‘Was there anything particular?’ she asked in the end. ‘The roof isn’t leaking, the electrics haven’t gone up in smoke?’
‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘No problem,’ she assured him. ‘Talk soon. Love you.’
She made a loud kissing noise and the phone went dead.
‘The woman intrigued me.’
Alban Clough was leaning back in his ancient leather chair, eyes shut and hands behind his head. He might have been speaking of an exhibit on display downstairs and not his daughter’s vanished lover.
‘Why?’ Hannah asked.
He’d invited her up to the small sitting room at the top of Inchmore Hall. The only access from the living quarters on the floor below was by a perilous spiral staircase lit by candles in wall-holders that would have a health and safety inspector frothing at the mouth. But Alban Clough clambered up the steps like a mountain goat rather than a man of seventy five with a heart condition. As she followed, Hannah took care not to look down and tried not to think about the cop who feared heights in that Hitchcock movie.
The small table that separated them was piled high with books and foolscap sheets of closely written text, with more papers scattered across the carpet; Alex’s tidiness gene couldn’t have been inherited from her father. Looking through the single mullioned window, Hannah watched slivers of mist curling down from the heights. At least there was one hotspot inside Inchmore Hall. A log fire crackled and the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood.
Alban Clough jerked upright and opened his eyes. As he shifted his weight, the armchair squeaked. ‘She was a sweet girl, but secretive.’
‘What about?’
‘I could not discover that. Which is why I was intrigued.’
‘Her sexuality? The relationship with your daughter?’
He pooh-poohed the suggestions with a flourish of an age-spotted paw. ‘I might claim, Chief Inspector Scarlett, to be worldly wise. It was apparent from our first meeting that Emma was a lesbian. A man of sensitivity and experience can recognise the signs, let me assure you.’
How easy to take a serious dislike to Alban Clough. Six feet three and broad as a bull, with self-esteem to match, he had the unruly white hair, hooked nose and booming voice of a hellfire prophet, but his most profound conviction was evidently of his own infallibility. He didn’t have his daughter’s dress sense; there was a button missing from his cuff, and his shirt wasn’t properly tucked into his elderly slacks. Yet he struck Hannah as a man to be reckoned with.
‘Did you approve of the relationship?’
‘For as long as it brought Alexandra pleasure, most certainly. I feared it would not last, but a parent’s lot is to worry about their offspring’s happiness. Do you have children, Chief Inspector? If so, you will understand.’
Hannah let that whistle past. ‘You questioned Emma’s motives?’
‘Because she saw sleeping with my daughter as a passport to a life of comfort of plenty? By no means. I believed her affection for Alexandra to be genuine, though falling short of undying devotion. In my presence, she was good-natured and deferential.’
I bet, Hannah thought. Emma might be an elusive character, but she was no fool.
‘Then what?’
‘My daughter is a highly intelligent and remarkably sensible woman, but in personal relationships apt to wear her heart on her sleeve. That wasn’t Emma’s way. It seemed significant to me that her only other friend was the woman from whom she rented a room.’
‘Not her sister?’
‘Karen Erskine and her husband visited the museum, I suspect out of curiosity rather than any deeply felt interest in my life’s work. Jeremy Erskine made it clear that a history master at Grizedale College could not approve the unsourced speculation in which I indulge concerning the origins of local myths and legends. Alexandra took pains to make them welcome, but Emma had little in common with Karen. I speculated that Erskine had taken a shine to Emma, and that was a cause of froideur. If so, he was wasting his time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Emma was not interested in men.’
For a wild moment, Hannah wondered if Alban Clough had first-hand experience of rejection by Emma. Or maybe it wasn’t so wild? The way he’d considered her appearance when his daughter introduced them downstairs verged on the lascivious. An age gap of thirty-five years might not have deterred a man in the habit of getting his own way. Hannah’s closest friend, Terri, had decided after three failed marriages to try her luck with internet dating and she’d reported with glee that one of the men she’d met, though old enough to be her father, had the stamina and lust of a nineteen-year-old. He also turned out to be an undischarged bankrupt with three convictions for false accounting.
Suppose Alban had propositioned Emma after she’d broken up with Alex, that might account for the stress she’d suffered. What if they’d had a surreptitious affair? And if Emma had indulged in a little quiet blackmail …
‘What about Tom Inchmore, did he realise that?’
‘Alas, poor Thomas. To adopt the modern idiom, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block. He took a shine to Emma while she worked here, she was always very good with him. As you may be aware, he’s dead now, so he cannot defend himself. But let me say this on his behalf. He may have been a Peeping Tommy, but he was no murderer.’
‘Suppose he made overtures which she rejected. It’s a situation that often leads to violence.’
‘Your colleagues explored that hypothesis in — shall we say, considerable depth? — ten years ago. Frankly, I was surprised that they failed to thrash a confession out of him. He was pitifully weak. That he steadfastly denied guilt proved that he found the notion of harming Emma horrific.’
‘I presume he was descended from whoever built this place?’
‘Indeed.’ Alban puffed out his cheeks and Hannah realised that she was in for a lecture. Presumably in winter he pined for the chance to pontificate to tourists with time on their hands. ‘During the nineteenth century, Clifford Inchmore ran a successful business, mining the Coniston Fells and earning a knighthood to accompany his fortune. My great-grandfather, Albert Clough, joined the firm as a young man and rose to become a partner in the firm. But Clifford’s son, George, was not cut from the same cloth. Albert left to set up on his own and George set about squandering his inheritance with unwise commercial ventures. Long before the influenza epidemic of 1919 carried off Albert, George had been made bankrupt. He lived long enough to suffer the indignity of seeing his son William go cap in hand to Albert’s grandson for work. Armstrong Clough, my father, took him on and was rewarded by William absconding after the war ended. He stole one thousand pounds, and we heard he died in Crete five years later without a penny to his name. Nonetheless, my mother insisted that we had a duty towards the family that gave Albert his first opportunity in life.’
‘That’s remarkably forbearing.’
‘My mother was a remarkable lady.’
‘So you gave Tom Inchmore a job out of the goodness of your heart?’
‘Because my mother had a good heart, which is not quite the same. Tom’s parents both died young, in a car crash twenty-five years ago, and from then on he was looked after by his grandmother, William’s wife. Edith Inchmore was herself a formidable woman. She died only last year at the age of ninety.’
‘The two old ladies were friends?’
‘They kept their distance from each other. While the Inchmore residence was a cramped two-up, two-down riddled with dry rot, my mother was chatelaine of this magnificent hall. It cannot have been easy for Edith Inchmore to bear, but she had only her husband’s family to blame. As for my mother, she had a fanatical sense of duty towards others less fortunate than herself, even if she disliked them. Noblesse oblige, if you like. It is a mark of my devotion to her that I resisted the temptation to sack Tom Inchmore, despite being one of the least competent young men I have ever met. That explains why he fell off a ladder when repairing a leaky roof. To suggest that he became cunning and successful for the first time in his life on resorting to murder is sheer fantasy.’