The Coffin Trail

by Martin Edwards

  Suicide or accident? A quick death or a lingering end in a rocky tomb? Who cared? The reports implied a poetic justice about his death. The final cutting carried another comment from Ben Kind. It said little, but was pregnant with implications. He announced that the police investigation into the murder of Gabrielle Anders was being scaled down.

  Same old story, Daniel thought, as he slipped the scraps of paper back into the buff folder. Everything was always Barrie’s fault.

  After daybreak, he went out for a walk. Dew glistened on the grass and gusts of wind whipped his hair. After circling the tarn, he followed the track that meandered up the side of the fell to a small cairn that marked the halfway point. Above the tree-line, the terrain was patched with heather and scrub. In the sun, he had to screw up his eyes as he took in the view. The serenity of the valley was a perfect cure for a troubled night. The village slept, but he could hear plaintive cries from sheep in the fields surrounding Brack Hall.

  I mustn’t let the murder take me over.

  Rather than continue on the steep path to the Sacrifice Stone, he turned back. When he reached the cottage and looked in the living room, he saw Miranda’s shape under the duvet.

  A tousled head appeared. ‘Where did you get to?’

  ‘Just getting some fresh air.’

  He bent over and began to kiss her. She squealed, protesting that his cheeks were cold, and he said that she would have to warm him up. Hungrily, he undressed again and wrapped himself around her.

  An hour and a half later, after breakfasting on scrambled eggs and scalding coffee, he jumped in his car and drove along the tree-fringed lanes towards the village. When he switched on the radio, Isaac Hayes was crooning “Walk On By”, followed by Sandie Shaw with “There’s Always Something There to Remind Me”. He couldn’t help laughing at himself. There was no escape.

  What exactly had happened to Gabrielle Anders up on the heights? Unable to resist temptation any longer, he glanced over his shoulder. High on the hillside stood the Sacrifice Stone. Melancholy even on a spring day, it preserved its mysteries in sombre silence.

  He turned his head back just in time to see an oncoming tractor. Putting his foot on the brakes and squeezing against the hawthorn hedge, he reminded himself that even in this pretty lane, unexpected dangers could lurk around the corner. Taking more care, he arrived at the first row of cottages that marked the entrance to Brack. The village was full of nooks and crannies. Over the centuries it had grown in higgledy-piggledy fashion, artless and appealing. The main street curved over the stream before running past the church. It divided around a small square boasting a general store and The Moon under Water before narrowing as it left the settlement and heading for the world beyond the valley. Behind the square wound a maze of paths and lanes, the homes of a couple of hundred people and a handful of barns, small businesses, and workshops.

  Daniel was still accustoming himself to the transition from the busy malls of Oxford to this quiet backwater. In Brackdale, people relished the chance to linger over gossip. Everyone knew everyone else and no transaction was ever hurried; he was having to learn to relax and stop rushing at everything. And he was loving it.

  Brack’s principal store was called Tasker’s; it doubled as a postoffice and he had a parcel of books to send back to the London Library. The local newspaper regularly chronicled the continuing struggle between the Royal Mail, wishing to increase efficiency and cut overheads through centralisation, and local people who campaigned against plans to compel them to travel miles to collect their pensions and BBC licences. In the end, economic realities would prevail and the community would lose its battle, but Daniel was sure it was worth going down fighting.

  A sporty yellow Alfa 156 was parked opposite the entrance to the shop, a garish contrast to the rusting Fiestas and mud-splashed 4x4s on either side, and as unlikely a sight in a Cumbrian hamlet as a lumbering Hackney cab. Tasker’s was a double-fronted Aladdin’s cave, with narrow aisles leading between overflowing shelves that reached up to the ceiling. If you couldn’t find it in Tasker’s, the odds were you wouldn’t find it anywhere north of Manchester and south of Carlisle. Behind the main shop counter were rows of chunky toffee jars, the kind that Daniel had seldom seen since childhood. A girl was serving a small boy with liquorice and blackcurrant chews and it took an effort of will for Daniel to tear himself away from the sweet aroma and join the queue stretching back from the post office grill.

  Half a dozen people were ahead of him. At the front, a shrivelled pensioner in a vast brown overcoat smelling of mothballs was arguing with a baffled teenage assistant. Daniel took his place behind a tall woman with blonde hair falling on to the shoulders of her wax cotton Barbour. After window-shopping at a pricy country-wear shop in Kendal the other day, he recognised her walking boots as top-of-range Le Chameau. She was clutching a packet of headache tablets. Turning, she smiled at him and towards the cantankerous old man.

  ‘I hope you’re not in a hurry to send that parcel. If you are, please do go before me. I’m not rushing off anywhere.’

  She wasn’t wearing make-up and didn’t need to. Her lightly tanned skin was close to flawless, her cheekbones high, almost Slavic. Although he didn’t recognise her subtle fragrance, he had no doubt that it was expensive. No prizes for guessing that she owned the sporty Alfa outside.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve all the time in the world.’

  ‘You may need it,’ she said. ‘Once Derek gets a bee in his bonnet…’

  The old man raised his voice, blaming the assistant’s youth for her incompetence. Tiring of the wait, a couple of women in the post office queue drifted away to pick up milk and provisions. A burly man in shirtsleeves, presumably Mr Tasker, appeared behind the counter and joined in the debate with his dissatisfied customer.

  Daniel grinned. ‘Regular occurrence, is it?’

  ‘It’s uncanny,’ she said. ‘Whatever time I call in, he always seems to be in front of me, making some sort of complaint.’

  ‘You live locally?’

  ‘Not far away. You?’

  ‘We’ve just moved here.’

  ‘I thought we hadn’t met. Do you live in Brack?’

  ‘Further down the valley. A little place called Tarn Cottage.’

  Her eyebrows lifted. Whenever the cottage was mentioned, people seemed to take a step back. Everyone in the valley associated it with the Gilpins, which was natural enough after so many years, but they regarded it as inextricably linked to the murder of Gabrielle Anders.

  ‘How lovely. So we’re more or less neighbours. My husband and I live on the way out to your new home.’

  ‘Brack Hall?’

  She laughed. ‘How did you guess? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know. Anyway, my name’s Tash Dumelow. Tash as in short for Natasha. Pleased to meet you…’

  ‘Daniel Kind,’ he said as they shook.

  ‘Kind?’ She frowned. ‘The name rings a bell.’

  This kept happening, thanks to the television series. He’d never quite realised until the first programme was broadcast how many people spent their time with eyes glued to the screen. His ratings had scarcely rivalled the soaps, but people kept recognising his face or name. He decided not to enlighten her and instead said something anodyne about the pleasures of country living. She gave a vigorous nod of agreement.

  ‘You’re absolutely right. I was a city girl, but now I’d never want to live anywhere else. As Wordsworth nearly said, this is the loveliest spot that woman hath ever found.’

  When Daniel explained that he’d moved up from Oxford and Miranda from London, Tash said, ‘So you don’t know people in this part of the world?’

  ‘Not unless you count the fact that in the last few weeks we’ve had half the tradesmen in Cumbria helping us renovate the cottage.’

  She smiled. ‘Will you let me give you a tip, as one off-comer to another?’

  ‘Please.’

  She lowered her voice, one conspirat
or briefing another. ‘If you ever hope of being accepted by the locals, you’ll need to get the details right. People like the Taskers don’t talk about Cumbria. That’s an administrative creation. Dating back to the Seventies, admittedly, but in a place like this, that’s only yesterday. The powers-that-be patched together Cumberland, Westmoreland, and a bit of Lancashire. If you’re a native, you talk about the Lakes. Or the Lake District.’

  He grinned. ‘Thanks, I’ll try to remember.’

  She patted him on the back. Her hand felt warm. ‘Now, you must come for dinner. My husband will be delighted to meet you both. We’ll be four off-comers together. Simon is a property developer from Skipton and I was born in Moscow, would you believe?’

  ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Oh, I moved to England in my teens and I like to pretend I’m a native. Anyway, we’ve lived at the Hall for ten years and people are only now starting to believe that – oh, I don’t know, that Simon really isn’t about to concrete over Kentmere or build a shopping arcade or multi-storey car park in Longsleddale. That’s one thing you’ll soon discover, Daniel. They are a suspicious lot round here.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he promised. ‘And thanks for the invitation. We’d love to come sometime.’

  ‘Let’s make a date now,’ she said. ‘Would Saturday evening be too soon?’

  * * *

  By the evening, as he lazed outside with Miranda and a glass of Sancerre, listening to the soft sounds in the trees and watching the fading amber of the sun colour the fell-side, he’d started having second thoughts about dining out at Brack Hall.

  ‘We could make an excuse. Remember, we did come up here to get away from it all.’

  ‘We ought to get to know our neighbours,’ she said, waving a cloud of midges from her face. ‘This is our home now. Besides, I’m intrigued. Last time I was in the shop, I overheard Mrs Tasker chatting about the Dumelows.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. She’s a trophy wife. He’s a rich businessman who’s away a lot.’

  Miranda chortled. ‘Mrs Tasker, a trophy wife? She must be size eighteen at the very least.’

  He feigned to cuff her ear. ‘I suppose she’s torn between a Brackdale native’s instinctive loathing of excessively rich off-comers and fervent gratitude for their continuing custom. It’ll take a long time for us to gain acceptance in a place like this.’

  ‘You’re telling me. I asked at the shop if there was a gym in the valley and Mrs Tasker looked at me as though I wanted to celebrate a black Mass. In the end, she admitted there were a few places. Apparently Tash works out at a fitness centre in Kendal.’

  ‘I suppose she’s bored out of her skull, that’s why she was so quick to invite us around.’

  ‘She paints watercolours, she gives time and money to good causes. Does her best to fit into the community. But her husband’s away a lot – a tenant farmer looks after the estate.’

  ‘So let’s hear the gossip. Tales of wild debauchery up at the Hall?’

  ‘No mention of orgies, sorry. You’ll have to make do with me. The Dumelows seem popular enough. Mrs Tasker said they’d agreed to sponsor an arts festival in the village hall and to throw their grounds open for charity in the summer. But she and her friend were badmouthing the farmer. He’s not popular, even though his family have lived in Brackdale for generations. Apparently, he has a vile temper, and last week he blacked his wife’s eye after a row. They were both wondering why she puts up with it.’

  ‘Probably the same reason women have put up with bullying for centuries. Lack of options.’

  ‘At least we don’t have to schmooze with him when we visit the Dumelows. Maybe I’ll wear my little black dress. Just as well I didn’t throw it out to make more room for Aran sweaters and dungarees. Mind you, I get the feeling that whatever I wear, I won’t be able to compete with the lady of the manor.’

  He reached out for her. ‘You don’t need to compete with Tash Dumelow.’

  As she leaned towards him, a loud shot cracked the silence, transfixing them both for a second until they realised that no one was shooting at them. The noise had come from the other side of the woodland.

  ‘Jesus,’ Miranda’s face was white. ‘Was that a rifle? Who would be shooting around here?’

  ‘A farmer,’ Daniel said. ‘Presumably the tenant of Brack Hall Farm. Hope he wasn’t aiming at his wife.’

  ‘You don’t think…?’

  ‘No, no.’ It hadn’t been a good joke; her hands were shaking. ‘Happens all the time in places like this. Farmers shooting vermin.’

  She frowned. ‘You mean – foxes?’

  A current of air stirred the trees, otherwise everything was quiet again. But the mood was shattered and Miranda picked up her glass and trudged back to the cottage. Daniel stayed outside, wondering about the fox. Dead, presumably. The farmer must be a skilled marksman. He’d only required a single shot.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I thought I’d look up my father’s second wife this morning.’

  Daniel was clearing the breakfast things while the Adonis with the unicorn tattoo and his colleagues competed in the hall to see whether an electric drill could drown out the noise of the hammering. He spoke casually, not wanting Miranda to guess how much this mattered to him, this attempt to make a connection with his old man, trying to figure out whatever had made him tick.

  The previous evening she’d been tense and fidgety, even after dosing up with paracetamol because the shock of the rifle shot had given her a headache. A good night’s sleep was the best medicine. Now she was perched on a high stool, engrossed in a paperback about getting in touch with one’s inner self, learning how to tap into her spiritual chi and tune in to her seven chakras. It wasn’t entirely an indulgence: self-help manuals often sparked ideas for magazine articles; Miranda could do jokey as well as introspective, whatever was required. Editors loved pieces like ‘Men are from Margate, Women are from Venice’ or ‘Don’t Settle for the Small Stuff’. Half the time she wrote about how to get more done and pack one’s life with achievement, the other half about the work-life balance and techniques for cutting down on stress.

  ‘You’re going to see her right now?’ She put the book down. ‘What do you expect her to tell you?’

  ‘Not sure.’ He poured more coffee from the filter machine. ‘I suppose I want to fill in some of the gaps. Learn about what he was really like, find out what I missed. I was so young when he went away.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘It’s different, of course, but I never wanted…’

  ‘I know,’ he said as her voice faltered. Miranda was adopted, but she’d never attempted to trace her birth mother. She’d once said that she’d never come to terms with the idea of being given up. Her horror of rejection explained a lot. Why her ex-lover’s decision to stay married had hit her so hard, why she was so angry that Tamzin hadn’t hired her simply because of her literary gifts. ‘But what’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘She might slam the door in your face.’

  ‘Fine, at least I’ll know where I stand. I don’t want to upset her. But I’d like to hear his side of the story.’

  ‘What makes you so sure she’d be willing to tell it?’ Miranda shook her head. ‘You know your trouble, Daniel? You’re too fair, you see two sides to every argument. What’s wrong with a bit of good old-fashioned one-eyed prejudice?’

  He laughed. ‘I came across enough of that in Oxford to last a lifetime. Listen, if Cheryl doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.’

  ‘Yes, but what if she talks and you hate what she has to say?’

  The address he had for Cheryl – Cheryl Kind, as he ought to think of her, although he’d never associated her with his own name – was in Oxenholme. Spots of rain were smudging his windscreen as he arrived at his destination, a grey semi-detached at the end of a cul-de-sac crowded with sycamores. Painstakingly striped lawn, a bed of precisely spaced pink and white impatiens on either side of the front path, crisp floral curtain
s at the bay window. Disappointment stabbed him, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d expected a house with more character and found it hard to credit that that his father would have deserted his family for somewhere so utterly devoid of personality.

  A ‘for sale’ sign stood next to the front wall. Presumably Cheryl was moving on. Understandable, after a bereavement. She must want somewhere easier to manage. A flat, maybe, although he reminded himself that she was much younger than his father. He’d conjured up unflattering mental images of her a thousand times, but he’d never even seen so much as a photograph of her. His sister reckoned that Cheryl was much younger than their father; she wouldn’t even be close to retirement age. Striding up to the door, he told himself to keep calm. This unknown woman had cast a shadow over his life, but his father had loved her, he had to remember that.

  As he pressed the doorbell, someone called to him from next door. ‘You won’t find anybody in!’

  A short bespectacled man in his late sixties, clad in a purple cardigan and grubby old corduroy trousers, had bustled out of the back garden of the adjoining semi. Rain had plastered strands of grey hair to his scalp. He had a garden trowel in his hand and he pointed it at Daniel, rather as a sheriff might threaten a snake oil salesman with his revolver.

  ‘Do you happen to know when Cheryl might be back?’

  The neighbour scowled. ‘Said she’d be away for a few days. Left the key with us, asked us to water the plants if there was a dry spell. Fat chance of that in this country. Whatever happened to global warming?’

  ‘So she’s gone on holiday?’