by Val McDermid
‘That’s very commendable of him. But I’m not selling anything. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. What I wanted to discuss could possibly be of benefit to you.’ He tried for the reassuring look.
‘It’s not timeshare, is it? Only, I don’t do foreign holidays. Not since Mavis Twiby had such a terrible experience when she broke her hip in Greece. You take your life in your hands abroad, you know. Being young, you probably don’t think it matters, but it does. Especially with all this terrorism.’
‘It’s not timeshare, Mrs Clewlow. I want to speak to you about one of your ancestors.’
Her head drew back and her eyebrows climbed. ‘My ancestors? You’re the second person to ask about my ancestors lately. Well, the third, I suppose, really, if you count our Sam.’
Jake felt a spasm in his chest at her words. How could he have been beaten to the draw like this? He was so sure he was ahead of Jane. ‘Someone else?’ he said. It was an effort to keep his voice level.
‘Aye. Our Sam, my great-grandson, that is–he’s been doing a project at school about family history. He’s a lovely lad, Sam, a credit to his mum and dad. Always got time for his old great-gran as well, not just when he wants to pick my brain about his family tree. Any road, it seems he’s done a right good job of it. The headmaster said as much this morning. Rang me up special to talk to me about it. He said I’d been a right good help to Sam and he wanted to thank me personally.’
Jake’s brain was racing. ‘You mean Matthew Gresham?’
‘Aye, that’s right. You know Mr Gresham?’
Jake nodded. ‘I do. I know his sister Jane better, but I’ve met Matthew a few times.’ What the hell was going on here? Had Jane managed to overcome Matthew’s antagonism towards her enough to enlist his help?
Edith’s air of suspicion had completely dissipated in the face of such evidence of Jake’s bona fides. ‘You’d better come in, then. I can’t be standing for too long, I’ve got chronic back pain, you know. And nothing they give me does a bit of good,’ she continued as she ushered him into a bewilderingly cluttered but preternaturally clean living room. Nothing seemed to have been left in its virgin state. A transparent plastic runner covered the carpet on the route from door to armchairs. The armchairs themselves had loose covers underneath antimacassars, arm protectors and throws to shield the loose covers. Photo frames were adorned with the bows florists garnish bouquets with; the very book Edith was reading was encased in a Mylar sleeve. The room had the chemical tang of furniture polish and air freshener. Jake was amazed he hadn’t been asked to remove his shoes at the door and put on one of those white suits forensic scientists wear. ‘Doctors,’ Edith continued as she dropped into the armchair nearest the fireplace. She closed in on herself like a hedgehog. ‘What do they know? Give you one set of pills and, before you know it, you can’t move your arms because they react with one of the pills you’re already on. Blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills, heart tablets. Shake me and I’d rattle. I don’t know what I’d do without my family around me. Take a seat, young man, don’t be standing there like Piffy.’
Jake perched gingerly on the edge of an armchair. ‘Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.’
Edith snorted. ‘At my age, time’s there to be filled. When I was young, there were never enough hours in the day. Now, breakfast to bedtime can feel like forever. I’ve got plenty of time to spare for a chat, lad. So, what is it about my ancestors that could interest somebody like you enough to come all the way up to Langmere Stile? Because you’re not from around here, are you?’
Jake shook his head. ‘I live in London. I’m a specialist in old manuscripts. I used to work at the British Library, but now I work privately as a broker between buyers and sellers.’
Edith looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with me and my family?’
‘It’s actually your late husband’s family that I’m interested in. Well, one member of his family, to be precise. His great-great-grandmother Dorcas. Did he ever mention her?’
Edith frowned. ‘Not that I recall. Surely she’d have been in her grave long before he was born?’
‘More than forty years before. But you know how it is with families–sometimes the old stories get passed down the generations.’
Edith rubbed her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t recall any stories from that long ago. And it’s not that my memory’s going. My body might be falling to bits but I’ve still got all my chairs at home.’ Edith tapped the side of her head to make her point. ‘I don’t think I ever heard anything further back than his great-uncle Eddie getting a medal in the First World War. Much good it did him; he got himself killed in action at the second battle of Ypres. But Dorcas? I never heard tales about her. The only way I even know her name is that it’s in the family Bible. I had to look it all up for our Sam. That’s why it’s fresh in my mind, like.’
Jake’s hopes flickered into life again. If she had a family Bible, she might also have family papers. ‘You’ve got the family Bible?’
‘Aye. It’s falling to bits now, but it’s been in the family since 1747.’
‘That’s a fascinating thing to have. Are there other family papers too?’
Edith laughed. ‘You make us sound like royalty. Folk like us don’t have family papers, lad. We could barely read and write back in the old days. Nay, the only thing I’ve got from David’s family is the old Bible. Why would you think we’d have family papers that would interest the likes of you?’
‘I wondered if Dorcas had left any papers. A diary, maybe. Or something similar.’
‘But why? What makes you think that?’ Edith gave an incredulous little laugh. ‘What’s so special about Dorcas Clewlow?’
Jake spread his hands in an attempt to diminish the significance of his interest. ‘It was a long shot. The interesting thing about Dorcas is that before she married Arnold Clewlow she was a maidservant to the Wordsworth family. She was working there in the last years of William Wordsworth’s life and stayed on for a while after he died.’
Edith seemed to pull herself more erect. ‘William Wordsworth, you say? Well, cover me in feathers and call me a bird of paradise. Who’d have thought it? Fancy me marrying into history and not even knowing it.’
‘So you see why I’m interested in anything Dorcas might have left behind. There are plenty of scholars and collectors willing to pay good money for anything connected to Wordsworth. I came across Dorcas’s name in some family letters and thought it was worth a try. But I can see I’ve wasted your time.’ Jake made to stand up.
‘Nay, you’ve cost me nowt. But even if I could be more help, I couldn’t let something like that go out of the family. I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll mention it to Frank when he comes in tomorrow morning. He’s a fine lad, our Frank. Comes in every morning to make sure I’ve made it through the night. I’ll get him to ask around the family, see if anybody’s ever heard anything.’
‘That would be helpful.’ Jake fished in his wallet for a business card. ‘You can reach me on my mobile,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you right back, save on your phone bill.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Edith said, struggling out of her chair. ‘They say we’ve got long memories in these parts. In my experience, that only covers grudges.’ She smiled. ‘And there’s plenty of them round here.’
Jake trudged back to the car, trying not to feel too downcast. On the positive side, it seemed as if Dorcas’s past was a secret history as far as her family was concerned. Which meant someone somewhere might have a little treasure trove whose contents had never been thoroughly explored. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Edith Clewlow spreading the word round the family. He didn’t doubt that the younger generation would have more of an eye for the main chance and less concern with keeping things in the family if those things turned out to be a potential goldmine. Talking to them directly would be better than having Edith bend their ears about hanging on to their heir
looms. He wondered about calling her later to suggest she keep his visit to herself. Would it have any effect, or would it just make her suspicious? He kicked out at a clump of grass, angry with himself for not handling Edith more effectively.
As he reached the car, he realised his hangover seemed to be improving. What he needed was some exercise to see it off once and for all. Then he could decide whether to bother any more old biddies today or whether to have another crack at making contact with Jane. He reached into the car for the Ordnance Survey map and spread it out on the roof. Studying his position, he realised that the road had brought him within a mile of Carts Moss. One of the hundreds of footpaths crisscrossing the Lake District crossed the road about quarter of a mile ahead. From there, it was only a mile or so to the moorland where the body in the bog had been found. It would, he thought, be interesting to see the putative last resting place of Fletcher Christian. He grabbed his backpack and set off.
Half an hour later, he was standing on the margins of a strange landscape. On a long plateau of moorland, human hands had joined with the weather to carve the peat hags into curious shapes, tussocks of grass like sprawling islands in a black morass. Puddles of brown water seemed to ooze from the ground and a faint smell of decay hung in the air. It was, Jake thought, a pretty dismal place to meet one’s end. How different had it been all those years before when a man had met his death as he walked these hills? He would never know. If the dead man was truly Fletcher Christian, it was a bathetic end to a dramatic life.
The place was depressing Jake, so he struck off up the hill at an angle. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself rounding the broad flank of Langmere Fell, a perfect Lakeland vista opening up before him. To his surprise, he was looking down at Fellhead. And there was the Gresham family farm. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out his binoculars.
He swept them over the village and, as he reached the lane leading to the farm, he was astonished to see Jane walking up the road. ‘Bugger,’ he said aloud. ‘Missed you again.’ He watched as she climbed the hill, her familiar movements tugging at his memory and reminding him of the good times. They’d walked these hills together a couple of times and he’d marvelled at her strength and agility. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise after the sexual energy they’d shared, but it had taken him aback to realise she could leave him standing on the fells.
As she turned into the farm gate, another figure swam into his field of observation, sweeping Jane into a hug. Jake was taken aback. He fiddled with the focus wheel, as if that would somehow alter the identity of the person he was looking at. ‘What the fuck?’
What was she playing at? Had she rumbled him? Was she indulging in an elaborate charade to piss him about? Jake lowered the binoculars and chewed at the skin round his thumbnail. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling indeed.
We gave the women gifts and were civil towards them. The five men who boarded with the women were like jackdaws. They tried to steal whatever they could, and I myself thwarted a native in an attempt to steal our compass card. I sent him on his way with stripes from the cat, and his companions followed rapidly. We rejoiced at their departure, but all the while another party had cut away the marker buoy for an anchor. I fired my musket at them and ordered the crew to fire a four-pounder loaded with grapeshot. As they fled, I decided to press home our advantage and we made for shore in our ships’ boats. They hurled stones at us; we fired our muskets at them till they fled. We killed eleven without loss on our side. The men christened the anchorage Bloody Bay. And yet, I liked the look, of the place and thought it sufficiently out of the way to provide a haven for us. But the murmurings of the crew against Toobouai were such that I decided we should return to Otaheite for some little time.
23
It was a lot harder than it sounded, this hillwalking shit, Tenille thought as she laboured up another steep incline. She reckoned she was pretty fit, but agility and speed didn’t count for much on these punishing ascents. And the descents were almost worse. It felt as if someone had injected a red-hot iron rod through the middle of her thighs. She had found a new respect in her heart for Wordsworth, who had tramped miles over these hills as if it was nothing more than a stroll in the park.
Of course, Wordsworth had only had poetry to worry about. He wasn’t on the run from the cops, skint and sleep-deprived, scared and stained with travel. Tenille pulled the map out of her pocket again and tried to match the weird lines and blue patches to the landscape she was looking at. The Ordnance Survey map was as unfamiliar to her as the hills and dales around her. She’d bought it at the bus station in Kendal when she’d realised that there wasn’t a bus to Fellhead on a Saturday. One of the drivers had told her that the Keswick bus would drop her at the road end, but she’d decided against that. She’d already figured out that black stood out round here like a pig’s head in a halal butcher’s. People would remember a black kid getting off the bus and, if the cops had figured out where Jane was, somebody might just make the right connection. So she’d bought the map and puzzled over it. It was like trying to solve one of those IQ tests they’d made her do at primary school. What was the difference between a path, a footpath and a bridleway, for Chrissake? And did it matter?
Eventually she worked out that if she got off the bus at Dove Cottage, like all the tourists on the Wordsworth trail, she could take a footpath over Grasmere Common that would bring her out on the right side of Langmere Fell. Then she could cut straight down the hill to Fellhead and safety. She could find somewhere to hide out until she could make for the farm under cover of darkness.
It was, she thought, a good plan. She was mostly just grateful to be away from Lancaster. Thinking about what had happened there sent a shiver through her. She’d thought she was sorted when, after a lot of wandering around, she’d come upon a small park near the city centre. It had been almost midnight when she’d found a bench that was surrounded on three sides by a high hedge, like a little secret bower. Although she was cold and still hungry in spite of the burger, she’d curled into a ball and fallen straight into oblivion.
She wasn’t sure what had woken her, but when her startled eyes jerked open, she saw a man silhouetted against the smudge of light from the distant streetlights. He was short and stocky and smelled of drink. Tenille had panicked, pushing herself against the back of the bench, already calculating the chances of escape. Not good, not at this point. ‘You working, son?’ the man demanded, his northern accent thickened with alcohol.
It took her a moment to process his words; she had forgotten that she had gone to sleep a boy. She knew about such things, of course, but it had never occurred to her that she might be prey to sexual advances in her assumed role. What the hell was she supposed to do now? ‘No,’ she said, trying to deepen and roughen her voice. ‘I was sleeping, all right?’
The man grunted. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t working. What’s wrong? You don’t fancy me?’ He reached forward and she heard the unmistakable sound of a zip opening. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t gauge how serious he was. ‘Take a look at this.’
The faint blur of his penis emerged against his jeans. Tenille scrambled back, feet on the seat of the bench, half-crouched and ready to spring when the opportunity presented itself. She could feel the sweat of panic running down her spine, smell its rancid edge. The man thrust his groin towards her. ‘Come on, you little prick teaser, all I want’s a fucking blow job, I’ll pay you, for fuck’s sake.’ He reached for her head but she dodged him, almost losing her balance.
Then his hand was between her legs, clutching tightly through the fabric of her trousers. Suddenly he let go and leapt backwards. ‘You little fucker,’ he shouted. ‘You’re a fucking bitch. You trying to make an arse out of me or what?’
He was zipping himself up now, her chance to get away. As she powered off the bench and tried to pass him, he threw a punch at her. It caught her a glancing blow on the shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. She raced into the d
ark, a harsh sob escaping from her throat as she dived into the tangled branches of a clump of rhododendrons. She fought her way to the heart of the thicket and curled into a ball, pulse racing and breath ragged, tears pricking her eyes. Calm was a long time in returning, but eventually she managed to doze off again.
Her rest had been broken and shallow. Every night sound was enough to penetrate her sleep and most were sufficient to rouse her. By the time light began to creep into the sky, Tenille had been more than ready to shake the dust of Lancaster off her feet. An early bus had brought her to Kendal then to the local service which had brought her to the revelation that was the Lake District. She’d seen Jane’s photographs, she’d read about it in poems and books, but nothing had prepared her for this. She’d always felt some degree of doubt that a landscape could stir the deepest emotions. Tenille had seldom been outside London, and then only to seaside resorts like Southend and Clacton. Her own limited experience had provided her eyes and heart with nothing inspirational to inhabit. But as beauty unrolled before her, mile after mile, she began to have a glimmer of understanding of the passion that could come simply from being alive in a place like this. She found herself growing eager to leave the confines of the bus, to strike out into the countryside and take it into herself. It was enough to make her forget how tired, hungry and dirty she was.
