Martin Edwards - The Hanging Wood

The Tickled Trout was an upmarket pub-restaurant down the road from Ambleside. Last January, in the car park on the other side of the window he was facing now, Daniel had kissed Hannah for the one and only time. He hadn’t planned it, and neither had she. But Marc found out about their meeting, and soon all hell broke loose, and Hannah found herself personally ensnared in a case of multiple murder. Louise didn’t know the full story about Marc and Hannah, and at times she seemed to take it personally that her brother was testing her patience. In her black-and-white lawyer’s mind, Daniel was wimping out of the chance of happiness when he should have moved on from Aimee’s death and the mistake that had been Miranda.

Must it always be this way between siblings? He cared for Louise more than anyone in the world, yet sometimes he wondered why sororicide was rare. Probably she was tempted to fratricide once in a while. Now their adolescent arguments were a fading memory, they would fight to protect each other, but prolonged exposure to each other’s company sometimes stretched their nerves to breaking point.

Daniel savoured the taste of toffee. Clearly Aslan had taken the job at St Herbert’s with a view to getting to know his sister, and picking the right moment to introduce himself to his father. Lane End Farm was a good size and located in a beautiful part of Britain. It must be worth plenty, even in these straitened times, and Aslan would be more interested in money than orchestrating a sentimental family reunion. But Michael Hinds’ reputation was as Cumbria’s very own Mr Angry. Had Aslan provoked his father to such rage that he’d committed another of those rare — you might be tempted to say, astonishingly rare — crimes: filicide?

Louise put down her spoon and narrowed her eyes. ‘You look as though you’ve wandered into a different country. What’s going on in that brain of yours?’

‘I’m thinking about families, what holds them together, what drives them apart.’

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. ‘We’re hardly experts on family life, you and me, after what happened with Dad.’

‘Or maybe we are. We’ve seen the ups and downs, more than most.’

‘I don’t remember that many ups after Dad walked out on us.’ She frowned. ‘Yet Hannah cared for him. I bet she sees something of you in him.’

‘I’m nothing like him. He was a hardened cop, spent his life turning over stones and seeing what lay beneath. Dangerous work. Academe is cosy, you know yourself — the main risk is RSI from writing too many articles in learned journals that hardly anybody wants to read.’

‘You are absolutely like him,’ she said. ‘Neither of you could ever let go without finding what you were looking for. My only question is this — have you any idea what you are looking for?’

St Herbert’s was open to residents and Friends of the Library and their guests on Sundays, and when Daniel said that he wanted to call in, Louise insisted on coming along for the ride. Whatever she said, she was every bit as nosey as him. Driving past the narrow reservoir of Thirlmere, he listened to the news on local radio. The main story was the discovery of a man’s body at a farm near Keswick, but he was not named.

‘You think you know who it is?’ Louise asked.

The road was clear, and he put his foot down. ‘Hope to God I’m wrong, but …’

Soon they were parking at St Herbert’s. As they jumped out of the car, Daniel spotted Micah Bridge trudging towards the front entrance. The principal’s stoop was more pronounced than ever, and as they came up to him, a defeated look clouded his watery eyes. Daniel felt a gnawing sadness. Aslan may not have matched the profile of the typical habitue of St Herbert’s, but he’d been young and full of life. Less than a week ago, he’d shinned down that drainpipe from the parapet up on the first floor, seemingly without a care in the world. To picture him lying on a mortuary slab made Daniel’s stomach churn. No matter what Louise said, he could never have done his father’s job. How had the old man coped, dealing with violence as a way of life?

After introducing Louise, he said, ‘This latest death at Lane End Farm …’

Speaking in little more than a whisper, the principal said, ‘The victim is Aslan Sheikh, he was murdered. Daniel, I can scarcely believe what is happening. My God, two members of staff dead within a few days of each other.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Very little.’ The principal mopped sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The policeman wanted me to tell him about Aslan. What work he did, the people he dealt with. Whether he had any enemies.’

‘They aren’t suggesting an accident or suicide this time?’

Micah Bridge shook his head. ‘Surely you are not implying that Orla was murdered as well?’

‘I’m not implying anything, but hatred isn’t the only motive for murder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps Aslan was killed because of something he found out, or witnessed.’

‘Such as?’

‘He was here on Friday morning, wasn’t he? Sham told me he spent time in the library. She thought he was looking something up.’

The principal stared. ‘I find that hard to credit. He showed so little interest in our collections.’

‘Looks as though he stumbled across a reason to take an interest.’

‘For heaven’s sake, what could it be? This library is a place for quiet, scholastic research. We have nothing to do with the grubbiness of murder.’

Some have grubbiness thrust upon them, Daniel thought.

‘Are the police still here?’

‘They left an hour ago, once they had finished speaking to Sham.’

‘She’s working today?’ Daniel was surprised. ‘I thought she only-’

‘Works Monday to Friday, and then with the utmost reluctance?’ The principal sniffed. ‘She claims her aunt sent her, saying she ought to be here to lend a hand, given that the press may turn up at any moment with their flashbulbs and their prying questions. I’m not sure I believe her. It’s almost as if she’s … gloating over Aslan’s death.’

To spite Purdey, because Aslan had confided the truth about his identity to her and not to Sham? Daniel wondered.

‘Where is she now?’

‘On reception, as usual. Checking her lipstick so as to present her best face to the arriving media, no doubt.’

The principal couldn’t conceal his bitterness. He seemed to take the deaths of Orla and Aslan as a personal attack on himself and St Herbert’s. Come to think of it …

‘When were you first appointed principal, Micah?’

‘Seventeen years ago. Though for some years before that, I regularly gave lectures and undertook academic work here.’

‘Were you around when Orla’s brother went missing?’

The principal pursed dry cracked lips. ‘As a matter of fact, yes. It was a dreadful time; that poor young boy who disappeared, never to return. Not that I ever met the lad. And to this day, I’ve barely exchanged a dozen sentences with his father. I made the mistake of seeking a donation to our funds on one occasion.’

‘So you know Fleur from way back?’

‘We were barely acquainted in those days. I knew her father better. He wasn’t a man of letters, but he did support the library. Noblesse oblige , I suppose. He was keenly aware of Sir Milo’s legacy, and that after Jolyon’s accident, the Hopes name would soon be dead. He was bitter that the money had run out, and that the only reason his daughter lived so well was that she’d married for money, rather than love. It wasn’t just that she married into a family that sold caravan pitches to the common herd. She picked the brother who held the purse strings, even though her father disliked him.’