The Grave Tattoo

  ‘Aye, I think you’d be wise,’ Allan said. ‘Those clouds should lift by the end of the morning. Should be a bonny afternoon.’

  Jane gave her father a grateful look. ‘You’re full of good ideas this morning. A bonny afternoon on Langmere Fell’s just what I need.’

  Jake woke to a dull and inescapable pressure inside his head. He was sweating stickily and his mouth tasted rank as a ditch. Groggily, he squinted at the red digits of the clock radio by the bed and groaned. Too late to even think about staking out Fellhead. He let his head fall back on the pillow and wondered what on earth had seemed so attractive about drinking the night away with a visiting rugby team. He didn’t even like rugby. He coughed and instantly regretted it. He wanted to lie immobile in the dark for the rest of his life. Which, if he was lucky, would not be too long.

  His body had other ideas. Within minutes of each other, rebelling stomach and bowels had him lurching for the bathroom. After his second trip, he started to feel that it might just be possible to continue living. He dragged himself into the shower and leaned against the wall while the water poured down.

  Half an hour later, he’d made it as far as getting dressed and booting up his computer. The brightness of the screen seemed inhumane, but he persevered and managed to get online. He groaned again when he saw an email from Caroline. He really didn’t want to be harangued this morning, not even virtually. But he opened it anyway, because he couldn’t not.

  Good morning, Jake. I tried calling you on your mobile, but it was switched off. I presume you’re hot on Jane’s trail or talking to a forensic anthropologist. Anyway. Here are the search results from Family Records. As you will see, our chap has done a very thorough job. That’s the joy of professional researchers–they have the imagination to try alternate spellings for an era where literacy was still pretty hit and miss. As you’ll see, by the time she got married, Ms Mason had become officially Mayson. You can get started right away on tracking down the whereabouts of the current generation. Let me know how you get on.

  Talk to you soon.

  Caroline xxx

  Attached to the email was a document that outlined the family tree of Dorcas Ma(y)son. She had married a man from Yorkshire and had three children before her husband died prematurely. She had obviously then returned to her native Cockermouth, since that was where her death in 1887 and the marriages of her children had been registered. Flicking through to the end, Jake saw she had several direct descendants. His heart sank. This was going to be no fun whatsoever. But it would be worth it in the long run, he told himself. Well worth it.

  He decided to check Jane’s email while he was online. If she had made any headway, he wanted to know about it before he wasted time on leads she’d already blown out. When he opened Dan’s email, he was expecting to find the same ream of results that Caroline had sent him. He was pleasantly surprised to read that Dan had failed. ‘Dan to a T,’ he muttered. ‘Too lazy or stupid to check any other spelling.’

  Finally, he dialled Caroline’s mobile.

  ‘Jake, good to hear from you,’ she said cheerily.

  ‘I got your email,’ he said. ‘Impressive research.’

  ‘I thought so. It really gives you something to get your teeth into.’

  ‘That’s true. But I still think it would be better to hitch a ride on Jane’s coat-tails if I can.’ Anything to buy myself some time. I don’t have to tell Caroline I know Jane’s going nowhere fast. Silence on the other end of the phone. ‘People will see her motives as being purer somehow. She might get further that way.’

  Caroline chuckled. ‘I think you spent too long in the public sector, Jake. Money is what makes the world go round. Wave enough money under their noses and they’ll be happy to sell their granny, never mind a few bits of mouldy old paper. This is a windfall you’re offering them, and they’re going to be bloody delighted at the prospect of an unexpected wedge landing in their bank accounts. No, you go for it. We’re ahead of the game at this point, let’s make the most of our advantage. The dice are rolling in our favour. I’m starting to get a good feeling about this, darling. I expect great things of you. Oh, and if you get the chance to make overtures to Jane, you should go for it. But if that doesn’t work out, at least you’ve still got her email.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jake said. ‘I’m on top of things.’ Spying on his ex-girlfriend and keeping the results from his current one made him feel curiously powerful. They might think they could discount him, but he would show them who was really the player in this game. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Mmm. Think of me swimming in the bay. It’s a glorious day here, you need to get yourself back as soon as possible before the weather breaks.’

  The line went dead. Jake stared at the phone. Offhand, dismissive, indulgent–that had been her tone. It was time for him to assert himself against these women.

  Motherhood suited Diane, Jane thought, watching her sister-in-law settle Gabriel in his baby bouncer for a nap. When she’d been working in the bank, she’d been a high-octane kind of woman, filled with energy that had to find an outlet either in ambition at work or in projects around the home. She’d refitted their kitchen almost single-handed, only calling on help from Allan when a job really needed two pairs of hands. She’d had the good sense not to involve the famously clumsy Matthew in any practical sphere.

  She had ventured into parenthood with the same determination for success, but somehow the process had mellowed her. She had lost her sense of frenetic urgency, taking things at a calm, measured pace and apparently finding the time at last to smell the flowers. As Gabriel’s eyelids flickered then shuttered his eyes, she sat back on her heels and smiled. ‘Now we can talk like adults,’ she said.

  ‘He’s really good,’ Jane said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a calmer baby.’

  ‘You should hear him when he wants attention at three in the morning. Or when he’s hungry,’ Diane said. ‘Nothing calm about that.’ She got to her feet and settled on the opposite end of the sofa to Jane. ‘But in general, yes, he’s great. I just wish he’d start sleeping through the night. I can’t tell you what I’d give for eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.’

  ‘So I take it you’re not planning on another one any time soon?’ Jane teased.

  Diane looked at her seriously. ‘I’m not planning on another one at all.’

  ‘Really? It was that grim?’

  Diane gave her a level stare. Never one for beating about the bush, she said, ‘People think that being an only child’s some kind of handicap. Well, I was an only child and I don’t feel like I’ve missed out. To be honest, Jane, I’ve spent too long watching you and Matt tearing lumps out of each other to want to be a spectator to that sort of warfare on a daily basis.’

  Jane was long past being offended by Diane’s candour, accepting it was as much part of her personality as her generosity and loyalty. ‘We’re not that bad,’ she said.

  ‘For the spectator, you are.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wish he wasn’t so resentful all the time with me. After all, he’s got the perfect life–he’s got you and Gabriel, he’s in Fellhead, living in a beautiful house at a peppercorn rent because it goes with his job, which is one he loves. I’m the one stuck in a scummy council flat working two jobs to keep body and soul together so I can have half a chance at the career I want.’

  Diane grinned. ‘He’s not good at counting his blessings, is he? But he’s a good man at heart, you know. The kids think the world of him, and kids are good judges.’

  Jane really didn’t want to get into this with Diane. She had never talked about the way Matthew had tormented her as a child and she wasn’t about to break her silence with his wife. But she knew that whatever face he presented to Diane and the world, there was a mean streak in Matthew that she didn’t believe he’d grown out of. ‘I believe you,’ was the white lie she chose.

  ‘So how’s your project going?’ Diane asked, seeing it was time to change the subject. ‘Matt s
aid you’d hit a snag but you were hopeful of getting some information from London.’

  Jane pushed her hair back from her temples. ‘I thought I was getting somewhere, but the wheels just came off.’ She fiddled with the fringe of one of the appliqué cushions Diane had made for the sofa. ‘Do you mind if we leave it at that? Just talking about it depresses me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Jane.’ Diane reached across and patted her hand in a curiously impersonal way, as if her mind was already racing to the next subject. She jumped to her feet. ‘I tell you what, let’s be really naughty and have a drink.’

  ‘It’s only half past eleven,’ Jane protested weakly.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve been up since six so it feels a lot later. Come on, let’s be bad girls. The sun’s shining and I’ve got a bottle of Pimms in the kitchen.’ Diane snatched Jane’s hand and pulled her up from the sofa. ‘I don’t think you’ve had nearly enough fun since you and that shit Jake split up.’

  Jane let herself be led through to the big kitchen at the back of the house. The substantial four-bedroomed house would have been out of the price range of most locals, but Matthew and Diane had been the beneficiaries of one of those English eccentrics who had fallen in love with the Lake District. Back in the 1970s, the local authority had decided to sell off the remaining village schoolhouses to the highest bidder. Richard Grace, a Londoner who’d made a fortune in property development before buying the biggest house in Fellhead for a weekend retreat, had decided his village would best maintain its high educational standards if it could attract dynamic head teachers. So he’d bought the school-house and set up a trust that made it available to the head teacher at a peppercorn rent. As property prices had soared over the intervening years, it had proved a powerful sweetener. And now her brother lived in the house Jane had always fantasised about inhabiting. And still he wasn’t satisfied. ‘I love this view,’ she said, gazing out of the window towards the craggy ridge of Langmere Fell.

  ‘It’s glorious,’ Diane agreed, pulling a cucumber and a lemon from the fridge. ‘Oh, damn, I forgot the jug. Be a love and get the big crystal jug out of the dining-room cabinet, would you?’

  ‘No problem.’ Jane crossed the hall to the dining room, which looked out on a wall of dense foliage, a felony compounded by walls panelled in dark wood. Even on the brightest summer day it was a dark and murky place. No wonder the family never ate there. Instead, Matthew had colonised it, turning it into a sort of school annexe, strictly for marking and lesson preparation and not to be confused with the study he’d made of the fourth bedroom, where he retreated to surf the internet and play computer games. Lucky bastard, Jane thought as she snapped the light on and glanced at the spread of papers covering the long table.

  She carried on towards the tall glass display cabinet where the best glasses were on show, but as her brain registered what she’d seen, Jane broke stride and almost stumbled. She grabbed at a heavy oak chair to steady herself and gazed down at an array of family trees executed in childish hands. Some had managed to find large sheets of paper, a couple had used wallpaper offcuts, others had Sellotaped A4 sheets together in a mosaic that accommodated the shape of their families. Two were set conspicuously to one side, drawing Jane’s eyes inexorably.

  One had been drawn with some style, photographs attached to the lower branches. The other was scrawled, the linking lines wavering and uneven. But as Jane backtracked down the ancestors of Sam Clewlow and Jonathan Bramley, she understood immediately why Matthew had set them apart.

  Jonathan and Sam had a common ancestor back at the turn of the nineteenth century. Dorcas Mayson had married at the age of twenty and had borne three children. Sam’s line sprang from her firstborn son, Jonathan’s from her youngest child, the only daughter.

  Jane could scarcely believe what she was looking at. The spelling was different, but well within the boundaries of nineteenth-century variation. It had to be her Dorcas. There couldn’t be two of them born and married in the same year. Here was the crucial evidence she needed for her next step, evidence of Dorcas Mason’s line of descent. Not only had Matthew known about this, he had deliberately kept silent. How could he do that to her? And more importantly, what was he planning to do about it?

  Rage burning in her heart, Jane stormed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Diane looked up, then did a double take as she saw Jane’s expression. Jane struggled to keep control, then lost it. ‘What the fuck is Matthew playing at?’ she demanded.

  Having trouble in penetrating the lagoon, we stood off and sent one of the ship’s boats towards the shore. Our first attempt at landing on the island was greeted by a war canoe whose crew attempted to swamp our boat and were only driven off by gunfire. On the second day, we contrived to sail the ship inside the lagoon. The natives came in droves to look. Their canoes crowded close, the warriors chanting and blowing their conch shells, a terrifying sight in their scarlet and white war livery that tested our nerve. None of the natives could be inveigled to extend us overtures of friendship in spite of our being able to make ourselves understood in the Otaheitian dialect. The scent of battle was in the air. I set night watches and by morning, the number of canoes was too great to count. Three days after we had made landfall, a double canoe containing eighteen women and paddled by a dozen men arrived alongside. We took this to be an overture of friendship. But the true state of affairs was that it was the Trojan Horse of the natives.

  22

  Jake knew there was something about him women liked. Maybe it was because he genuinely took more pleasure in their company than that of men. Or maybe there was about him the promise of an easy ride, a man who was not going to challenge or demand but simply settle for a quiet life. Whatever it was, he knew he traded on it and that it earned him the ill-disguised contempt of his father. He also knew that it was misleading. Underneath that charm he harboured a ruthlessness that he seldom had to call on but which he had no reluctance whatsoever to engage when he needed it. He didn’t think he’d need it today, however. Even hung over, he thought his charms would be enough to win over a seventy-three-year-old widow. According to the information Caroline’s researcher had come up with, Edith Clewlow lived at Lark Cottage, Langmere Stile. Her husband David, the great-great-grandson of Dorcas Mason and Arnold Clewlow, had died in 1998 and the 2001 census listed Edith as the only occupant of the cottage. Jake had chosen Edith as his first target by reasoning that inheritance generally passed down through primogeniture in the male line. It didn’t hurt that he also knew where Langmere Stile was. In his bleary state, any little helped. He wasn’t thrilled that getting there involved driving through Fellhead, but he wasn’t planning on stopping.

  The sun felt cruelly bright as he set off. Sunglasses didn’t seem to help, and he could feel his dull headache intensifying as he wound his way up the side of the fell. Fellhead itself was quiet. The only pedestrians he passed were hikers making their way to the start of the steep path that led precipitously to the ridge. A mile further on, he came to the straggle of cottages that was Langmere Stile. Four low dwellings huddled by the roadside, all looking as if they needed more love and attention than their occupants were prepared to lavish on them. Exposed on the barren side of the fell just above the tree line with an untrammelled view of an old quarry, they were too miserable even on a sunny day to appeal to the weekend commuters. Jake assumed they had originally been built for the quarry workers who were probably grateful for a roof over their head.

  He slowed as he approached, checking the names of the cottages. Bluebell, Crocus, Daffodil and Hyacinth. Somebody had had a sense of humour, he thought. But no Lark Cottage. Frustrated, Jake looked around, as if another cottage might be hiding somewhere in the bare landscape. Up ahead, the road made a sharp right-hand bend, at the edge of which he could see a section of stone gable.

  Rounding the corner, he discovered a single-storey stone cottage, its paintwork fresh, its small garden neatly tended. Unlike its neighbours, Lark Cottage had a view down to Langmere itself a
nd across to Helvellyn. Jake pulled the Audi on to the verge beyond the cottage and walked back. He shoved his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and tried to arrange his face into an open, friendly expression.

  The woman who answered the door looked older than her years. Jake’s own grandmother was in her late seventies and she looked as if she could give Edith Clewlow a good ten years. Narrow-shouldered and bent over with the tell-tale hump of osteoporosis, the woman thrust her face towards him. Pallid wrinkled skin hung loose on her small-boned face. Her silver hair was cut short and styled as simply as a child’s. But the blue eyes behind her large varifocals were lively and her expression was one of intelligent suspicion.

  ‘Mrs Clewlow?’ Jake said.

  ‘Aye. Do I know you, young man?’

  He smiled. ‘No, Mrs Clewlow. My name is Jake Hartnell. I wondered if you might be able to spare me a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘Not if you’re selling something. I’ve already got double glazing and I like my kitchen the way it is. And any work that needs doing, my grandson Frank does for me.’