The Grave Tattoo

  Jane nodded, weary of thinking and puzzling. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should talk to Rigston.’

  ‘Sleep on it,’ he advised. ‘We’ll talk again in the morning.’

  Now morning was here and her concerns still plagued her. It seemed as if every area of her life was in turmoil. Judy had tried to cheer her up over breakfast, but Jane’s secrets weighed too heavy. Dan’s arrival felt like the cavalry.

  Judy tried to dissuade Jane from going out, but she was adamant. She and Dan were heading for Coniston and Jenny Wright, younger sister of Letty Brownrigg, née Fairfield. It was a relief to be out of the house, out from under her mother’s smothering concern.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Dan asked as he drove out of the yard. ‘Really feeling, I mean.’

  ‘Like shit,’ Jane said. ‘I’m aching all over. But I’ve no intention of giving up.’

  ‘What about talking to Rigston? Have you thought any more about it?’

  ‘I don’t know, what if he doesn’t believe me?’ Or worse, what if he does believe me, and suggests staking out the farm or offering me protection? There’d be no hiding place for Tenille then.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  Jane sighed. ‘If there is something odd about these deaths, he must be thinking of me as a possible suspect. He might think I made up the attack to divert suspicion away from myself.’

  Dan threw her a quick glance. ‘You have a very devious mind,’ he said.

  ‘So do coppers,’ Jane said drily.

  They drove for a while in silence, skirting Ambleside and heading out through Clappergate and Skelwith Bridge, the looming bulk of the Old Man of Coniston rising before them. Jane had always liked Coniston village. There was something plain and unselfconscious about it. It felt like what it was–a post-industrial village with few pretensions. It had sprung up because of the seams of copper ore in the mountain behind, and most of the grey stone houses were small and unassuming. Somehow Coniston had resisted the prettification of tourism rather better than most villages in the area; it still seemed a place where local people lived and worked.

  Jane directed Dan off the main road on to the narrow track that led to Coppermines Valley. She almost wished they’d brought her father’s Land Rover as Dan’s Volkswagen Golf bounced and groaned its way up the valley and over Miner’s Bridge. Ahead was a terrace of tiny cottages which had originally been built to house the miners and their families. Irish Row had been abandoned and left derelict once the mining had ended, but then modern roads and disposable incomes made the Lake District achievably desirable for weekends and holidays. Property in the area became valuable again and the stone terrace had been gutted and turned into sought-after weekend and holiday cottages that no local labourer could imagine being able to afford. Jane remembered coming up here in her childhood for days out, exploring the remains of the old mine workings under the watchful eye of her father. She couldn’t remember Irish Row at all, but she did remember the cottage a hundred yards further on where Jenny Wright lived.

  The memory had not persisted for aesthetic reasons. Copperhead Cottage was a tall, narrow building, its natural stone covered with battleship grey rendering. It sat sinister as a toad in the landscape, the square panes of its blind windows shrouded in net curtains. The first time they’d come up there, she and Matthew had run on ahead of their parents. As they’d rounded the bend, Matthew had grabbed her arm and stopped her in her tracks. ‘That’s where the witch lives,’ he whispered. ‘She likes to eat little girls. If you wander off on your own, she’ll come up to you disguised as a sheep and she’ll gobble you up.’

  As far as she could remember, Jane had only been about five, and Matthew’s words had been all too convincing. So the edge of her pleasure had always been blunted whenever their family outings had brought them to Coniston. So in spite of the glorious weather and her adult sensibility, Jane still felt a faint sense of trepidation as she walked ahead of Dan up the path of Copperhead Cottage.

  When the door eventually opened to her knock, Jane felt an ancient tremor of fear. The woman who stood on the threshold bore an eerie resemblance to that childhood image of witchery. Her grey hair was an untidy nest, her eyes dark and sunken on either side of a hooked nose which curved towards a strong chin. One shoulder was higher than the other and she leaned on a knobbly stick. As if to complete the picture, a grey cat rubbed against her ankles. ‘This is a private house,’ she announced. ‘No bed and breakfast, no cream teas. And I don’t allow people to use my lavatory.’

  ‘Mrs Wright?’ Jane asked, spirits sinking.

  The woman peered at her through her little round glasses. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Jane Gresham. I’m a friend of Jimmy Clewlow–David and Edith’s grandson,’ Jane said, instinctively going for the family connection. Anyone this unwelcoming of strangers wasn’t going to be moved by her credentials. ‘And this is my friend Dan Seabourne.’

  ‘Also a friend of Jimmy’s, ma’am,’ Dan said, ingratiating smile at the ready.

  ‘You’re a day early if you’ve come to take me to the funeral,’ she said ungraciously.

  ‘That’s not why we’re here. Jimmy thought you might be able to help us with a research project. Jane and I work together at a university in London,’ Dan cut in, his charm to the fore.

  Jenny Wright frowned. ‘What sort of research project brings you up here?’

  ‘I come from up here. I grew up in Fellhead,’ Jane said, trotting out the rest of her credentials.

  ‘More fool you for leaving. So what’s this project that Jimmy Clewlow thinks I might be able to help you with?’

  ‘Maybe we could come in and tell you, rather than keep you standing on the doorstep in the cold?’ Dan suggested.

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Dropping a name or two won’t get you across my door. How do I know you’re who you say you are? How do I know you’re not here to rob an old woman?’

  Dan hid his exasperation well. ‘You could always phone Jimmy and ask him.’

  Jenny snorted derision. ‘I don’t have his number.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And how would I know it was him? Nay, you can state your business well enough out here.’

  ‘Whatever you prefer,’ Jane said politely. ‘I specialise in the works of William Wordsworth. I understand one of your ancestors, Dorcas Mason, once worked for the Wordsworth family at Dove Cottage. And I believe she may have acquired some of his papers.’

  ‘Are you saying she stole them?’ The woman sounded even more hostile.

  ‘Not at all. We think she was given them for safekeeping.’

  ‘Well, if she was, she would have kept them safe. We understand about duty in our family.’ She pursed her lips and nodded with self-satisfaction.

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping. We’re trying to find out if the papers survived and, if possible, to have a look at them.’

  ‘What’s your interest?’

  Jane smiled. ‘If I’m right, this is an undiscovered poem by Wordsworth. A long poem. I would like to be the first person to read it. And I would like to have the opportunity to study it. To write about it.’ She tried to make her tone even more placatory. ‘It would be a very valuable manuscript. Whoever owns it could become rich as a result.’

  ‘See? I said you were out to rob me. Well, I’ve nothing worth stealing, young woman. No manuscripts. No jewellery. No money, neither. You and your young man are wasting your time here. I’ve nothing for you.’ The door began to close, then it opened again. ‘And tell Jimmy Clewlow to make sure somebody comes for me tomorrow. I don’t want to miss Edith’s funeral because somebody forgot I exist.’ This time, the door closed completely, leaving them staring at an expanse of black paint.

  ‘And a very good day to you too,’ Jane muttered, turning on her heel. She felt as if the windows of the house were staring at her as she walked away. Another wasted journey. At this rate, she’d be back in London with nothing to show for her two weeks of study leave. Not
hing apart from a throbbing lump on the back of her head, assorted cuts and bruises and nerves shredded to tatters.

  After Dan dropped her at the farm, Jane seized the chance to go and check on Tenille. She found her curled in a corner, wide-eyed and twitchy. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, settling down beside the girl and putting an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Bad shit,’ Tenille muttered.

  ‘Are you freaking out, stuck in here?’

  Tenille leaned into her. ‘You know you made me promise I’d stay in?’

  Jane could hardly bear the thought of more trouble. The attack had left too many nerve endings exposed. ‘What happened?’

  Tenille hunched into herself under Jane’s protective arm. ‘I went to that Letitia Brownrigg’s house last night. I got there round one in the morning. The door was unlocked so I just walked in. Only, there was a man in the living room.’

  ‘Oh, shit, Tenille. What if he called the cops?’

  ‘No, you’re getting the wrong end of the stick. He was a burglar. He had a torch in his mouth, he was, like, going through this desk thing in the room. Looking through papers. Like I would have been doing if I’d have got there first.’

  Jake’s words came back to her in a rush. Someone a damn sight more unscrupulous than her was intent on finding the manuscript. And Tenille had walked into the middle of it. Her heart was in her mouth; could it be the same man who had tried to drown her? ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Well, he saw, like, a person. I don’t think he actually got a good look at me, not enough to know I was me, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Did you recognise him?’

  Tenille pulled a face. ‘I didn’t see his face. I just got an impression of him, you know? Like, he was quite tall, not fat, not thin. I think he was wearing a beanie. Like, just a geezer. Could have been anybody.’

  ‘Could it have been Jake?’ She had to ask but didn’t want to hear the answer.

  ‘I don’t think so, but I couldn’t say for sure. Like I said, it could have been anybody.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I legged it. Didn’t stop pedalling till I got back here. Man, I was scared. I thought, you know, what if he saw enough to see I was black? Cuz there’s not many black kids round here, right? And, like, if he’s chasing the same thing you’re after, chances are he knows you. And that means he, like, knows who I am. Cuz maybe you talk about me, right?’ Her voice rose, the fear obvious.

  ‘I do talk about you, you’re right. But even if this person did figure out it was you, they wouldn’t know where to find you.’

  Tenille snorted. ‘Sure they do. They know to look where you are.’

  It was hard to argue with her logic. ‘All the more reason to stay inside, then,’ Jane said, trying not to show her own fear. ‘There’s nothing we can do about this. We just have to keep our heads down. I’ll try and get hold of Jimmy, see if he’s heard anything about a break-in at Letty’s.’ She gave Tenille a final squeeze then stood up. ‘Let this be a lesson to you. Stay inside–this time I mean it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You got it.’ She yawned. ‘I’m too tired for any more adventures anyway. Man, I feel like I ran a marathon last night.’

  Jane walked back across the yard, her brain in a whirl. Who was the mystery man? It had to be connected to her search. Anything else was too much of a coincidence. But however much they might want to beat her to the manuscript, she couldn’t imagine Matthew or Jake having the nerve or the appetite for burglary, never mind murder. Or was it someone else she knew nothing about, someone whose existence Jake had hinted at? Before she could get completely tangled in her thoughts, she was jerked back to the present by the ringing of her mobile. ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Is that Jane Gresham?’ The voice was vaguely familiar.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ewan Rigston. We met at your parents’ farm on Saturday night.’

  ‘DCI Rigston. How can I help you? Has Tenille been found?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with Tenille. I need to talk to you about a sudden death.’

  And yet, despite my best preparations, when the end came, I was as little expectant as anyone. One black, day in September 1793 a native servant borrowed a gun, saying it was his desire to shoot a pig to provide dinner for the white men. This was nothing out of the ordinary of itself. We had often previously allowed them firearms for such purposes with no ill result. The women left the village as was customary to collect the eggs of seabirds. The white men went to work, on their plantations, while I remained close to home. My wife was large with our third child & I wanted to be at hand. As I worked on my yasms, I heard a gunshot & foolishly rejoiced because I believed this to herald roast pork. For dinner. My joy was short-lived, however. Some little time later, the rebellious natives crept up behind me & shot me in the back, the shot passing clean through my shoulder. I fell to the ground with a cry. Then I felt a blow to the head & blackness descended upon me.

  36

  Jane fought the feeling of dread in her chest and said a small silent prayer. ‘A sudden death?’ she said, trying to sound as if it were the least likely thing a police officer might ask her about. ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘An elderly woman name of Letty Brownrigg. She lived up on Chestnut Hill on the outskirts of Keswick. The thing is, she had your name and phone number written on the pad by the phone in her living room.’ He let the words hang.

  Jane felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. She fought to stay calm. ‘Yes. She wrote it down on Tuesday when I went to see her. But I don’t understand why you’re calling me. Is there something wrong? Something suspicious?’ Jane was desperately struggling for the words of an innocent person. She knew already she wasn’t going to reveal Tenille’s presence at the scene. Better to withhold evidence than to expose her to suspicion of involvement in a second death.

  ‘Now, why would you think that?’

  Jane sighed in exasperation. ‘Because if she just died in her sleep, there wouldn’t be a DCI involved, never mind one phoning me up to ask me what seem like pointless questions.’

  ‘Fair enough. What it is, Mrs Brownrigg hadn’t been to the doctor for a little while, so we need to make some enquiries to make sure everything is as it should be. You say it was Tuesday that you saw her?’

  ‘Yes. She seemed fine. Quite chirpy, in fact.’

  ‘Aye, well. She did have heart problems, but she’d been fine lately. But anyhow, you’re not the last person to have seen her alive. Her daughter-in-law took her out to lunch yesterday, so we’ve got a more recent account than yours. It just seemed strange, that’s all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Jane’s skin turned to goose-flesh. Something in the very casualness of his tone unnerved her.

  ‘It’s just that this is the fourth death this week that connects to you,’ he said bluntly.

  Jane said nothing. There was nothing she could think of to say that wouldn’t sound disingenuous.

  ‘Edith Clewlow, Tillie Swain, Eddie Fairfield and now Letty Brownrigg. I believe those four names feature on a list in your possession.’

  ‘That’s because they all appear on the same family tree. The only one of those four I had ever met before was Edith Clewlow. And she was dead before I had the chance to talk to her. If there’s something funny going on, don’t you think you should be looking a bit closer to home?’ Jane could hear the defensiveness in her voice, but she knew it was a strong argument.

  ‘That might be a valid point if this hadn’t all kicked off when you turned up asking about a lost manuscript.’

  ‘All the more reason to look at the family. If the manuscript exists, it’s worth a lot of money. Seven figures, we’re talking here, Inspector. If I was the killing sort, I might think that worth the candle.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘And it’s my understanding that the first three deaths were deemed to be from natural causes. So I’m not quite sure why you’re asking me these questions
.’

  Rigston cleared his throat. ‘They say three’s the charm, don’t they? Well, I’m looking at four now, and my instincts tell me there’s something here that goes beyond coincidence. And whatever it is, you’re at the heart of it, Dr Gresham. We’ll be talking again.’

  ‘And my answers will be the same.’

  ‘Heard anything from Tenille?’ he added, throwing her off balance again.

  ‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘Goodbye, DCI Rigston.’ Jane’s heart was thudding in rhythm with her head. Edith, Tillie, Eddie and now Letty. All dead. The first four names on the list, all dead. Jake’s words echoed in her head: And they will go to extraordinary lengths. Who were these people? And surely they wouldn’t commit four murders in pursuit of what might yet turn out to be little more than a figment of Jane’s imagination? Hell, one murder would be too much for a poem. Four was beyond belief.