Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

‘Have you heard about Sam Howe’s sister?’

Roz blinked. ‘You know about Kirsty?’

‘I was at the airfield yesterday.’

Chris whispered, ‘Jesus.’

He looked as though he too was about to burst into tears. Roz fired him a nervous glance.

‘I’m sorry. We’ve known Kirsty since she was so high. The news has come as a terrible shock to both of us. Really, it’s not something either of us can bear to talk about. Now, if you don’t mind, I really ought to be catching up with some work.’

‘On a Sunday?’

She moved forward, waving him back to the front of the cottage, like a farmer trying to shift cattle from his field. ‘Running a small business from home is a seven day a week affair, I’m afraid. Sorry I can’t be more help.’

The church was a cool refuge from the heat outside. A couple of elderly ladies were up near the altar, arranging flowers and enjoying a good moan about the weather. On a table near the door were scattered a selection of leaflets about fair trade and third world poverty. Nothing about the history of the parish or the denizens of the graveyard. But at least the rector had got his priorities right, Daniel thought as he ambled down a side aisle, inspecting the plaques set into the wall. The memorial to the Quillers’ son was easy to find. A large rectangular cast-bronze panel, bearing an embossed inscription.

To the glory of God and in memory of a much-loved son of Brackdale who lost his life in the war in South Africa. Major John Quiller, of the 1st Northumberland Fusiliers, died of enteric fever, 5 April 1902. Faithful unto death.

He heard footsteps echoing on the stone floor and someone humming an approximation of ‘Praise my soul, the King of Heaven’.

‘Mr Kind, how good to see you again. Still on the detective trail?’

Daniel turned to face the rector of Brack, a tiny man with sparse grey hair and half-moon spectacles perched on a pointed nose. His manner suggested a gregarious church mouse.

‘You remember my interest in the fellow who built our cottage? This is his son.’

‘Ah.’ The rector peered so closely at the panel that Daniel thought he was going to rub his little snout against it. ‘A tragic business. Death in war is so futile, don’t you agree? Take this young fellow, for instance. If I’m not much mistaken, the war was over within weeks of his death. He’d survived everything the enemy could throw at him — only to die of natural causes. So sad.’

‘His parents never got over it. A local legend grew up about them.’

As Daniel explained about the cipher garden, the rector’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘Dear me, dear me, how very intriguing. I once had a parish in Norfolk, with an elderly monkey puzzle growing by the edge of the graveyard. Not an attractive tree to my mind, I much prefer the good old English oak myself. But there was no question of chopping it down, my parishioners wouldn’t have heard of it. Would you happen to know why?’

Daniel shook his head.

‘By tradition, the sparse foliage is meant to deprive the Devil of a hiding place. If the branches were leafy, he might be able to spy on funerals and steal the souls of the dead.’

‘What about yew trees and weeping willows — any symbolism there?’

‘Most certainly.’ The rector twittered with delight at the opportunity to display his expertise. ‘Yews are supposed to represent immortality. Weeping willows, as you might guess, are associated with sorrow and bereavement. So how do you interpret the cipher, may I ask?’

‘Strictly speaking, I don’t think it is a cipher. Ciphers involve the substitution of letters. This just looks like a cryptic message.’

The rector wagged his forefinger in playful rebuke. ‘Ah, there speaks the Oxford don!’

‘Pedantic to a fault, I know. Trouble is, breaking a code may require more than precise, minute analysis. Sometimes imagination is called for.’

‘Goodness, do I take it that you have solved the conundrum?’

‘Yes.’ Daniel stared at the bronze panel. ‘Unfortunately, I think I have.’

‘Are you all right?’ Marc asked.

Hannah contemplated several possible answers before saying, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘We could go away somewhere.’ He chewed a last mouthful of burnt bacon before slinging his plate and cutlery into the dishwasher with a crash. ‘Spend a bit of time together. You’re due plenty of leave.’

The coffee he’d made was bitter on her tongue but she drained the cup anyway. Better make the most of his solicitude; it wouldn’t last. At once she rebuked herself for cynicism. He was making an effort. She slid off the stool. All she’d felt like eating for breakfast was a single slice of unbuttered toast.

‘What about the shop?’

‘Tim and Melanie can look after things for a few days. I’ll cancel the Haydock Park fair.’

‘OK, let’s talk about it tonight.’

‘I’ll call you later.’

‘No need. I thought I’d go into work later this morning.’

‘Are you serious?’ He caught her hand, squeezed her fingers between his. ‘You’ve had a miscarriage, for Christ’s sake!’

Miscarriage. It sounded so dramatic. Actually, what had happened was more like a painful and very heavy period. Her GP, a severe woman whose no-nonsense manner wouldn’t have been out of place in a sergeant-major, was brisk to the point of being dismissive. These things were commonplace in the early weeks. Nature’s way of telling you that something wasn’t quite right. Hannah fled from the surgery before she could be told that her loss was a blessing in disguise.

‘The sooner I get back to normal, the better.’

‘You need to look after yourself! Work can wait. You’re not indispensable.’

The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet. Already the sun was beating down outside. When was the weather going to break? She wasn’t an invalid and she had no intention of succumbing to self-indulgence. Right now, she needed the job more than the job needed her. Better to drag her mind away from what had happened and bury herself in that overflowing in-tray. But she couldn’t face an argument.

‘All right.’

‘Great.’ When he smiled, the white even teeth and laughter lines around his mouth reminded her why she found him so difficult to resist. ‘You’ll feel like a different person once you’ve had a proper rest.’

A different person? Confident and in control, not diminished by emptiness and loss?

‘Yes.’

His dry lips brushed her cheek. ‘Listen, Hannah. I’m so sorry about this. Perhaps — it just wasn’t meant to be.’

The doctor had said the same, but Marc’s meaning was different. His sympathy was genuine, yet she detected a lightness in his manner that had been absent after she’d told him she was pregnant. As if he’d been granted a reprieve.

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. She hated herself for thinking he was selfish. But even as she felt his fingers ruffling her hair, she knew she was right. Sifting out the truth from a jumble of confusing evidence was what she was supposed to be good at, after all.

‘So Kirsty’s father was murdered.’

Miranda was gasping as she dragged herself up to the top of the path leading up the slope of Tarn Fell. Daniel pulled his floppy hat down over his eyes. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and the air was heavy. The heat had become a physical presence, an unseen oppressor. Each stride forward felt as though you were pulling against a ball and chain. He’d hoped it would be cooler on Priest Edge, but there wasn’t a hint of breeze.

‘Hacked to death with a scythe,’ she continued. ‘Mrs Tasker was regaling a customer with the story when I went to the shop first thing. The papers are full of it. Maybe Kirsty was killed by someone with a grudge against the family.’