Not the most generous character reference Hannah had ever heard, but it was time to change tack.
‘You know Francis Goddard, I take it?’
‘Indeed. I cannot pretend that we have much in common. The meek may well inherit the earth, but that does not make them interesting.’
‘Emma lived under his roof. Might something interesting have occurred between them?’
Alban laughed so hard that his eyes started watering. ‘A deliciously sordid speculation, Chief Inspector! But regrettably wide of the mark, if I am any judge. Moreover, I have known Vanessa Goddard for many years. She is dedicated to outreach work, establishing partnerships between the libraries and other agencies. She lost her first husband to another woman, but Francis is well and truly under her thumb. I cannot conceive that he would have the spunk for a dangerous liaison with Emma, even were he not devoted to his wife.’
‘And you don’t have any reason to doubt that devotion?’
‘Certainly not. Vanessa and Francis have always had eyes only for each other. Emma herself confirmed it.’
‘What did she say?’
His wicked smile made him look like a gleeful old troll. ‘In the first flush of happiness after she embarked on a relationship with my daughter, I overheard her saying to Alexandra that she would be glad when she could afford to move into a place of her own. She indicated that, although the bedroom walls at Thurston Water House were by no means thin, Vanessa and Francis were raucous as well as uninhibited in their love-making. I find it pleasing to hear of a genuine love match, they are so very rare these days, but Emma found it embarrassing to be forced to eavesdrop on their passion. Poor girl, at heart she was something of a prude.’
Did this prove that Vanessa and Francis were incapable of straying? Hannah dabbed at a smear of sweat on her forehead. The heat and the old man’s salacious humour were overpowering.
‘Very well, Mr Clough. I’m grateful for your help.’
Her host treated her to a wicked smile as she hauled herself to her feet.
‘You’re not going so soon, Chief Inspector? Oh dear me, please linger for a few minutes more. Let me explain to you what it is that women most desire.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Daniel was in the kitchen, looking out over the cottage garden and tapping notes into his laptop. John Ruskin’s life story proved that having it all was an illusion. Artist, critic, social philosopher, he was ‘the pre-eminent intellectual genius of Victorian England’. Yet his marriage was annulled due to non-consummation, he spent years lusting after a girl who lost her mind and died young, and he proposed to another teenager when he was seventy. After Whistler sued him for libel and won the princely sum of a farthing in damages, depression defeated him and he spent his last years in Coniston leading a reclusive and child-like existence, cared for by his cousin Joan.
Daniel switched off the laptop and read a few more pages of Unto this Last. He found the title haunting. Ruskin never finished the book, but failure to complete wasn’t an option for a twenty-first-century author who needed to keep the publisher satisfied and Daniel had started and discarded a couple of synopses. The malady was easy to diagnose. A historian was, by definition, an archive rat. But he still lacked documentary sources to provide a backbone for a book. He needed something he didn’t yet possess.
His thoughts wandered to Hannah Scarlett.
I could call her, why not? Where’s the harm?
He dialled Hannah’s number without answering his own question. Straight through to voicemail. It would have been so easy to hang up, but he heard himself speaking.
‘Hannah, this is Daniel Kind. I was wondering … how are things? Maybe we could talk sometime. Perhaps meet up.’
‘So,’ Alban Clough demanded, ‘do you know what it is, Chief Inspector, that women most desire?’
‘Break it to me gently.’
They had retraced their steps from Alban’s eyrie in the tower to ground level and she’d started shivering again. Alexandra Clough was nowhere to be seen and everything was still except for their footsteps echoing on the floor. For all his age and supposed infirmity, Alban strode briskly across the main hall and Hannah could do no more than glance at the dusty displays featuring the phantom army of Souther Fell and the fabled wizard of Burgh under Bowness.
She ought to escape from this grotesque old man and his cobwebbed world and get back to Divisional HQ. But he intrigued her more than any exhibit in his museum. A few more minutes would not hurt. And she might learn something while he lowered his guard, showing off his expertise in Lakeland lore.
‘Do you not know the tale of the Loathly Lady?’ When Hannah shook her head, her host harrumphed and said, ‘I take it you are unfamiliar with the ballad of ‘The Marriage of Sir Gawain’?’
Hannah thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. After so many years living with a bookseller, she ought to be well-read, but there were limits, and medieval ballads strayed far beyond them.
‘Remind me.’
Her host led the way into the King Arthur Room. ‘Few parts of Britain do not lay claim to a connection with the old monarch but my belief is that the old counties of Cumberland and Westmorland were as rich in Arthurian associations as Glastonbury or Tintagel. Take a look at that map. Each yellow crown represents a location boasting a story about Arthur, Merlin, or one of the Knights of the Round Table.’
Why were men so obsessive about their interests? If it wasn’t football, fishing or philately, it was old books or even older legends.
‘Fascinating,’ she murmured.
His beam confirmed it was a good lie. ‘I could tell the moment we met, Chief Inspector, that you were a woman of discernment.’
She ought to point that out to Marc tonight. Giving her host an enigmatic smile, she looked about her. Below the high ceiling, and running all around the room, an elaborate hand-painted frieze depicted gorgeous hills and shimmering tarns. Shameless really, when you remembered that Clifford Inchmore had built this house out of the profits made from scarring the landscape with mines.
‘You were going to tell me what women most desire?’
‘Indeed.’ Alban Clough cleared his throat. ‘In the days when King Arthur held court at Carlisle, he was riding out by Tarn Wadling when he encountered a bold baron with a club. The baron said that if the King was to avoid combat, he must answer a riddle.’
‘Namely?’
Her host raised bushy white eyebrows and hissed, ‘What is it that women most desire?’
Despite herself, Hannah felt her body tensing. In her mind, she’d nicknamed the old man King Leer — but he was a born story-teller.
‘Arthur chose the riddle and in his search for the answer, he encountered a woman as ugly as sin, sitting between an oak and a green holly. She offered to help him and he promised her the hand of Gawain in marriage if she told him the answer. She assented, and when Arthur returned to Tarn Wadling, he informed the baron that what women most desire is to have their own will.’
‘Don’t tell me. This legend was dreamed up by a man, right?’
Alban Clough bared yellowing teeth in a fearsome grin. ‘The lore of our land, Chief Inspector, reaches far deeper than superficial notions of sexism and political correctness. Gawain was celebrated for his courtesy and expressed his willingness to marry the hag. Upon hearing this, she transformed into a woman of peerless beauty. Alas! Her looks endured either by day or by night — but not both. Gawain said he would prefer to enjoy her beauty while they were in bed at night. In distress, she said that then she must hide away, for it would humiliate her to appear at court, warts and all. Good and gentle Gawain said she must choose whatever suited her best. His compassion broke the curse put on her and her brother, the baron, by their wicked stepmother — he to challenge passers-by to solve his riddle, she to remain ugly until a fellow took her hand in marriage and permitted her to have her own way.’