Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

‘Well, well.’ Marc Amos smiled as he neared the Sacrifice Stone. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘First time since we moved in,’ Daniel said with an answering grin. ‘What about you?’

‘As often as I can make it. If you want to get away from it all, where better?’

‘Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?’

‘We’re closed today. If I were a good boy, I’d be checking the inventory or visiting a couple of people with collections to sell, but frankly I was in the mood for a treat. After spending all weekend at a book fair up in Carlisle, I was longing for the chance to clear my head and get some fresh air into my lungs. What better way to do it than by walking the fells?’

‘This place is hard to beat, I agree. So much crammed into — what, less than a thousand square miles?’

‘Much less. I’m ashamed to say it’s months since I last walked the Horseshoe from beginning to end. It’s my favourite trek in the southern fells. Wainwright preferred the Kentmere Round, but even Homer nods. I like to linger on the way and soak up the atmosphere. When Wainwright was sketching the fells, he used to picture Roman legions on the march. I try to put myself in the shoes of the people who were here before the emperor’s men. The hunter-gatherers and then the Celts.’

‘Ten minutes ago, someone reprimanded me for climbing up on to the Stone in defiance of the old superstitions. All I wanted was the luxury of a magnificent view whilst I picnicked. I’d forgotten that I was taking my life in my hands.’

‘You don’t mind making waves, do you?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Leigh Moffat mentioned that you caused a fuss a few nights ago in The Moon under Water. When she went to the bar, the landlord and Tom Allardyce were discussing the way you’d been talking about the girl who was killed here. You’d riled them, they were saying it was none of your business. Although they didn’t put it as politely as that.’

‘Storm in a teacup,’ Daniel said lazily. ‘All I said was that Barrie Gilpin’s guilt had never been proved. It’s harsh to be condemned as a murderer when you’ve never had the opportunity to defend yourself.’

‘You know better than most: history is written by the survivors.’

‘Yes,’ Daniel said. ‘That worries me a lot.’

Marc gave a brittle laugh. ‘Surely you can’t expect people here to be thrilled at the prospect of stones being turned over? The girl’s long buried, Barrie Gilpin, too. Time to let them rest in peace.’

‘Will they be at peace if they’ve been cheated of justice?’

Pushing the hair out of his eyes, Marc said, ‘If Barrie Gilpin was innocent, someone else must be guilty. For all we know, someone who is still living and working in the valley down there.’

Daniel gave him a long look. ‘Having claimed two victims, Gabrielle and Barrie. Would it hurt to give that someone a wake-up call?’

Marc cleared his throat. ‘Can I offer you some advice?’

‘Feel free.’

‘This isn’t Oxford. With so many tourists clogging up the car parks, the Lakes might seem cosmopolitan, but under the surface a place like Brackdale is introspective. Claustrophobic. There’s a lot of prejudice against people who come here from elsewhere and try to shape their surroundings to suit themselves. The locals have developed a carapace, it’s a way of preserving their identity. As for Tom Allardyce, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

‘Our paths aren’t likely to cross.’

‘You don’t understand.’ The urgency of Marc’s tone took Daniel by surprise. ‘The man has a reputation for violence. Jean Allardyce has sported plenty of bruises over the years and they haven’t all come from walking into doors. The army threw Tom out for brutality, and I’d guess that says it all. He beat up Barrie Gilpin more than once and from what Leigh tells me, he’s taken a serious dislike to you. I hate to sound melodramatic, but you’ll find you’ve made a dangerous enemy.’

Daniel watched Marc Amos striding off into the distance, his wind-cheater a red blob dipping between the rocks and eventually vanishing as Priest Edge fell away towards the depression of Far Gate. Below the fell’s steep flank lay Whitmell Vale, a ravine-scarred trench watered by a meandering beck. The sheep-crowded fields and the isolated stone cottages scattered along the floor of the valley presented an inviting prospect. He’d save Whitmell for another day and keep to his plan to follow the coffin trail back to Underfell, that part of Brackdale that lay between the Hall and the slopes.

Centuries had passed since, with no consecrated ground in the Vale, Whitmell folk had strapped their dead on packhorses and taken them over the fell to a final place of rest in the graveyard at Brack. Eventually a small church boasting a neat spire was built to serve the tiny community, and thereafter the coffin trail served no useful purpose. For those travelling from Whitmell to Brack, the lane that curved between the jaws of the Horseshoe provided a quicker route from one hamlet to the other. Yet the coffin trail boasted an enduring virtue in its glorious views of Brackdale and fell-walkers had never allowed the track to fade away through disuse.

The descent was easy and it did not take long for him to reach the foot of the fell. He crossed the beck that provided the grounds of Brack Hall with a natural boundary and skirted the Dumelows’ land on his way to the village. While he looked over to the farmhouse, the front door opened. Jean Allardyce emerged, shopping bag in hand, and hauled herself into an elderly Land Rover parked on the hardstanding beside the house. As Daniel reached the end of the driveway, the vehicle pulled up beside him.

She put her head out of the window and called, ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘That’s good of you.’ He was happy to walk, but as usual curiosity got the better of him. No harm in a short detour: Miranda wouldn’t be counting the minutes until his return. ‘If you could drop me off in the village?’

‘No problem, I’m just on my way to Tasker’s. Jump in.’

He clambered in beside her, taking in a faint freesia fragrance as she bent towards him to move a sheaf of travel brochures off the passenger seat. He hadn’t taken much notice of Jean Allardyce until now and hadn’t fully realised that, although timid and inconspicuous, she was a pretty woman with full lips and porcelain blue eyes. He found himself clenching his fists at the thought of Allardyce beating her.

‘Booking your holidays?’ he asked as she tossed the brochures into the back.

She smiled. ‘Just weighing up the options. A harmless fantasy. Ever since I was a child I’ve had this dream of journeying across the Prairies, seeing the hidden corners of Indian Country. I blame Laura Ingalls Wilder, I used to love her tales about the pioneers.’

‘You wanted to explore a different world?’

‘Yes, it would be a dream come true. Places with names like Plum Creek and Silver Lake always seemed more enticing than Grizedale and Ullswater.’ After looking each way with an unnecessary care that, he suspected, was a habit, she eased the Land Rover out into the lane. ‘I suppose you find that hard to understand.’

‘We all need a change, once in a while.’

‘You’re right. I’ve spent my whole life around here. I’ve seen nothing of the world. Nothing.’ Her voice faltered. ‘You won’t believe this, but I’ve only ever been to London once, and that was on a school trip to see Madame Tussaud’s and the Tower.’

‘Miranda will tell you that you haven’t missed much.’

‘They say that familiarity breeds contempt.’

‘Maybe not contempt, but…’

‘I think contempt is the right word,’ she said, unexpectedly fierce. ‘Never mind, you’ve both taken a risk, leaving your jobs and your friends, starting all over again. It’s very brave. Sometimes I wish I’d had that kind of courage.’