‘I could offer you lunch if you have time.’
‘I’m not into social lunches, but I can spare you twenty minutes. I like to get out of the office for a breath of air every now and then, maybe we can meet by the river? Say half ten on one of the benches near St George’s, overlooking Stramongate Weir?’
‘How will I recognise you?’
‘You don’t need to, Daniel.’ He noticed her use of his first name. ‘I’ve seen you on the box, remember?’
‘Fine, I’ll look forward to it.’
‘See you there.’
For a moment his skin tingled. It was almost as though they were arranging a secret tryst.
Returning to the cottage, he scribbled a conciliatory note for Miranda and propped it up on the breakfast bar. There was still no sign of her downstairs and he didn’t want to court trouble by disturbing her. Unseen, Wayne continued to slaughter the Beatles’ repertoire and was embarking upon a tuneless rendition of “Can’t Buy Me Love”.
If he wanted to clear his head, there was no better way than by climbing up to Priest Edge. He made himself a sandwich which he put with an apple and a can of Bud into his rucksack. He changed into a zip-up jacket and the pair of virgin Timberland hiking boots kept by the kitchen door. He and Miranda had been so busy with the renovations and decorating out the cottage that they’d neglected more than their writing. As he’d tidied up loose ends in Oxford, he’d pictured them spending long afternoons of exploration on the fells, but so far it hadn’t happened. Time enough for that, she said, once their home ceased to resemble a builder’s yard. When that would be, he dared not guess.
As he stepped out into the garden, a bird flew out from the rhododendrons and dipped over the tarn before vanishing into the trees. At first he assumed it was a blackbird, but a glimpse of the crescent of white at its throat persuaded him that he’d spotted a ring ouzel. Uncommon, according to his RSPB guide. He’d make a twitcher yet.
Quickening his stride, he headed for the path that wound up the hillside to the Sacrifice Stone. After seeing its dark outline against the sky so many times, he’d decided it was time for another look from close quarters, time to retrace the steps of that first trek with his father, the day he’d met Barrie Gilpin. He would return to the valley by way of the corpse road, following a circular route past the Brack Hall farmstead before branching off on to the lane that led to the disused corn mill and ultimately Tarn Cottage.
By the time he was home again, with any luck not only would Wayne have departed but Miranda should be back to her usual self. They could make up after the quarrel. Talk, maybe watch the DVD he’d picked up in Kendal at the weekend.
Her usual self. As the path climbed, he reminded himself that they’d met such a short time ago. What was her usual self? Might the Miranda he thought he knew be someone of his imagining, might he have misled himself about her true nature? Even with the sun beating down on his forehead, the question chilled him. He told himself not to be stupid, that it was absurd to allow a single quarrel to provoke such doubts.
The path was sticky with mud after the rain of recent days but even though the new boots were pinching, he made steady progress. Despite the fall-out with Miranda, he felt energy surging within him. He liked the sound of Hannah Scarlett. As he neared the top, the climb became steeper. He tripped over a twisted tree root and came to rest on a spiky clump of purple heather. When he looked up towards Priest Edge, the strange boulder was looming above him. With the ground falling away all around, it seemed like an island in the sky.
From this perspective, it seemed that a single gust might topple it over and send it tumbling down the slope, crushing him and everything in its wake. But this was an illusion: nothing could shift the Sacrifice Stone.
In his head he conjured up images of silent worshippers trooping along the hillside, bearing the young girl to be surrendered to their deity when they reached Priest Edge. In return for a death, they hoped to be granted fruitful living. Daniel could not conceive what prayers might run through the high priest’s mind as his acolytes laid the girl upon the rock and he unsheathed his knife, readying himself to slit her throat. And what of that other killer, who had mimicked the ceremony: had a current of cruel pleasure rippled through him as he brought the axe down on his unconscious victim?
Too much imagination could seriously damage your peace of mind. Time to move on. He picked himself up and five minutes later was scrambling over the last rough patch and clambering on to the summit of the fell. At last the grey bulk of the Sacrifice Stone squatted in front of him. At close quarters, the rock was smaller than in his childhood memories, but it occupied much of the narrow ridge, allowing space for no more than a couple of people to squeeze past on either side. He ran the tip of his index finger along the jagged rock. The Stone was a table resting on a base that lifted it clear of the ground. Finding temptation impossible to resist, he hauled himself up, so that he could sit on the smooth hard surface.
At once he experienced the adrenaline rush of being on top of the world. Scanning the panorama below, his heart beating faster. He might have been a king on his throne, surveying his realm. From his vantage point he could see the neighbouring valley of Whitmell, look over to the narrow cleft of High Gill and hear the rushing water of Brack Force. Shading his eyes, he gazed over Brack’s green and pleasant land towards a distant strip of water that he recognised as Windermere.
Here it was much cooler than down in the valley; the breeze made his cheeks tingle. A couple of greying fell-walkers, kitted out for all weathers, approached from the direction of Old Scar. He guessed that they were traversing the Brackdale Horseshoe, an arc formed by the crags that enclosed the valley.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said.
The woman paused mid-stride to wag a finger. ‘Better watch out for yourself, young man. You know the old story? If you climb on to the Sacrifice Stone, you’ll look Death in the eye before the month is out.’
‘I’ll take care,’ he promised. ‘And if all else fails, I’ll increase my insurance cover.’
She gave him a fierce glare before hurrying to catch her husband. Daniel recalled that his sister’s book had mentioned the dire fate foretold for those who defiled the Sacrifice Stone. Of course he shouldn’t have climbed it anyway. He scrambled off the boulder and, unfastening his rucksack, pulled out his makeshift lunch. There was nothing he could do to mitigate his breach of pagan protocol except, perhaps, to make sure he took his litter home.
The sun slipped behind a cloud and he found himself shivering. His fault for being beguiled by the brightness and neglecting to wear enough layers. After taking a couple of bites at his apple, he opened the can. The taste of the beer revived his spirits. He was wiping the foam from his mouth when a walker in a wine-red wind-cheater came into view. As the man trudged onward, his slender build and slightly jerky gait seemed familiar. So was the thick fair hair, flapping over his eyes.
‘Well, well.’ Marc Amos smiled as he neared the Sacrifice Stone. ‘Do you come here often?’
‘First time since we moved in,’ Daniel said with an answering grin. ‘What about you?’
‘As often as I can make it. If you want to get away from it all, where better?’
‘Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?’
‘We’re closed today. If I were a good boy, I’d be checking the inventory or visiting a couple of people with collections to sell, but frankly I was in the mood for a treat. After spending all weekend at a book fair up in Carlisle, I was longing for the chance to clear my head and get some fresh air into my lungs. What better way to do it than by walking the fells?’
‘This place is hard to beat, I agree. So much crammed into – what, less than a thousand square miles?’
‘Much less. I’m ashamed to say it’s months since I last walked the Horseshoe from beginning to end. It’s my favourite trek in the southern fells. Wainwright preferred the Kentmere Round, but even Homer nods. I like to linger on the way and soak up the atmosphere. When Wa
inwright was sketching the fells, he used to picture Roman legions on the march. I try to put myself in the shoes of the people who were here before the emperor’s men. The hunter-gatherers and then the Celts.’
‘Ten minutes ago, someone reprimanded me for climbing up on to the Stone in defiance of the old superstitions. All I wanted was the luxury of a magnificent view whilst I picnicked. I’d forgotten that I was taking my life in my hands.’
‘You don’t mind making waves, do you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Leigh Moffat mentioned that you caused a fuss a few nights ago in The Moon under Water. When she went to the bar, the landlord and Tom Allardyce were discussing the way you’d been talking about the girl who was killed here. You’d riled them, they were saying it was none of your business. Although they didn’t put it as politely as that.’
‘Storm in a teacup,’ Daniel said lazily. ‘All I said was that Barrie Gilpin’s guilt had never been proved. It’s harsh to be condemned as a murderer when you’ve never had the opportunity to defend yourself.’
‘You know better than most: history is written by the survivors.’
‘Yes,’ Daniel said. ‘That worries me a lot.’
Marc gave a brittle laugh. ‘Surely you can’t expect people here to be thrilled at the prospect of stones being turned over? The girl’s long buried, Barrie Gilpin, too. Time to let them rest in peace.’
‘Will they be at peace if they’ve been cheated of justice?’
Pushing the hair out of his eyes, Marc said, ‘If Barrie Gilpin was innocent, someone else must be guilty. For all we know, someone who is still living and working in the valley down there.’
Daniel gave him a long look. ‘Having claimed two victims, Gabrielle and Barrie. Would it hurt to give that someone a wake-up call?’
Marc cleared his throat. ‘Can I offer you some advice?’
‘Feel free.’
‘This isn’t Oxford. With so many tourists clogging up the car parks, the Lakes might seem cosmopolitan, but under the surface a place like Brackdale is introspective. Claustrophobic. There’s a lot of prejudice against people who come here from elsewhere and try to shape their surroundings to suit themselves. The locals have developed a carapace, it’s a way of preserving their identity. As for Tom Allardyce, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’
‘Our paths aren’t likely to cross.’
‘You don’t understand.’ The urgency of Marc’s tone took Daniel by surprise. ‘The man has a reputation for violence. Jean Allardyce has sported plenty of bruises over the years and they haven’t all come from walking into doors. The army threw Tom out for brutality, and I’d guess that says it all. He beat up Barrie Gilpin more than once and from what Leigh tells me, he’s taken a serious dislike to you. I hate to sound melodramatic, but you’ll find you’ve made a dangerous enemy.’
Daniel watched Marc Amos striding off into the distance, his wind-cheater a red blob dipping between the rocks and eventually vanishing as Priest Edge fell away towards the depression of Far Gate. Below the fell’s steep flank lay Whitmell Vale, a ravine-scarred trench watered by a meandering beck. The sheep-crowded fields and the isolated stone cottages scattered along the floor of the valley presented an inviting prospect. He’d save Whitmell for another day and keep to his plan to follow the coffin trail back to Underfell, that part of Brackdale that lay between the Hall and the slopes.
Centuries had passed since, with no consecrated ground in the Vale, Whitmell folk had strapped their dead on packhorses and taken them over the fell to a final place of rest in the graveyard at Brack. Eventually a small church boasting a neat spire was built to serve the tiny community, and thereafter the coffin trail served no useful purpose. For those travelling from Whitmell to Brack, the lane that curved between the jaws of the Horseshoe provided a quicker route from one hamlet to the other. Yet the coffin trail boasted an enduring virtue in its glorious views of Brackdale and fell-walkers had never allowed the track to fade away through disuse.
The descent was easy and it did not take long for him to reach the foot of the fell. He crossed the beck that provided the grounds of Brack Hall with a natural boundary and skirted the Dumelows’ land on his way to the village. While he looked over to the farmhouse, the front door opened. Jean Allardyce emerged, shopping bag in hand, and hauled herself into an elderly Land Rover parked on the hardstanding beside the house. As Daniel reached the end of the driveway, the vehicle pulled up beside him.
She put her head out of the window and called, ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘That’s good of you.’ He was happy to walk, but as usual curiosity got the better of him. No harm in a short detour: Miranda wouldn’t be counting the minutes until his return. ‘If you could drop me off in the village?’
‘No problem, I’m just on my way to Tasker’s. Jump in.’
He clambered in beside her, taking in a faint freesia fragrance as she bent towards him to move a sheaf of travel brochures off the passenger seat. He hadn’t taken much notice of Jean Allardyce until now and hadn’t fully realised that, although timid and inconspicuous, she was a pretty woman with full lips and porcelain blue eyes. He found himself clenching his fists at the thought of Allardyce beating her.
‘Booking your holidays?’ he asked as she tossed the brochures into the back.
She smiled. ‘Just weighing up the options. A harmless fantasy. Ever since I was a child I’ve had this dream of journeying across the Prairies, seeing the hidden corners of Indian Country. I blame Laura Ingalls Wilder, I used to love her tales about the pioneers.’
‘You wanted to explore a different world?’
‘Yes, it would be a dream come true. Places with names like Plum Creek and Silver Lake always seemed more enticing than Grizedale and Ullswater.’ After looking each way with an unnecessary care that, he suspected, was a habit, she eased the Land Rover out into the lane. ‘I suppose you find that hard to understand.’
‘We all need a change, once in a while.’
‘You’re right. I’ve spent my whole life around here. I’ve seen nothing of the world. Nothing.’ Her voice faltered. ‘You won’t believe this, but I’ve only ever been to London once, and that was on a school trip to see Madame Tussaud’s and the Tower.’
‘Miranda will tell you that you haven’t missed much.’
‘They say that familiarity breeds contempt.’
‘Maybe not contempt, but…’
‘I think contempt is the right word,’ she said, unexpectedly fierce. ‘Never mind, you’ve both taken a risk, leaving your jobs and your friends, starting all over again. It’s very brave. Sometimes I wish I’d had that kind of courage.’
‘I don’t think we were brave. Rash, yes.’
‘I suppose that at least you knew Brackdale. You were friendly with Barrie Gilpin.’
‘That’s right. He was a good companion.’
She said tightly, ‘It’s a shame that everyone remembers him – the way they do.’
‘Your husband is very sure that Barrie killed the girl.’
‘Tom’s very sure about everything.’ She added, as if it was an explanation, ‘He was in the forces, you know.’
Daniel kept quiet, guessing that she hadn’t picked him up out of mere altruism. She needed someone to talk to. He was aware of her trembling in the seat beside him, as if she were worrying that it was a step too far even to hint that her husband’s judgment might not be perfect. Her eyes were locked on the road ahead, although even when it straightened, her speed did not exceed twenty miles an hour. Her natural caution was, he suspected, allied to a conscious fear of the consequences of doing the wrong thing. Anger welled up inside him as he contemplated the ways in which the strong may subjugate the will of the weak. But even if Allardyce used his fists to cow his wife, at least he had failed to rob her of the capacity for independent thought.
After a few moments she said, ‘I felt sorry for Barrie, but after he died, there was nothing more anyone coul
d do for him. Tom said it was all for the best.’
‘Not if Barrie weren’t guilty.’
‘No, no.’ Her voice broke. ‘It ruined his mother’s life, you know. Wrecked it. The way people turned from her, if she went into the village. No wonder she hid away. She was almost a hermit, by the end. The innocent always suffer, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They suffer most.’
‘And yet, that’s Tom’s point. He says it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘Do you agree?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said unhappily, slowing as they approached the market square. ‘I simply don’t know.’
Joe Dowling, his tan apparently replenished by a spell under the sun lamp, came out of The Moon under Water, watering can in hand. He smirked at Jean Allardyce, but treated her passenger to a scowl. Jean edged around the marked-out spaces, but there was no sign of a gap in the rows of cars. A yellow Alfa had double-parked opposite Tasker’s, and Daniel saw Tash Dumelow checking her rosy lipstick in the rear view mirror. As she caught sight of them, a broad smile spread across her face and she waved energetically in greeting.
Daniel waved back and said to Jean, ‘What’s she like to work for?’
‘Over the years, Tash has been very kind to Tom and me.’ To his surprise, Jean’s reply was neither perfunctory nor dutiful, but oddly elegiac. ‘We don’t see that much of Simon, but they make a lovely couple. Tash may not have been to the manor born, but you couldn’t wish for a nicer boss.’
Remembering the bitchiness of the Senior Common Room, he said lightly, ‘So life in the Lakes isn’t all bad, then?’
‘Probably not,’ she said. ‘You really shouldn’t take any notice of me. I’m – not myself at the moment.’
‘Thanks for the lift, anyway. If you could drop me off around here…’
Greatly daring, Jean halted the Land Rover precisely over the double yellow lines. Daniel wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d told him it was the first time in her life she’d flouted the parking regulations. Perhaps he was a good influence on her. She’d be farting in public next.
The Coffin Trail Page 15
