by Val McDermid
‘Morning, Anthony,’ she called as she headed for the table.
He looked up, his craggy face creasing into a smile. ‘Jane, my dear,’ he said, his voice rich and plummy as Jack Horner’s pudding. ‘How lovely to see you.’ He unfolded his lanky height from the chair and extended a hand. Jane took his warm dry palm in her chilled one and shook it. ‘My, but you’re cold,’ he exclaimed.
‘I cycled down from Fellhead. It felt mild when I started out, but it ended up a bit colder than I expected,’ she admitted ruefully.
‘City life’s making you soft. You’re losing that Lakeland hardiness,’ he said, pouring her a coffee.
‘No, that’s bred in the bone. It’ll take more than a bit of cold to see me off.’ Jane sipped her coffee appreciatively.
‘Well, Jane, I’m most intrigued by this letter of Mary’s. After we spoke, I tracked it down, right where you told me it would be.’ He shook his head, mouth twisted into an expression of disapproval. ‘Extraordinary that nobody came across it before. Well, I say extraordinary. But there are still far too many items in the archive that still haven’t been fully catalogued.’
‘And it was tucked inside the wrong envelope. Do you think it refers to a poem?’
He tugged at his earlobe. ‘Mary is annoyingly nonspecific, isn’t she? It could be a letter, it could be notes for a poem, or it could be a poem itself. Or indeed, all three. Tell me why you think it might be a poem.’
‘I think Fletcher Christian came back,’ Jane said abruptly. She felt as if she’d been telling this story in one form or another for days. But she knew she would have to earn Anthony’s help so she prepared to give it a new spin.
Anthony’s smile bordered on the indulgent. ‘Ah, that old Lakeland chestnut. Still, though somewhat implausible, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Now, I believe he left Pitcairn somewhere around 1793 or 1794. Certainly before the children were old enough to have any memory of him. It’s hard to know how long he took to get back to England. Whether he made his escape on a whaler or managed to sail all the way to South America in one of the jolly boats, he would still have had to make his way across to the Atlantic and work his passage back, probably as an ordinary seaman. All of that would have taken time. Years, perhaps.’
Anthony nodded. ‘Agreed.’
‘Now, even though he knew he’d probably been convicted of mutiny in his absence, he had no reason to suppose that anyone outside the seafaring establishment would know anything about it. He wasn’t to know that Bligh’s phenomenal voyage had turned the mutiny into the eighteenth-century equivalent of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. It must have been a hell of a shock when he discovered he was notorious.’
Anthony frowned. ‘He was a bright chap, your Mr Christian, wasn’t he?’
‘By all accounts, yes. Why do you ask?’
‘It would have made a certain sense for him to have remained overseas while he communicated with someone at home he could trust. If for no other reason than to make arrangements for his return.’
Jane nodded. ‘Perfect sense.’
‘And that might well explain the curious incident of William’s letter to the Weekly Entertainer,’ Anthony said. ‘You know about the letter, of course?’
‘William wrote to the paper to repudiate a pamphlet purportedly written by Fletcher describing his post-Bounty adventures. I’ve seen the pamphlet and it’s the most preposterous rubbish.’
‘But it had clearly gained sufficient currency with the public at large for William to rise above the parapet to denounce it as spurious. Not only is it the only reference in his writings to the mutiny, but it’s also the only letter he ever sent to a newspaper that was signed with his own name rather than a pseudonym. Doesn’t he say something along the lines of having the best authority for his assertion? Which might suggest that Edward Christian knew exactly where his brother was, or at least knew enough to persuade William to state categorically that the pamphlet was a farrago of lies.’ Anthony leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his rationale. ‘So far, so logical. But how do we get from this point to the putative poem?’
Jane smiled. ‘It’s all a question of timing. I think Fletcher stayed away until the Bounty was old news. I think he came back around 1804.’
‘Why then, specifically?’
‘By then, England was at war with France and every sailor’s mind was focused on Napoleon. Nelson, not Bligh, was the naval hero on everyone’s lips. It had been ten years since Fletcher had escaped from Pitcairn and I’d guess he was pretty bitter and frustrated that Bligh had robbed him of that time at home. He must have desperately wanted to put his side of the story. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’ Anthony rubbed his chin. ‘I see now where you’re going with this. By 1804, William was not only a poet of some reputation, he had also shifted his interest from short lyric poetry to the epic. He was working on The Prelude. He was probably dreaming in iambic pentameter. He was in precisely the right creative place to deal with the material.’
‘Right. And what could be more natural than Fletcher turning to William? Who better to tell his side of the story than someone he’d known since boyhood?’
‘Imagine how disappointed Fletcher must have been when he realised William was never going to publish it.’ Anthony smiled at her, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Jane, you’ve spun a very pretty web out of next to nothing. How do you propose to anchor it more firmly to reality?’
Jane grinned. ‘Well, in an ideal world, Anthony, we’d open one of your boxes and find William’s notes and the completed poem.’
‘Failing that?’
‘I need to find John’s reply to Mary. That might give me some clues where to start looking for whatever it was William didn’t want anyone to see.’
Anthony pursed his lips. ‘I don’t recall ever reading anything of that nature.’
And you would if you had, Jane thought. She still remembered once asking Anthony if he knew when the back door to Dove Cottage had been built. Without hesitation, he had replied, ‘It must have been in or around March 1804. Dorothy refers in a letter that month to it having been installed.’ If John’s letter to his mother was in the archives, Anthony would know. ‘That’s a pity,’ she said.
Anthony raised an admonitory finger. ‘But there are a couple of boxes of family letters that have not been fully catalogued. They’ve been sitting at the back of a cupboard for years. We only found them when we were packing up the archive for the transfer to the new centre. Deborah took a quick look through and they were from after William’s death, so there seemed little urgency about getting to them. You’re very welcome to take a pass through them yourself.’ Never one to hang around, he drained his coffee cup and stood up expectantly. ‘There is a price, of course,’ he added as they walked back to the kitchen.
Jane felt a slight tingle of surprise. It wasn’t like Anthony to be so direct about the trading of favours. He was normally far too much the diplomat. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘You have to express undying admiration for our new Jerwood Centre,’ he said, turning back to show her an impish smile.
‘I think I can just about afford that,’ she said, following him out of the café.
We arrived in Otaheite on the 25th day of October 1788 after a long and treacherous voyage. We had failed to breach the Horn, so had to turn back and make our voyage the long way round by way of the Cape of Good Hope. The men were exhausted and sick, notwithstanding Lieutenant Bligh’s insistence that they dance every day on deck to maintain good physical condition. Otaheite seemed to all like a paradise on earth rich in everything a man could desire. I considered myself fortunate in that I was sent to build a camp ashore, where I was to supervise the collection of the breadfruit whose transportation was the very purpose of our voyage. Among the men I chose to accompany me was young Peter Heywood, in part because I thought him safer under my care than on board under a captain who would n
ot hesitate to make him victim to his vindictive spirit. As I look back upon it now, I believe I may have chosen the wrong path.
13
Tenille surfaced from sleep in a panic, not remembering for a moment why the light was coming from the wrong direction. She thrashed free of the unfamiliar duvet in the strange bed, looking wildly round as she struggled for her bearings. Then the night before piled in on her, memories tumbling over each other in a kaleidoscope of horror. Sleep had left her sticky-eyed and sweaty, the tormented dreams like a bad taste in her mouth.
She tumbled out of bed and ran for the bathroom, just making it in time to throw up in the toilet. She lay huddled on the floor, shuddering at the unwanted images playing behind her eyes. Geno’s blood, Geno’s shredded flesh, Geno’s clothes ripped to rags. She wasn’t sorry he was dead; her teenage vision of the world admitted few shades of grey and, as far as she was concerned, he had been scum. But she was sorry she’d had to see what was left of him after her father had made him pay what was due.
She heaved herself to her feet like an old woman and shuffled into the kitchen. Somehow, the scouring of her stomach had left her hungry. All there was in the fridge was a chunk of cheddar cheese, a carton of orange juice, half a jar of mayonnaise and the remains of a bunch of spring onions. No milk, no Coke. ‘Useless,’ she muttered to herself, opening cupboards. A packet of oatcakes. Pasta, rice, tinned tomatoes, kidney beans and lentils, a few packs of instant Chinese noodles. Coffee, Earl Grey tea, drinking chocolate. A box of breakfast cereal, the kind that was all dried fruit and grains. Grumbling under her breath, Tenille grabbed the cereal and tipped some into a bowl. She poured orange juice over it and took it back to the living room.
She switched on the radio and tuned it to the local talk radio station. She needed to find out what they were saying about Geno’s death. She climbed back into bed with her food and chewed miserably while she waited for the news bulletin.
First up was some political bollocks. Why did the announcers always sound so cheerful, she wondered. Who were they trying to kid? Did they think people wouldn’t notice the crap if they made it sound like they were telling you you’d won the lottery? The relentless good spirits continued to the second item. ‘Police have launched a murder inquiry following a serious fire in a flat on the notorious Marshpool Farm Estate in Bow. The body of a man was discovered by the fire crew attending the blaze. Detective Inspector Donna Blair, who is leading the inquiry, has appealed for witnesses.’ A new voice spoke. ‘We believe that the victim may have been shot and the fire set to cover the crime,’ she said, her tone blankly official. ‘We would appeal for anyone who saw anything suspicious in or around G Block of Marshpool Farm Estate between ten and eleven yesterday evening to come forward.’
Tenille made a derisive noise. Fat chance. Nobody was going to grass up the Hammer, not if they wanted to live to see their next birthday. The announcer moved on to the next story and she tuned out the sound of his voice. There had been no surprises in the news item. She knew from watching forensic documentaries that the fire wouldn’t have disguised the fact that Geno had been blown away first. But, hopefully, it would have destroyed any traces that would lead back to her father.
She ought to think about putting in an appearance. Sharon wouldn’t be too worried once the police had told her there was only one body in the fire. She’d just assume Tenille had come back late and, finding the place crawling with cops and firemen, she’d done as any Marshpool Farm resident would in the circumstances and gone to ground. But she’d better not leave it too long. She decided she’d monitor the news until late afternoon, then she’d turn up, claiming she’d been sleeping at a friend’s house, too frightened to show her face. That should cover it.
A couple of hours later, she was interrupted in the middle of an online conversation about Keats’ ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ by a knock at the door. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered. On silent feet she made for the door, jumping nervously as the caller knocked again, this time more loudly and for longer. Tenille edged towards the door, then inched up to the spyhole. She risked a quick look.
Her mouth fell open in surprise. The last person she expected to see standing outside Jane’s door was that scumbag Jake Hartnell. It had been ages since he’d fucked off. Jane hadn’t said much about it, but Tenille had read the misery in her face when she talked about him going off to Greece. Now it looked as though Greece hadn’t worked out and the useless wanker was back. Well, she was sure as hell not going to open up for him. Nor did she have any intention of letting Jane know he’d come knocking.
The letter box rattled and Tenille pressed herself back against the wall, holding her breath. ‘Jane?’ he called out. Like that would have made Jane come running, Tenille thought contemptuously. She heard him sigh, then the flap clattered shut. She stayed put, wanting to make sure he was gone before she made a break for the study. Long seconds passed, then the letter box banged back and a sheet torn from a notebook fell to the mat. Tenille counted to sixty, then bent down to pick up the paper. She shook her head in exasperated disbelief as she read it. Dear Jane, I just got back from Crete and came straight round to see you, but you weren’t in. I’ve missed you and I want to see you. I’ll give you a ring later. Hope we can meet for a drink or dinner. Love, Jake.
Love, Tenille thought. Adults could be so stupid. You didn’t have to be a genius to know Jake’s stupid note had no chance of getting a result. The way he’d upset Jane, he’d need to splash out on the entire contents of a flower shop before she’d maybe think about letting him buy her a bottle of champagne. At least, he would if Jane had any sense. Which Tenille seriously doubted where Jake was concerned. She screwed the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the bin as she went back to her chat room. No way was she going to give Jane the chance to make a fool of herself over Jake again.
It was the least she could do in return for Jane sorting Geno.
Jake turned away and walked briskly down the bleak gallery, frustrated at Jane’s absence, wondering where she was. He was sure this wasn’t one of her days for the Viking, nor did she teach today either. She should have been home. It never occurred to him that it was unreasonable to expect that her life would still run to the rhythms that had driven it when he had been part of it.
He took the stairs at a run, trying not to think about why they stank of acrid smoke instead of piss, and hurried back to where he’d parked the car. To his relief, Caroline’s Audi was still there, apparently untouched. He knew Marshpool Farm well enough to realise that broad daylight was no guarantee of a smart car’s safety. Nor were the two police cars parked nearby. Once inside, he locked the doors and pondered his next move. He was going to have to work at getting back in with Jane again. Face to face, one to one was the best way to achieve that. The Viking was out of the question; Harry would be there at her side, ready to put the shaft in. Harry had never liked him. The university was no better a prospect. There, she’d be flanked by colleagues, friends, students, all convenient shields to hide behind. And the library was a bad idea. Too easy for her to take refuge in the silence.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t hang around the estate, staking out her flat like some seedy private eye. He’d attract far too much attention from the sort of people who wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to part him from car, wallet and mobile phone. Not to mention the police, who would be interested in anyone driving a car like the Audi around the Marshpool.
At last, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he called the university. If she had changed her schedule and was teaching today, it would be a lot easier to keep watch for her there. Then he could follow her and choose his moment.
When he was finally connected to the English Department secretary, she put him on hold while she made enquiries. Jake drummed his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he tried not to listen to the tinny whine of Sting’s voice. What possessed the people who chose the music to fill callers’ ears, he wondered. Why couldn’t they choose some
thing calm and soothing so the person hanging endlessly on the line would have their homicidal urges eased rather than exacerbated? He was profoundly grateful when the music stopped abruptly and the woman’s voice came back on the line. ‘You’re out of luck,’ she said. ‘Jane Gresham isn’t teaching today. In fact, she has a leave of absence. She won’t be back in the department for two weeks.’
‘Leave of absence? Why? Is there some family crisis or something?’
‘All I can tell you is what’s in the system. “Leave of absence for purposes of study”, that’s all it says here. If you want to leave a message, I can put it in her pigeonhole.’
‘No, thanks all the same. I appreciate your help.’ Jake ended the call with a quickening of his heart. Study leave, in the middle of term. That could only be because something unforeseen and urgent had cropped up.
