The Grave Tattoo

  ‘You’ve got the manuscript, Jenny. We know that now.’ He crouched down so he was level with her. ‘I really don’t want to frighten you, but four people have already died so someone could get their hands on this manuscript. As long as you keep it hidden, you’re next on that person’s hit list. But if you get it out in the open, entrust it to Jane, or Anthony Catto at the Wordsworth Trust, you protect yourself. I don’t want you to die for a bundle of papers. Nobody does. Give it up, Jenny.’

  The old woman’s lower lip thrust out in an expression of defiance. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.

  ‘The sheet of paper came from your house. The police were watching the house, they caught the burglar as she was leaving. She had it on her.’

  Jenny’s head came up in defiance. ‘And what’s to say she didn’t have it on her when she went in? What’s to say it’s not all some clever bluff? You and your university friends, you’re all so bloody clever-clever, that’s just the sort of thing you’d come up with. I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’ll thank you to leave me to drink my cup of tea in peace.’ She turned away, pointedly studying the birds again.

  ‘Auntie Jenny,’ Jimmy said, his voice a plea. ‘It’s for your own good.’

  ‘It would be if I had the papers he’s talking about. But I don’t, and that’s that. Now be a good lad and get him out of here before Alice comes back and has a come-apart at the sight of him.’

  Jimmy followed Dan out to the street. ‘What can I say? She’s a stubborn old biddy.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘We tried. Work on her, Jimmy. For her own sake.’

  Matthew glowered at Ewan Rigston. ‘I don’t believe my sister tried to make out I’m some sort of fiend who goes around preying on little old ladies. We might not always see eye to eye, but she knows me too well to entertain a thought like that.’

  ‘When people are in a tight corner, they have a way of speaking the truth,’ Rigston said.

  ‘So why are you quoting lies at me and pretending Jane said she suspected me?’

  ‘I never said she suspected you. I said that she told us you were one of a handful of people who knew she was interested in the Clewlow family. And that you knew what she was looking for. It’s my job to talk to people in possession of that information, Mr Gresham. Four people are dead.’

  ‘Well, it’s got nothing to do with me. I was just trying to help Jane.’ He pouted like a child. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

  ‘The person we caught burgling a cottage last night was just trying to help Jane too, we reckon. There seem to be a lot of people willing to give your sister a helping hand.’

  ‘Stop treating me like an idiot, Rigston. You’re not going to trick me into some stupid admission because there is no admission to make. Like I said, I was only trying to help. And this is the thanks I get. Up half the night trying to get my sister out of jail. Police turning up at the school, making me look like some sort of criminal.’ Matthew shifted irritably in his chair. ‘Are you done now? Only, this is supposed to be my lunch hour and so far I haven’t had any.’

  ‘I’m done for now, yes. But I’ll be checking what you’ve told me and I may have some further questions for you.’

  ‘Fine, ruin my reputation. Look, I don’t murder people. I’m just a country schoolmaster, dull and boring. People like me don’t go on killing sprees.’

  ‘I’m sure people said the same thing about Harold Shipman,’ Rigston said drily as he walked out. He didn’t like Matthew Gresham. He thought the man was a vain, pompous prick. But that didn’t make him a murderer. Nor did the fact that he’d spoken to a couple of the victims. He wasn’t a likely killer. But, in Rigston’s book, he wasn’t off the hook yet either.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Jane surfaced. Dan and Judy were in the kitchen, drinking yet another pot of tea. ‘Any joy?’ Jane asked Dan as she poured herself a cup.

  ‘Stubborn old witch wouldn’t give an inch,’ Dan said. ‘She won’t even admit she knows what we’re talking about. Jimmy’s going to work on her, but don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘I wish I knew how Tenille is doing,’ Jane said. ‘I asked if I could see her, but they wouldn’t let me near her.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave her mother a speculative look. ‘You could go,’ she said. ‘Take her some food, something to read. So she doesn’t think she’s been abandoned.’

  ‘Me? You want me to go and visit her? After the trouble she’s caused you?’

  Jane sighed. ‘She’s a good kid. Please, Mum. You’d be taking a load off my mind.’

  Judy looked uncertain. ‘What would I talk to her about?’

  Jane rolled her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just being there will be enough. Please? For me?’

  Judy pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things, I really don’t. All right, I’ll go and phone the police and see if they’ll let me talk to her.’

  As she left the room, Jane’s mobile rang. ‘Hello? Jane Gresham speaking.’

  The querulous voice on the other end was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place it at first. ‘I want to talk to you about something important but I need you to promise me you won’t tell another living soul,’ the voice said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know…’

  ‘It’s Jenny Wright,’ the woman said impatiently. ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.’

  Jane’s eyes flicked towards Dan. He had picked up the paper and was apparently reading. She turned her head slightly. ‘I can do that,’ she said.

  ‘I’d go myself, but it’s Edith’s funeral and I’ve no way of slipping away. And I think it’s urgent. Your pal, Jimmy’s young man–he said my life was at risk while the papers stay hidden. He said I’m on a hit list. I don’t want to die, lass. It might not seem like much of a life to you, but it suits me fine.’

  ‘I can understand. I feel the same,’ Jane said gently. She was desperate for Jenny to get to the point but knew there was no point in hustling her.

  ‘I know he’s your pal and all, but I’ve never trusted nancy boys,’ she said, apparently off on a tangent. ‘I don’t understand how our Jimmy turned out that way, but he’s family and he’s a lad that knows family comes first. But I don’t trust any of the rest of them. So even if he is right, I’m not letting him near it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Jane said. ‘It’s up to you.’ Her heart was thudding in her chest now, anticipation making her feel light-headed.

  ‘I want you to fetch it. There’s an old privy at the bottom of the garden with some old paint tins on a shelf. The spare key to the back door is under a tin of white gloss paint. Go upstairs to the spare bedroom and you’ll see an old brass-bound chest. It’s full of junk, but underneath all that, there’s a false bottom. Lift it, and you’ll find the papers. You go and get them and take them to the Wordsworth Trust. They can make a proper song and dance about it. That way the killer will know to leave me alone. Have you got all that?’

  ‘Clear as crystal. Thank you. Thank you so much.’ She tried not to sound too enthusiastic, not wanting to alert Dan to the momentous nature of the call. She hated keeping him out of the loop, but a promise was a promise.

  ‘And not a word to anybody. That way, you stay safe too.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll let you know how things go.’ She heard Jenny hang up the phone but she kept her mobile to her ear, pretending the conversation was ongoing. ‘OK, Neil. My mum’s going to try to see her this afternoon, but I’ll make sure she doesn’t talk about the case. Thanks for calling.’ She put the phone down.

  Dan looked up enquiringly.

  ‘My lawyer,’ she said. ‘He’s been talking to Tenille’s solicitor. He thinks I should give a statement saying Tenille didn’t know about the manuscript until after Edith was dead. It can’t hurt me and it can do her a lot of good.’

  ‘I would have thought so,’ he said, stretching and yawning. ‘I think I might go back
up to the cottage and take a nap. Will you be all right here on your own?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I might go back to bed. I feel wasted.’

  As Dan got up, Judy returned. ‘That’s all sorted, then. I can see her in an hour. Jane, you need to help me with a care package.’

  ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ Dan said, heading for the door.

  It took twenty minutes for Jane to get her mother out of the door. She was in a fever of impatience. Then it dawned on her. With her mother gone, she had no car. And her bike was presumably still at Copperhead Cottage from Tenille’s excursion. ‘Fuck,’ Jane muttered. She found her wallet and checked her cash level. She had enough for a taxi to get her to Coniston, but not enough to get back. ‘Sod it,’ she said, reaching for the phone book. She could call Anthony on her mobile once she had the manuscript. She didn’t think he’d mind in the least coming to collect her and her precious cargo.

  Jake was sitting in the bar of his hotel, nursing a pint and wondering why he was still kicking his heels in this godforsaken hole. He’d grown tired of knocking on doors where there was no reply and he’d finally given up altogether when his arrival for the third time at Eddie Fairfield’s had coincided with a police Scene of Crimes team. He hadn’t even stopped the car, just cruised on past and headed straight back for the hotel. He’d tried telling Caroline he was wasting his time, but she had insisted on him staying put. ‘You never know what will turn up,’ she’d said mysteriously, then refused to be drawn further.

  If this was working in the private sector, he couldn’t help feeling he’d made a mistake. He’d expected much more action, much more hands-on contact with the old manuscripts that had always fascinated him. Not all this hanging around in hotel rooms waiting for directions like some errand boy.

  As if to confirm him in his thoughts, his phone rang. ‘Hi,’ he said, trying not to sound as bored as he felt.

  ‘Let’s have a little hustle, Jake,’ Caroline said. ‘It’s showtime.’

  ‘What?’ He sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘I know where you can find a Wordsworth autograph manuscript,’ Caroline said.

  ‘How the hell…’

  ‘Jake, you’re not my only set of eyes and ears,’ she said. ‘But you are my only pair of hands. I know where it is, and I need you to fetch it. I’m flying back tomorrow. We’ll enjoy the spoils together.’

  It was all moving too fast for him. ‘OK, OK, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Don’t let me down, Jake. This is what I need you to do…’

  I sailed with the whalers for some months until they called at the port of Valparaiso. I rejoiced at being back. On dry land, but my journey was still only barely begun. I signed on with a trading ship that was headed, for Savannah, Georgia. There I hoped to make passage back, to England on a cotton trading vessel. But although my actions on Bounty may speak, otherwise, I am not a man given to rashness & J having made Savannah, I took, lodgings in the town & sent word to my brother of my whereabouts & J asked whether he considered it possible for me to return safely to these islands &to broach the reasons for my actions in respect of Bligh. You will imagine the impatience with which I awaited his response & my horror at his account of Bligh’s voyage, his hero’s welcome in England & of the courts martial of the notorious mutineers. I could have conjured up no worse outcome for myself. Instead of returning home, I could envisage nothing other than cruel & perpetual exile from both of my families, the one in England & the other on Pitcairn. It seemed almost too much to be borne.

  42

  The last of the light was fading behind Langmere Fell when the taxi turned up. By the time they reached Coniston, the only light came from windows where curtains had not yet been drawn. There were a few people making their way to and from the pub, and Jane asked the driver to drop her there. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by having him take her right up to Copperhead Cottage.

  It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk up to the cottage and Jane enjoyed the feel of the fresh air on her skin. Even a few hours behind bars had been enough to reinforce her need to be out of doors. There was an autumnal tang to the air, made up of leaf mould and the smoke from coal fires. It was a smell that made Jane nostalgic for the autumns of her youth–Hallowe’en guising, Guy Fawkes bonfires and fireworks, cosy evenings in the kitchen doing her homework to the background sounds of her mother baking and making preserves.

  She was so lost in her memories that she was on Copperhead Cottage almost before she realised it. Glad that she’d remembered a torch, she picked her way through the garden, its bare stalks and tender plants wrapped in sacking a sad remnant of what must have been glory in the summer. The outhouse wasn’t hard to find, and the key was exactly where Jenny had told her it would be.

  Jane let herself in and felt for a light switch. She clicked it on, but nothing happened. Cursing, she remembered Jimmy’s tale of Jenny’s elaborate preparations for leaving the house. She must have turned off the electricity at the mains. Jane was too impatient to go searching through the dim house for the fuse box, so she climbed the stairs by torchlight.

  The room with the chest was the third door on the landing. As she swept the room with her torch, Jane noticed an old-fashioned oil lamp sitting on a chest of drawers, a box of matches next to it. That would make things easier, she thought, lifting the glass and turning the knob that raised the wick high enough to light it. The flame guttered and smoked, but Jane lowered the wick a little and replaced the glass. It wasn’t as good as electric light, but it was a damn sight easier than trying to juggle the torch and the contents of the chest.

  Jane crouched down and raised the lid. Her eager hands hurriedly lifted out the jumbled contents and dumped them on the floor next to her. By the light of the lamp, she could see the thin leather loop. Holding her breath, she lifted it and set it to one side.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she murmured, reaching out and letting her fingers caress the brittle, yellowing pages. It was real. She lifted the bundle out and stared at it. William Wordsworth wrote this. Dorcas Mason kept it safe.‘Thank you, Dorcas,’ she said, getting to her feet, her eyes still fixed on the familiar handwriting.

  ‘I’ll take that now.’ The voice was as shocking as the chill waters of Langmere Force.

  Jane whirled round, clutching the papers to her chest. ‘It’s fine,’ she gabbled. ‘I’ve got them safe, it’s fine.’

  Dan shook his head, his mouth curling in a pitying smile. ‘Just hand them over, Jane.’

  ‘Why? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Did you really think I was going to fall for that line about a call from your lawyer? You’ve never had an emotion that wasn’t written all over your face. There’s not a lawyer on the planet could make you look like that. Now, just give me the fucking papers.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I want them. Because I’m tired of my crappy life. Because I’m tired of being a nobody going nowhere. Because I deserve something better and this manuscript is my ticket to it.’ He made an impatient movement with the hand that wasn’t holding the heavy rubber torch. ‘Because I can. Now give me the fucking papers.’ He took a step closer and Jane backed up, almost tripping over the chest.

  ‘This is crazy, Dan. We can work on this together, that’s enough to make a great career for us both.’

  He snorted. ‘You think I want to be a fucking academic for the rest of my life? You really think that’s how I want my life to be? What a tiny, pathetic ambition. I want things you can’t even imagine.’

  Cold creeping fear had its hand on her now. She had never suspected this viciousness existed within a man she had counted a friend. ‘Things worth killing for?’

  ‘It was an accident, the first time. I just meant to scare her. But–’ he snapped his fingers–‘she went out like a light, and it made things easier. It’s no big deal, Jane. They were old. I’ve seen how death creeps up on people and it’s not pretty. You might even say I did them a favour. Saving them from a slow and lonely dec
line.’

  ‘You don’t have the right to make that decision. They valued their lives, how dare you presume to play God?’ She had no idea how she was going to escape him, but she knew she had to try to keep him talking. ‘And what about me? I’m not old, but you tried to kill me.’

  ‘I’m not getting into it, Jane. Stop playing for time. Give me the papers.’ He lunged towards the manuscript, but she fended him off with her free hand.

  Sudden rage erupted in his face, turning his lips to a snarl and his eyes to narrow slits. ‘Stop fucking with me,’ he screamed, slamming the torch into the side of her head.

  A brilliant light exploded behind her eyes. Then everything went dark.

  It was the acrid smell of burning that acted on Jane like smelling salts, helping her make the last steps on the upward spiral into consciousness. Bleary and groggy, she pushed herself up on one elbow, unsure of where she was and how she had come to be there. The flames were what drove her disorientation from her, sharpening her consciousness. Jane pushed herself to a crouch. A line of fire extended from the spilled oil lamp across the floor for about eight feet. The carpet was burning, and the paint around the door frame was beginning to bubble. The air was already thickening with smoke, sparks shooting upwards like baby fireworks. Through the shimmering haze above the flames, she could see Dan, his face attentive, watching the fire take hold, making sure the blaze across the threshold kept her at bay.