Martin Edwards - The Frozen Shroud

‘Me too.’

‘You look thrilled with my schedule. That’s wonderful, people usually groan and roll their eyes.’ She waved to a desk piled high with leather-bound journals and commanding a view of Fitz Park, still green despite the time of year. ‘I’ve reserved you a place, and the first ten volumes are waiting there for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it, and carry on writing out labels for packing cases.’

Too right, he was thrilled. He’d suspected that a studious Edwardian like Jones might have kept a diary, but had hardly dared hope that it had been preserved, and found its way into the archive bequeathed to the museum. Feeling like a prospector panning for gold, he sat down to read.

The eureka moment came twenty minutes later. His cry of delight had heads turning in bewilderment.

He didn’t care — where better for a historian to make an exhibition of himself than in a museum? At last he’d found the truth about the Faceless Woman.

‘So the answer was lying in the archives of Keswick Museum all the time?’

Hannah bit off some pitta bread. They’d found a quiet corner in the theatre’s cafe. Daniel looked and sounded exhilarated, more so than she’d ever seen before. Despite the aching void created by Terri’s death, her own spirits were lifting. His gift for communicating his passion for historical research must have inspired countless students, let alone telly viewers. Now she had him all to herself, and she was determined to make the most of it.

‘Archives are treasure trove, you never know what you may turn up.’

‘Thousand to one chance, though?’

‘No, the odds weren’t as long as you’d think. Lita at the museum checked the terms of Roland’s bequest. Apparently, he added a codicil to his will a week before his death, saying that the diaries should be included in the papers given to the museum.’

‘Why not tell what he knew much sooner? Come to that, what exactly did he know?’

‘He had precious little evidence. The question is, what did he believe, what did he work out for himself over a period of time? Remember, I’ve only read segments of the diaries so far, but enough to piece his story together.’

She leant towards him. ‘Okay, you’ve built the tension to fever pitch, I can’t bear it any longer.’

He teased her by taking a mouthful of spiced falafel, followed by a swig from a glass of sparkling water, before uttering another word.

‘When Roland Jones arrived at Ravenbank to take up his teaching duties, he was twenty-four years old. After public school, he’d studied English at Cambridge, and was a devotee of Robert Southey. A comfortable and sheltered life, with minimal experience of the opposite sex. My impression is of a reserved, academic type, a decent young man who seemed aloof unless you got to know him.’

‘And you think you’ve got to know him?’

He took another sip from his glass, milking the suspense, but Hannah suppressed her impatience. It was no hardship to let his warm, husky voice wash over her.

‘When you read someone’s private thoughts, you develop a personal connection to them. He was writing for himself, not posterity. Describing his daily life, as he experienced it, without the benefit of hindsight or the wisdom of experience. That’s why I find archives so fascinating. Southey fans who want to see how Roland pieced together his thoughts on their hero will love wading through the notes he made for his book. But reading his own private diaries is like peeking over his shoulder.’

He held her gaze for a moment before looking away, as if suddenly embarrassed by his excitement. There was something she found intensely attractive about a man with a thirst for knowledge. Marc’s obsessive love of books had been — she realised now — a huge part of his appeal, even though she would still rather read a pristine trade paperback than a grubby first edition.

‘Please, go on.’

‘Coming to a remote spot to teach a rich man’s daughter, he expected to have plenty of time to indulge his interest in literary research. He didn’t bargain for falling head over heels for a pretty young servant, but that’s what happened.’

‘And did she fall for him?’

‘Tricky question. I’ve spent the morning immersed in Roland’s inner life, and it’s tempting to see her through his eyes. He needed to be discreet, which complicated his pursuit of Gertrude, even though he was crazy about her. It wasn’t the done thing for a young girl’s private tutor to fall for a housemaid. Mind you, I bet he was more transparent than he realised, and that everyone at the Hall knew how the land lay. But although she was flattered by his attentions, she was aiming higher.’

‘She made a play for Hodgkinson?’

‘She figured out she could do better for herself than a gauche young academic. Day after day, poor Roland frets about her increasingly distant manner. She became reluctant to pass the time of day with him, let alone allow him to take any liberties. He was hopeless at reading between the lines.’

‘How did he get on with the Hodgkinsons?’

‘He gave Letty a wide berth. Her mood swings made him wary, though he mentions her devotion to Dorothy more than once. No hint that she was equally devoted to her husband. The marriage had soured long before Roland came on the scene. Letty had said some unpleasant things which caused his predecessor to walk out. A successful entrepreneur like Hodgkinson must have hated the situation. He was a winner, and a mentally screwed-up wife dented his image. Dorothy was a conscientious student, but Roland never warmed to her. She frustrated him because, he said, she lacked a sufficiently enquiring mind.’

‘A plodder, in other words.’

Daniel was enjoying telling the story. Leaning back in his chair, using his slim hands to emphasise points, relishing the role of raconteur.

‘She committed the cardinal sin of disliking Southey’s poetry, and to make matters worse, she idolised her father, whereas Roland found him overbearing and self-important. To him, Hodgkinson didn’t deserve Dorothy’s adulation — he showered her with expensive presents, in lieu of spending quality time with her. What Roland didn’t realise was how, exactly, Hodgkinson was spending his time.’

‘By seducing Gertrude?’

‘The affair seems to have been taking place under Roland’s nose for weeks, yet he never got wind of it.’

‘How did he find out?’

‘Dorothy told him.’

Hannah put down her knife and fork. ‘You mean, she egged him on to kill Gertrude?’

‘Hey, don’t jump to conclusions.’ He grinned. ‘And don’t steal my thunder. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to reveal a murderer’s identity in a conversation with a DCI.’

‘Your dad would have been proud,’ she laughed.

‘The day Gertrude died, Dorothy didn’t show up for her first lesson. She was invariably punctual, so Roland went to search for her. He found her near the boathouse, crying her eyes out. When he’d calmed her, she said she’d overheard a row between her parents. Clifford had told Letty that he was leaving her — and Dorothy. He and Gertrude were lovers, they used Beck Cottage — which was newly built and unoccupied — for their trysts. Now she was expecting his baby, and he was going to sell his business and the Ravenbank estate, and make a new life with her.’

‘Quite a bombshell. How did Roland take it?’

‘He wrote up his journal that same night. He said he found it almost impossible not to burst into tears himself. All he could do was to have it out with Gertrude. Which he promptly did.’

Hannah groaned. ‘With disastrous results?’

‘You said it. She gave him a severe kicking. According to her, Hodgkinson was putty in her hands. She’d always wanted a baby, and now she would not only achieve her ambition, but live in luxury to the end of her days. She was determined that Hodgkinson must drive a hard bargain with Letty. She and Dorothy would have enough to live on, but not a great deal more.’