Martin Edwards: The Hanging Wood

‘Sham hasn’t heard a peep from her. Nobody has any idea what’s up. Let’s hope she isn’t lying behind a pile of garbage down some back alley in a drunken stupor, eh?’

‘I thought the two of you are friends?’

‘We’re not seeing each other, if that’s what you mean.’ Aslan sniggered. ‘As communications manager, she showed me the ropes, and we went out to a pub in Keswick once or twice, nothing heavy.’

An unexpectedly brutal denial. Orla was a nice-looking woman, but perhaps Aslan had his eye on Sham Madsen, with her anything-goes grin and very rich parents.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I really feel for Orla, you have no idea. Nothing can replace the loss of a brother or sister. Nothing in the world …’ Aslan’s voice trailed away for a moment before he collected his thoughts. ‘Saying that, it’s no solution to obsess about stuff. And you must admit, she does have an obsession. I’ve noticed her buttonholing you in the dining room.’

‘You’ve heard the story about Callum, then?’

‘Hasn’t everyone? As a matter of fact …’

‘What?’

Aslan seemed to change his mind. ‘I don’t mean to sound harsh, not knowing what happened to her brother was horrible. But for goodness’ sake, it was twenty years ago. The world goes on, you know?’

‘Sure.’

Daniel moved towards the main entrance, but Aslan stubbed out his cigarette, and caught him up with quick loping strides.

‘Hey, she’s making a mistake to dwell so much on the past, don’t you agree?’

Daniel halted under the archway. ‘I’m a historian, remember? Dwelling on the past is what I do.’

‘Yeah, right. I only meant …’

Daniel pushed open the double doors. He was worried about Orla, and he didn’t want to show how much. If Aslan was distancing himself, she needed all the friends she could muster.

Behind the welcome desk perched Sham Madsen. Her given name was Chamois, but everyone called her Sham. She had an elder sister, Perdita, always known as Purdey. Sham reckoned their mum picked the names of heroines in her favourite Mills and Boon novelettes for her daughters, and their father indulged her whim. Along with his brother Bryan, Gareth Madsen ran the caravan park, and Sham exuded the self-confidence that comes with glamour and wealth. With dark shoulder-length hair and a glamour model’s figure, she’d taken advantage of the heat to sport a top so skimpy that Daniel feared for the principal’s blood pressure.

‘Hiya, Daniel.’

She beamed in greeting before treating Aslan to a flirtatious wink. Daniel noticed his companion respond with a sly smile.

Close to the desk, a grand staircase swept up and out of sight, leading to the main offices as well as the residential quarters. To the right of reception, a corridor led to the dining room and the principal’s suite. Daniel turned left down the passage that led towards the main library, but there was no escaping Aslan, who fell into step beside him. He could smell smoke on the man’s breath and on his clothes.

‘Orla trusts you, Daniel. Can you persuade her to seek help with her booze problem?’ Aslan spoke in a rush; did he regret his earlier tone? ‘Medical advice, counselling, whatever works. I pleaded with her, said she’d go the same way as her mum if she didn’t watch out, but it made no impression.’

The door to the Old Library opened, and a stooped bespectacled man ushered a companion ahead of him, making a courteous gesture with an age-spotted hand. The principal of St Herbert’s and a woman Daniel recognised as Fleur Madsen. Her picture appeared on the St Herbert’s website. Fleur was Sham’s aunt, and six weeks ago she’d been appointed as chair of the board of trustees of St Herbert’s.

Fleur and Micah Bridge made an odd couple. What little remained of the principal’s hair was white, the top of his head bald and shiny. He wore a tweed jacket, yellow-and-red-striped MCC tie, twill slacks, and brown lace-up shoes that might have been bought from a charity shop. Fleur Madsen was elegant and elfin, a sort of blonde Audrey Hepburn in a blue linen jacket that matched her eyes, an ivory top and trousers, and a big buckled belt chosen to show off her tiny waist. At first glance, you’d think the pair belonged to different generations, though Micah Bridge was no more than five years Fleur’s senior. His entire wardrobe probably cost less than her statement necklace.

‘Daniel!’ the professor exclaimed. ‘Just the chap! Here is someone you really must meet.’

Aslan coughed. ‘I’d better get along.’

He sprinted away to the offices. Daniel noticed Fleur Madsen cast a thoughtful glance at his retreating back as the principal effected introductions. Next moment, he had her full attention. The full-wattage smile revealed inevitably perfect teeth.

‘How lovely to meet you — may I call you Daniel? I’ve been dying for our paths to cross ever since the principal mentioned you were working here. Of course, I adored your TV series. I’m a history junkie; I really can’t get enough of it, can I, Micah?’

The principal’s well-scrubbed cheeks turned pink as he murmured assent. Fleur was a member of the landed gentry, the genuine article, with posh vowels picked up from some expensive private school to prove it. Mockbeggar Hall had belonged to her family for years before she teamed up with Bryan Madsen, elder son of the man who had bought a slice of the Hall’s estate to found a caravan park and make millions out of it. A smart lady, in every sense.

‘I’ve given up on television,’ he said. ‘Better than waiting for it to give up on me.’

‘Far too modest. And what a shame you abandoned your university teaching. Though I do admire a man who quits while he’s ahead.’ A teasing smile. ‘No regrets?’

‘None.’

‘Glad to hear it. How marvellous that you’ve agreed to give our Founder’s Lecture in September. I can’t wait.’

Daniel stepped through the doorway. The lovely smell of the Old Library assailed him, the aroma of thousands of books packed tightly together blending with a whiff of leather upholstery and the tang of furniture polish. Shelves reaching ten feet high were separated by narrow aisles that twisted and turned like a labyrinth. A spiral staircase curved up to a gallery from which you could see the pattern of the maze. Behind the balustrades lurked desks with shaded lamps, where a handful of people read. But for an occasional fluttering of pages, the library was silent. To step inside was like entering church.

Fleur Madsen pointed to a fresco on the wall showing a bearded ancient, complete with halo and beatific smile, and bearing the legend St Herbert of Derwent Water. Beneath it hung a mahogany board on which the Venerable Bede’s remarks about Herbert’s spiritual bond with St Cuthbert of Lindisfarne were recorded in gilt letters.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she murmured. ‘A library taking its name from a seventh-century hermit who spent years cut off from the world on a tiny island in the middle of a lake.’

‘I am sure,’ the principal said, ‘we still cherish St Herbert’s ideal of thoughtful contemplation, far removed from material concerns.’

‘Of course, Micah, but we need more than thoughtful reflection if we’re going to patch up the black hole in the staff pension fund, let alone refurbish the dining room and make sure all the windows fit their frames.’

Daniel winced. Sounded like a debate in which there could only be one winner. ‘I have to admit, I’d barely heard of St Herbert’s before I moved up here. The library is a hidden gem.’

‘Exactly! Hence why we need to bang the drum more loudly.’ The principal cringed. ‘I was saying so to Micah five minutes ago when he took me up to the gallery. The lighting needs to be rewired, and I daren’t guess at the cost. We can’t put up the prices of our accommodation, there’s too much competition from bed-and-breakfast places around Keswick. Our being the Lake District’s best-kept secret doesn’t pay the bills. The auditors insist we keep a closer eye on cash flow.’