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 Wainwright 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.