Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

Marc grinned. ‘Detective work, is it? You’ll be competing with Hannah next.’

On his way to Keepsake Cottage, Daniel decided that he couldn’t help liking Marc Amos. How stupid to feel a pang of jealousy because Marc had Hannah all to himself. But was Marc jealous too, did he suspect that something was going on between her and the Sergeant? And if so, was he right? Daniel hadn’t had time to study Nick Lowther. He seemed amiable and wore a wedding ring, but colleagues at work often had affairs. Hannah Scarlett didn’t seem the type to play around, but was there really a type? It was all down to individual chemistry; you never knew what might happen when circumstances thrust two people together.

One more thing he’d rather not think about, like Kirsty’s death. He dragged his mind back to the stone tablets. All four were meant to be found, no question. They were so close to the surface that any serious attempt to clear the ground would uncover them. The carved words might be part of an elaborate code — shades of Beatrix Potter’s diaries — but he doubted it. His bet was on a simple if cryptic message. He’d start by juggling with the phrases he’d discovered.

Perhaps there was a pattern. Assume that the four stones he’d found — the willow, the two monkey puzzles, and the yew — were connected by the circumference of a rough circle. Start at the willow and move clockwise.

Why did you leave? Leaves from the garden. Will take our leave. Together again for eternity.

Outside the sun was high, but Hannah stayed indoors. Her skin burned too easily in heat this fierce. She gulped down a can of Coke for the sugar boost. Talking to Terri had made her feel half human again, but she was still tired. She plucked a musty hardback at random from Marc’s Ravenglass haul. She reached as far as page twenty before deciding she wasn’t in the mood for murder by Italian dagger in a locked room surrounded by snow with not a footprint to be seen. The choice of daytime TV shows was unspeakable and soon she was stretched out on the sofa with eyes shut, forcing herself to focus on whatever had made it necessary for Warren Howe to die.

When you know Howe, you know who — but what else was there to know about Warren Howe? The picture in her mind was of a man to whom plants meant more than people. With Gail, Bel and Roz among conquests, he was capable of turning on the charm to lure a pretty woman into his bed. He was single-minded and seemed to have mastered the art of getting what he wanted. Every scrap of evidence suggested he didn’t have an unselfish bone in his body.

Gail, Bel and Roz. Three old friends. Women could be so close with each other. Closer even than Terri and her. Suppose the trio had nourished a grudge over Warren’s treatment of them? Maybe she’d been too hasty in dismissing Les Bryant’s suggestion of a conspiracy to kill. But the youthful flings with Bel and Roz were ancient history. There was so much that theory left unexplained. Not least the anonymous accusation of Tina. If one or more of the women had sent it, why resurrect the old case if they had something to hide?

No, Tina was still her suspect of choice. Warren had betrayed her with Gail and it was one betrayal too many. The stumbling block was the Hardknott Pass alibi. But just as locked rooms were meant to be breached, so murderers’ alibis were meant to be broken.

The moment Daniel pulled up outside Keepsake Cottage and got out of the car, the heat hit him. It was like walking into a wall. He was about to ring the doorbell when voices came drifting through the air. People must be outside, at the back of the house. He made out the words of a man who sounded frantic.

‘Suppose the police find out? That woman, Hannah Scarlett. Roz, this is serious, how can we keep quiet?’

‘We must!’ A woman’s voice, full of anguish.

‘But…’

‘Oh God, how I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.’

This was fall-out from Kirsty Howe’s death, had to be. He waited, but nothing more was said. He pressed the bell. After a minute he rang again and at length he heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. A brisk woman with a helmet of grey hair, wearing a sleeveless top and shorts. When she took off her dark glasses to inspect him, it was obvious that she’d been weeping.

‘Mrs Gleave?’

‘That’s me.’

He extended a hand. ‘My name’s Daniel Kind.’

‘I recognise you, don’t I? You were on the television.’

‘A while back, yes.’

She raised her eyebrows and Daniel sensed that, for all her distress, this was a woman of considerable strength of mind. ‘What on earth brings you to my house?’

‘I live in Brackdale and I’ve been reading your book about the riddles of South Lakeland.’

‘Not my book, really,’ she said. ‘I’m only a humble publisher.’

He grinned. ‘A humble publisher? Some people would say that’s a contradiction in terms.’

‘Not if they know anything about the realities of running a small press.’ She mustered a tired smile. ‘I don’t do long expense-account lunches or six-figure advances. In fact, I don’t do advances at all. Our authors write for love rather than money. An occasional royalty cheque is a bonus. The book you’re talking about was written by — let me see, Eleanor Sawtell? Nice lady, primary school teacher. She’d been collecting curious tales from her neck of the woods for donkey’s years.’

‘I was wondering how to make contact with her. Is she still alive?’

Roz sighed. ‘Yes — but the last I heard from her daughter, poor Eleanor was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Her husband had died and she’d moved into a care home in Kendal.’

Shit. ‘In that case, could I pick your brains?’

‘To be honest, it’s not convenient.’

He assumed a doleful expression. ‘Of course, I’m happy to make an appointment and come back another time.’

‘No, no.’ She took a breath. ‘It isn’t every day that a television personality shows up on my doorstep. Do come in. On second thoughts, let’s sit out in the garden. This weather won’t last forever. Might as well make the most of it. My husband’s doing just that.’

He followed her round to the back of the cottage. Chris Gleave was sitting on the edge of a low stone wall. He was wearing brief shorts and nothing else, his body was slim and brown. Daniel noticed the look of proprietorial pleasure on Roz’s face, as she considered her husband while introducing them.

‘I saw some of your programmes on the box,’ Chris said. ‘History as detective work. Neat concept.’

‘Now,’ Roz said, evidently reluctant to become distracted by chit-chat with their unexpected visitor. ‘What is it you want to know about Eleanor’s book?’

He explained about Jacob Quiller and the garden at Tarn Cottage. ‘Did Eleanor have any inkling about the cipher?’

‘If she did, I don’t remember her sharing it with me. She wasn’t a professional researcher; I think she relied on anecdotes that she’d gathered over decades for most of her tales. As most of my authors do.’

‘Only when I’ve asked about the Quillers in Brack, nobody seems to know anything about them.’

‘It was a long time ago. Eleanor’s scraps of knowledge might date back as far as the Forties or Fifties.’

‘If that’s right, there’s not much chance of my finding out much more about them.’

A bleak smile. ‘A test of your prowess as a historian, then.’

‘Or as a detective.’ He sighed. ‘Your own garden is gorgeous. Did you create it yourselves?’

‘Not exactly,’ Roz said. ‘We used a professional firm.’

‘I’ve called in experts to look at our garden too. They are based near here. Flint Howe. You know them?’

She nodded, unwilling to commit herself to words. Daniel saw that Chris had paled beneath his tan.