Martin Edwards: The Frozen Shroud

‘Certainly.’ Jeffrey leant closer, and lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps I just have an unfashionable belief that old sins cast long shadows.’

The trouble with actors, Daniel thought, was that they never stopped performing. As a student, he’d had a six-month relationship with a girl who was a star of the Dramatic Society, and he’d never been sure he really knew who she was. Giselle was sweet and pretty, but unpredictable, trying out personality traits like changes of clothes, forever agonising over which suited her best. She said actors needed to be a mass of contradictions, adaptable yet bloody-minded, sensitive yet thick-skinned. Wherever they went together, she watched people. Studying their turns of phrase and their body language. Trying to peer inside their minds. As Jeffrey Burgoyne was doing now.

‘Monday is Hallowe’en.’

‘Indeed. As it happens, Quin and I have been invited to a Hallowe’en party by Oz and Melody Knight. Their home, Ravenbank Hall, is magnificent. I’m sure they’d love you and your sister to come.’

‘Very good of you, but-’

‘You must say yes!’ Jeffrey Burgoyne boomed, before Daniel could invent an excuse to say no. ‘You’ll both have great fun. Besides, Quin is making his special recipe mulled wine, and that simply has to be tasted to be believed.’

‘Sounds terrific.’ Daniel had been introduced to Quin at the end of the conference. Young enough to be Jeffrey’s son, he was his partner in life as well as in the theatre company.

‘Believe me. And if all that isn’t enough, as an added bonus, we supply a Hallowe’en legend of our very own. A ghost story involving not one terrible crime, but two! Given your interest in the history of murder, you’ll find the story riveting.’

Daniel’s curiosity stirred. Maybe there was no need for an excuse to avoid a party with a bunch of Lakeland luvvies. His fascination with mysteries of the past had led him to become a historian, and make a career out of being inquisitive.

‘Tell me more.’

Jeffrey was in no hurry to spill the beans. Like any storyteller, he loved building suspense. ‘You live in Brackdale, I saw from your bio in the conference brochure. A fair stretch from Ullswater, but no need for you to drive home in the early hours. Stay overnight, we have two spare rooms. Save the misery of having to go easy on the booze.’

‘Louise went house-hunting in Glenridding last week.’

‘Oh goodness, we’re much further off the beaten track. I don’t expect you’ve visited Ravenbank?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘I haven’t lived in the Lake District for long, and Louise is an even more recent arrival.’

‘No need to sound apologetic, old fellow. I grew up in Carnforth, spent seven years at Sedbergh School, and moved to the Lake District after coming down from Peterhouse. Not good enough — one of my neighbours maintains I’m still an incomer. On her sixty-fifth birthday this summer, she was boasting that she’s never visited London, and a few months in Belfast are the closest she’s come to travelling overseas.’

‘If all you’ve ever known is the Lakes, you might decide there’s no need to settle for second best.’

Jeffrey chuckled. ‘You’re a man after old Miriam’s heart. She loves the place, insists the only way she’ll ever leave is when she’s carried out in her box. Mind you, Ravenbank is so isolated that plenty of born and bred Cumbrians have never made it that far. Frankly, it suits us to stay a well-kept secret, we’d hate to become the last leg of a tourist trail.’

‘I bet.’

‘Believe me, it is one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth …’ Jeffrey paused for five seconds, a performer to his fingertips. ‘Yet amazingly, Ravenbank has witnessed two savage murders.’

‘Statistically a rival for Baltimore, then?’

‘You’re teasing, Daniel, naughty, naughty. We even have our very own ghost. The Faceless Woman. All the best phantoms have a suitably macabre moniker, don’t you agree? Her real name was Gertrude Smith.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She was a young Scottish housemaid who worked at Ravenbank Hall before the First World War. The master of the house, a man called Hodgkinson, seduced her. Unfortunately, he had a mad wife who wasn’t confined to the attic. Letitia Hodgkinson found out about her husband’s affair, and on a suitably dark and stormy Hallowe’en, she crept up behind Gertrude, and knocked her down with a stone plucked from the rockery in the Hall grounds. Then she battered the young woman’s beautiful face into a pulp.’

On the far side of the bar, a man who’d had too much to drink guffawed at one of his own jokes. Daniel picked up a beer mat, and crumpled it in his palm without thinking. His mind was on the story.

‘Go on.’

‘When Gertrude’s body was discovered, her ruined face was covered with an old woollen blanket. It entered Ullswater’s folklore, as the Frozen Shroud.’

‘What happened to the wife?’

‘She committed suicide within hours of the murder, so there was no trial. The whole business was hushed up. Justice wasn’t seen to be done.’

‘It often isn’t.’

Jeffrey took another sip of gin and tonic. ‘Indeed. People were sorry for the Hodgkinsons’ daughter. Dorothy was only thirteen. Nobody cared much about Gertrude, the real victim. No wonder her spirit was restless. A story gained currency that each Hallowe’en, Gertrude would patrol the lane that leads to Ravenbank Hall, seeking retribution for the wrong done to her. Terrifying anyone who chanced upon her — because there was nothingness where there ought to be a face.’

‘Pity you and Quin haven’t managed to catch a glimpse of her.’

‘I’ll say! After the First World War, Ravenbank Hall became a care home run by a charity, but when it closed down, a wealthy hospital consultant turned it back into a private residence. His wife was the last person who saw Gertrude’s ghost. The Palladinos are dead now, but the legend persists.’

Daniel sat back, inhaling the Grim Reaper’s beery air. ‘And the second murder?’

‘Five years ago, and a strange echo of the first. Again, justice was cheated, and the man responsible never stood in the dock.’

Jeffrey Burgoyne lowered his voice, his manner unexpectedly intense. Impossible to picture this plump and pompous fellow, even in his younger days, as a leading man. But he was an accomplished actor.

‘Unfit to plead?’

‘No, Craig Meek died before the police caught up with him. His victim was an Australian woman. Flame-red hair, with a personality to match. Stunning, if your tastes ran in that direction, and plenty of men’s did. But then, a jaguar is a beautiful creature, isn’t it, until it rips out your throat?’

‘I’m guessing you weren’t a member of her fan club?’

‘She was out for herself, first, last and always. Her name was Shenagh Moss, and she liked to describe herself as a therapist with a speciality in massage.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Draw your own conclusions, and you won’t go far wrong. She spouted a lot of drivel about reiki therapy and heaven knows what. At least she was skilled enough to make an impressive conquest. Francis Palladino was more than twice her age, but shortly after they met, Shenagh moved in to Ravenbank Hall. Francis was an intelligent chap, but lonely. Strange to say it of a successful man with pots of money, but he was vulnerable.’

‘Where did Meek fit in?’

‘He was one of Shenagh’s former lovers. His name was misleading — he had a violent temper, and had recently served time for GBH. He ran a club in Penrith, but he ended up bankrupt after fiddling his tax. Shenagh had a fling with him, but when she moved on, he felt betrayed.’