‘How could he know you’d stumbled across the truth?’
‘Stumbled?’ He switched on an ironic grin. ‘I was expecting you to congratulate me on great detective work.’
She laughed; a musical sound. ‘Stumbled is right, I think. Mind you, your Dad once told me all the best detectives are lucky. Now, tell me how Alban found out.’
He described meeting Geraldine at Sylvia’s bungalow. ‘Geraldine was devoted to the Cloughs and kept in touch with Alban after his mum died. When Sylvia asked her to gather up the auction lots for me to take away, she must have spotted Edith Inchmore’s private papers. She wouldn’t have had time to read them but my guess is,
she spoke to Alban on the phone and mentioned that I’d taken them away.’
‘He couldn’t know that Edith had written about the murder.’
‘No, but he’d known her all his life. He must have feared that she might have written about her crime as a sort of catharsis. What he didn’t know was that Edith had another guilty secret. Something she kept hidden even from him.’
Hannah frowned at the cramped handwriting. ‘What could make her guiltier than murdering her own husband?’
‘Blaming herself for the death of her grandson.’
She stared at him. ‘Tom Inchmore fell off a ladder.’
‘After he’d been peeping through his grandmother’s bedroom window. He was a hopeless lad, pathetic, you told me so yourself. He wanted to see the old lady disrobing for her bath. Edith heard a noise and looked round. When she saw his face pressed against the window, she rushed towards him in a state of rage and horror. He lost his balance and broke his neck on the paving stones below.’
JOURNAL EXTRACT
Men never paid much attention to me. I felt awkward in their company, though I flatter myself that in my youth the fullness of my figure attracted an occasional covetous glance. When William, handsome, dashing William, poured flattery on me like honey, I was in Heaven. I let him have his will, I abandoned all my natural restraint. The slow realisation that it was my father’s money, rather than my soft flesh and my caresses, stirring the fire in his loins spread bitterness through me like a cancer. After his death, I renounced intimacy with the opposite sex and kept myself to myself, accepting near-solitude as the price for having evaded the gallows.
I have forgotten what it is to have men casting me a sideways look, as they wonder about the body concealed beneath layers of clothing. They prefer not to think about my flesh. Candidly, neither do I.
That is why it came as a shock to be spied upon for a second time.
A hot July afternoon. I do not care for heatwaves, they make me sweat and struggle for breath. I prefer to go upstairs and lie down. On this occasion, with forecasters talking of temperatures in the nineties, I take a bath to cool down and on returning to my bedroom, consider my wardrobe, searching for clothing that is light and airy.
Suddenly, in the dressing table mirror, I glimpse a reflection. A face, staring in through the window. A face — another! — that once I had loved. But all too easily in my case, it seems that love can turn to scorn.
On this occasion I am not naked, I have the benefit of a fluffy white towel. But I shriek with anger and charge across the room like an old, enraged sow. I need to close the window I had opened to admit a breath of air and draw the curtains to preserve my modesty.
My wrath frightens him. I see terror whiten his stupid face as he jumps away from me. But when you are standing on top of a tall and unsteady ladder, there is nowhere safe for you to jump to.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At the door of Kaffee Kirkus, Hannah shook Daniel’s hand with careful formality. She’d written out a receipt for the journal, which she’d promised to return to Jeremy once the police were done with it. Once they’d stopped talking about Edith Inchmore and the deaths for which she’d been responsible, their conversation stuttered, as though they were both too embarrassed to venture on to risky ground.
She gripped his hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The story of her life; she was always reluctant to let go. He intrigued her; she felt seized by an urge to learn more about him. Like his father, he had an open manner that made you feel as though you understood what made him tick, but in truth you didn’t have a clue. The important things, the personal things, Ben Kind always kept under lock and key. His son was just the same.
‘Thanks for your help. I need to speak to Alex Clough, see if she can cast any further light.’ She mustered a smile. ‘So, having done your detective work for the day, what will you be getting up to now?’
He shrugged. ‘An American writer has beaten me to it with a book about Ruskin’s Coniston years. It’s time for a change. I need to scout for another subject to write about, and …’
‘Yes?’
Colouring, he said, ‘As a matter of fact, Miranda and I are splitting up.’
After a pause she said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well. It’s been on the cards for a while. Miranda doesn’t want to spend the best part of her life buried away in the countryside. Tarn Fold is a cul-de-sac and, as far as she’s concerned, that sums up the Lake District. It’s a nice place to spend a few days in summer, but slogging through a wet winter isn’t for her.’
‘I thought it was Miranda’s idea to move here. She talked you into it.’
‘I didn’t need much persuading. As for Miranda, she changed her mind. It happens, I suppose.’
Hannah wriggled out of the path of a couple of fat women who were coming into the coffee shop for a sit down, a drink, and maybe a muffin or two. Suddenly she wanted to prolong the conversation, but she couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t nosey or crass. Better leave it.
‘Thanks again for your help. Let’s keep in touch.’
He looked straight at her. ‘Yes, please.’
* * *
Striding back to Divisional HQ, Hannah tried to airbrush Daniel’s face out of her mind. It was a mistake to be distracted, she had more than enough on her plate. He might be out of a relationship, but she wasn’t. She and Marc had been together a long time. He wasn’t to blame that she felt there must be more to life than what she had. It was her fault. She could hear her dead mother’s gentle voice, urging her to count her blessings.
She called in Les Bryant and Bob Swindell and briefed them on the news about William Inchmore. Les scratched his armpit as he studied Edith’s handwritten confession.
‘Very helpful, that Professor Kind.’
‘He’s not a professor,’ she snapped, hoping that she hadn’t blushed.
‘Whatever. He’s as good at detective work as his old man.’
‘There’s no comparison,’ Hannah said. ‘Ben was a professional. Daniel is … an amateur.’
‘Shrewd, though.’ His face was straight, but he was teasing her, no question.
‘Yes.’ Her expression said leave it.
With a wary glance at both of them, Bob Swindell launched into an update on the latest from Fern Larter’s team. It made sense for both sets of investigators to liaise closely together. If Di Venuto was right and Koenig was the caller who had given the tip-off about the Arsenic Labyrinth, it was hard to believe that there was no connection between his death and the cold case investigation.
‘Koenig’s mother was a prostitute from Barrow who took an overdose when he was a toddler and there’s no father’s name on his birth certificate. He had no other family and Social Services took him into care. He turned into a Walter Mitty. But people seem to have liked him and he didn’t have any scruples about taking advantage. He would pretend to be a hot-shot entrepreneur and charm older women into investing in get-rich-quick schemes put together on the back of an envelope. But he was nowhere near as smart as he thought he was, and that’s why he finished up in the nick. Eventually, he either wised up or turned over a new leaf. For a few weeks he worked in Windermere, but then he upped and left and started travelling. Since then, he’s spent several years on the Continent. There are gaps in the story at present, but as far as we can tell, he kept out of trouble.’