Brackdale had little in common with the opaque grey morass of last night. He’d crawled home from Ravenbank along the endless winding roads at little more than walking pace, and by the time he reached Tarn Cottage, he was fit for nothing except bed.

‘You close on Monday?’

‘Yep, and we’ve barely started packing. The weekend’s gonna be a write-off. Nightmare!’

The Heritage Lottery Fund had coughed up a couple of million to fund a refurbishment that would bring the museum into the twenty-first century, and Lita and her colleagues were determined that modernisation would not affect its character and charm. A likeable South African from Kimberley in Cape Province, Lita had fallen in love with the Lakes while studying at Lancaster Uni, and her passion for the museum was fierce and unyielding.

‘Thanks for sparing your time when you’re up to your eyes.’

‘No problem, Daniel, though I can’t imagine why you’ve jilted old Thomas in favour of Southey?’

‘Long story,’ he grinned.

‘Me, I prefer Coleridge. So you want to inspect what Roland Jones donated to the museum? Trust me, there was a shedload of material. You’ll need to be selective if you’re not planning on an overnight stay.’ She handed him a couple of sheets of paper. ‘I printed off this schedule of documents. You said you were keen to read any diaries he may have left. This lot will keep you out of mischief.’

‘You’re a star.’

On the phone, she’d said she was sure there were personal diaries among all Roland Jones’s working papers covering everything and anything to do with Southey. Holding his breath, he scanned the long list of items. ‘Is this right? “Private Journals, 1910 to 1974”?’

She hooted with laughter. ‘Yeah. Donors are often — shall I say overgenerous? They don’t just leave essential manuscripts, but reams of peripheral stuff as well. When we receive gifts by way of a legacy, the executors are usually desperate to wrap up the estate, and they throw in the kitchen sink.’

‘You’re not tempted to refuse?’

‘I’m just a girl who can’t say no,’ she sang. ‘As you well know, there’s always the outside chance of finding a nugget in amongst the dross. Not that we can possibly sift through everything ourselves. I’m a custodian, not a researcher. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to delve into the detail to prepare a catalogue or exhibition. Otherwise, we just make sure everything is carefully preserved in case one day it comes in useful. We can’t afford to get too engrossed. Not that I’m complaining, I’m a hoarder by nature.’