‘So you no longer wish to study the lots my nephew Roger bought with the money Betty Clough left our Association?’
‘On the contrary, I’m crying out for fresh inspiration. I take it you were friendly with Alban Clough’s mother?’
Sylvia sighed. ‘Ah, Betty was a lovely woman. When I first met her, she was in her fifties, but when she stepped out, she still turned heads in a way I could only ever dream of. Not that she was a peacock, far from it, she always kept herself to herself. So sad when she died. There is little worse, Mr Kind, than seeing all your old pals shuffle off this mortal coil, one by one. It may seem a wicked thing to say, but I shan’t be sorry when my time comes.’
Geraldine had marched in again to tidy away the plates. The clicking of her tongue sounded like the snap of handcuffs.
‘You’ll see me out, you will.’
‘Betty recommended Geraldine to me, Mr Kind. You cooked for Betty at one time, didn’t you, dear?’
Geraldine scowled. ‘Aye, she was champion.’
She slammed the door behind her and Sylvia said, ‘She’s a treasure. Absolutely devoted to dear Betty and her family. As for me, I couldn’t manage without her.’
‘Alban Clough gave me a copy of the family trees for the Cloughs and the Inchmores. Fascinating stuff. Did you know Tom Inchmore, by any chance?’
Sylvia pursed thin, dry lips. ‘Tom was a dullard, I’m sorry to say. His grandmother was a friend of mine and she once confided in me that perhaps it was as well that the line had died out. She looked after the boy after he lost his parents, but he was a sad disappointment, sly and unpleasant. If Betty hadn’t insisted that Alban give him a job, he would never have found honest employment.’
‘So you knew Edith as well as Betty?’
‘All my life, as you might expect in a village this size. Edith was always in Betty’s shadow, of course. She lacked the money, as well as the looks. All she had was the Inchmore name. She never had much to say for herself, didn’t Edith. But she was a proud woman and if she was jealous of Betty, she took care not to let it show.’
‘Did the two women have much to do with each other?’
‘Not really. Edith always kept herself to herself. She didn’t have two pennies to rub together, though I remember Betty once telling me there was a bond between them.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘The Hall, I suppose. And the way the families’ fortunes had been so intertwined.’
‘Which is why Betty insisted that Alban give Tom work?’
‘Even though it was common knowledge that Alban had no time for the lad. It must seem very old-fashioned to a young chap like you, Mr Kind, but Betty came from a generation with a sense of duty. That is why she made the bequest to our Association. She felt it incumbent on her to support our work. Also, she wanted to mark our friendship. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t herself interested in history.’
‘Unlike her son?’
Sylvia snorted. ‘Myth and legend? Stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Betty and I didn’t discuss Alban or the dusty exhibits he set up in that old mausoleum of theirs. She guessed my opinion and neither of us wanted to fall out. Of course, she thought the sun shone out of his backside. All mothers are the same where their offspring are concerned. Not that I’ve had any of my own, but I’ve dealt with enough pupils’ parents to know how besotted they are.’
Without much hope, he asked about the curse of Mispickel Scar, but Sylvia sniffed and made it plain she could cast no light on the story’s source. A true historian, she only trusted verifiable documentary evidence.
‘I suppose you’re wondering about these bodies they found in the old mine shafts? Heaven only knows what’s going on in this village. They talk about being tough on crime, but it’s getting more like downtown Detroit with each passing day. Now I hear that someone else has been found dead.’
Daniel almost choked on his last mouthful of profiterole. ‘Another body?’
‘Geraldine popped out to the shops earlier on, she’d run out of sugar. The news is all over the village. Apparently some fellow was fished out of Coniston Water this morning.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘He wasn’t a local person, by all accounts, just someone passing through.’
Her tone made it clear that this was a small mercy for which the villagers were thankful. Daniel said, ‘Was it an accident?’
Sylvia gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I doubt whether an accident would justify hordes of police officers swarming around the lake. We’re not safe in our beds these days, and that’s a fact.’
She allowed Daniel a moment to reflect on this before saying, ‘So you want to study the material from the auction?’
‘Please.’
Sylvia nodded towards a huge ottoman, covered in green velvet, that stood beside his armchair. ‘That was overflowing with old knitting patterns and wool and I’ve made my last cardigan, I’m afraid. So this morning, in readiness for your visit, I asked Geraldine to fill the box with Roger’s purchases. Take a look, and if you come across anything of special interest, feel free to borrow it.’
He opened the box and found it full of diaries, notebooks and manuscripts, each neatly preserved and labelled in tiny, cramped handwriting. ‘Has your nephew examined the material?’
‘Dear me no, Roger is such a busy fellow. Senior partner of an accountancy practice in Whitehaven, you know. When I heard that old books and other mementoes associated with Coniston were to be auctioned, I asked him to bid on our behalf, because I knew he would make good use of our funds. Of course, neither of us had any idea that he would be competing with Mr Daniel Kind.’
He grinned. ‘I disciplined myself to bid only for the items I was sure would be of interest. Big mistake. But my partner is always complaining that I hoard too much old rubbish.’
She returned his smile and for a fleeting moment he understood how much charm she’d had when young. ‘You’ll have to teach her the error of her ways. Nothing from the past is rubbish to the true historian.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Within ten minutes of walking back into Divisional HQ, Hannah took a call from Fern Larter. Sarah Welsby had identified the dead man as Guy Koenig. Or, as she insisted, a supposed financial services guru called Robert L. Stevenson.
‘He was taking the mickey,’ Hannah said. ‘Maybe the worm turned and Sarah murdered him.’
‘Great minds, Hannah. I’ve asked for a back-up ID of the deceased, in case Sarah is our killer and we can’t use her in court to prove identity. But Guy kept himself to himself. No mobile, and he didn’t make personal calls from Sarah’s place. Maybe he was in hiding. We found an old laptop in his bag, but he used it as a toy, it’s given us no clues. As for Sarah, she might have followed him out to the pier. What if she caught him with another woman and the red mist descended?’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘Can’t see her lugging a heavy torch and two chunky bricks all that way on the off chance she might want to biff him on the head, and tether the weights to his corpse so that he’d sink to the bottom of the lake.’ A long sigh. ‘No, if she wanted to kill him, she’d have done it nearer home. A couch potato like our Sarah wouldn’t fancy schlepping over to Monk Coniston.’