Martin Edwards - The Cipher Garden

She said slowly, ‘I might not want to go on living.’

He mimed applause. ‘Spot on.’

‘You’re suggesting they decided — or Alice persuaded her husband — that they should kill themselves? To take part in a suicide pact?’

‘For her, death must have seemed the only way out.’

She winced. ‘Shit.’

‘Only one snag. In those days, suicide was a mortal sin. Worse than that, a crime. The rector reminded me, suicides weren’t even permitted the dignity of burial in consecrated ground. In those days, you were expected to cope with whatever lousy hand life dealt you. No therapy, no bereavement counselling, just get on with it. In England it was still the age of the stiff upper lip. For the Quillers, the public disgrace of a double suicide would have been intolerable. Not to be contemplated.’

‘So they disguised their intentions?’

‘A triumph of appearance over reality. As prominent Brackdale folk, well respected, they’d have been on good terms with the local medics. So long as there was an opportunity to write off their deaths as due to natural causes, honour would be satisfied all round. Jacob and Alice Quiller could be buried in the same grave as their beloved son John.’

‘And the garden?’

‘I’d guess Jacob was familiar with the Victorian fashion for gardens that conveyed messages. Often to celebrate religious beliefs, or represent Bible stories or mystical revelations. Jacob turned all that upside down. His mind was in turmoil. While his wife pined away inside the cottage, he transformed their garden to simulate a kind of spiritual anarchy. No “paths of life” for the Quillers. Instead, nothing but tracks that wound back on themselves, false turnings and dead ends.’

‘The pattern was that there was no pattern?’

‘Jacob was mocking the pious certainties that he’d subscribed to all his life. Yet even in his dark despair, he couldn’t abandon every last vestige of faith. He couldn’t help minding what happened after he died. Perhaps Alice felt the same, perhaps she was past caring, who knows? One thing’s for sure, it was impossible for them to write a straightforward letter declaring their intention. But they could leave a hidden message in the garden for anyone who cared to know what they’d done.’

‘Such as Richard Skelding?’

‘The man who inherited his land back, yes. My guess is that he discovered the truth. A handful of people in the valley kept the legend alive.’

‘Including later owners of the cottage?’

‘Notably the Gilpins. They didn’t disturb the cipher garden, or betray the Quillers’ secret. Why should they? It was a private sorrow. For all I know, Eleanor Sawtell tried to pump Mrs Gilpin for information. I can’t imagine her giving any change to a nosey parker.’

Louise tapped her spoon against her saucer. ‘You’re right. All this does require a leap of the imagination.’

‘There is a crazy logic to the garden. The monkey puzzles symbolised Jacob and Alice and the weeping willow John. The yew tree stood for the eternal life that Jacob hoped against hope might yet await all three of them in Heaven.’

‘And the death from broken hearts?’

‘The clue to the means of suicide is in the planting, as well as the words on the tablets. Of course, those foxgloves have spread far and wide over the past hundred years. They grow like weeds, you find them everywhere. But you have to treat them with care.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘They’re poisonous, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right, foxglove leaves are the source of digitalis. In small quantities it stimulates the heart, but a large dose is apt to be fatal.’

‘Leaves from the garden,’ she quoted.

He nodded. ‘Will take our leave.’

The train was pulling in. Time to go. Daniel picked up Louise’s cases and they hurried outside. Once she’d scrambled into the carriage, she opened the window.

‘How are you going to break the news to Miranda?’

He sighed. ‘That her dream cottage boasts a garden that celebrates death and hides a coded suicide note?’

She contrived a wry smile. ‘Tricky, huh? Best of luck.’

The doors closed and Louise waved. He blew a kiss and called out to her as the train pulled away from the platform.

‘I may need more than luck.’

Gail Flint stood in the doorway of her grey cottage, tightly wrapped in a silk kimono, screwing up her eyes against the early morning sunlight. It was only half seven and she hadn’t had a chance to disguise her bleariness with make-up.

‘May we come in?’

Hannah caught a fruity whiff of stale gin on Gail’s breath as she squinted at the warrant card. ‘The organ grinder as well as the monkey? My, my. I suppose I ought to be honoured, Chief Inspector, but it’s really not a good time.’

‘We’ll only take a few minutes, Mrs Flint.’

Hannah glanced past Gail into the hallway. A large blue nylon jacket, bearing the legend Allin of Esthwaite Drains and Rodding Services, hung from a coat-stand. A rusting Ford van similarly emblazoned was parked on a yellow line outside the cottage. A thud came from upstairs. Someone overweight, clambering out of bed.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘You’re not interrupting anything at all,’ Gail muttered. ‘Though couldn’t you make an appointment? I do have a business to run, as I told DC Waller here the other day.’

‘We thought an informal conversation might be preferable to asking if you’d come to the police station with us.’

Gail glared. ‘This is about Kirsty Howe?’

‘It would be easier to talk indoors, Mrs Flint.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Upstairs, a lavatory flushed. ‘All right, have it your own way.’

She padded unsteadily along the hall carpet, shepherding Hannah and Linz into a large and crowded sitting room. A leather suite jostled with a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and a computer. A Bang and Olufsen hi-fi system gleamed in one corner, a plasma television screen was suspended from the wall in another. On the table by the sofa were a couple of empty bottles of Rioja, two unwashed glasses and a CD of Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits . She drew the curtains to reveal a pergola hung with fronds of Virginia creeper. The patio commanded a view of a lawn cut in immaculate stripes and in the distance the brooding bulk of the Old Man of Coniston.

‘I insist on Peter mowing for me personally,’ she said. ‘I made my lawyer include it in the terms of settlement.’

‘You didn’t prefer a clean break?’

‘Where’s the fun in that? He may not have been the ideal husband, but he is a bloody good gardener. Besides, a monthly alimony cheque didn’t seem penance enough.’ Gail waved the detectives towards the armchairs. ‘Go on, then. Take the weight off your feet.’

Hannah nodded at the PC. ‘You run your business from home?’

‘Why spend precious cash on fancy office premises? I’ve survived one or two business mishaps over the years, but Roz Gleave has given me good advice on keeping control of cashflow. I don’t hold too much stock.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Besides, I’d be tempted to guzzle it, and that would never do, would it?’

Hannah heard someone — or perhaps a small army — tramping down the stairs. Gail shuddered and called out, ‘And don’t think you can send me an invoice, Tod Allin!’

The front door slammed and moments later the van’s engine started up. Gail curled up on the sofa, tucking her bare legs beneath her, and pouted at the two women.

‘Tradesmen are so unreliable these days, aren’t they? Tod assured me that blocked passages were his speciality.’ A rictus smile. ‘Very well, Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’