‘Why are you keeping Miriam here?’ he murmured. ‘There’s a storm brewing. She needs to get back home.’
‘We were talking about the Faceless Woman.’ She kissed his cold cheek. ‘It’s my first Hallowe’en in Ravenbank, and I’ve paid no attention to the story about Gertrude Smith till now.’
Francis Palladino made the sort of scornful noise he usually reserved for people campaigning for more wind turbines in the Lake District. ‘You don’t want to bother, it’s a load of tosh.’
‘Miriam didn’t want to go until she was sure you were safe and sound.’
‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’
She ran her fingertips along his tweed-clad thigh. ‘You’ll be sacking your masseuse, then?’
‘Somehow,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t think so.’
As Miriam bustled back into the room, he said, ‘So you and Shenagh have been discussing our little legend?’
‘Well, it is Hallowe’en, Mr Palladino,’ Miriam said.
‘Spook night!’ Shenagh cried. ‘You know, I really ought to check out this Faceless Woman. Will I find her with a Google search? Does she have a Facebook page in her memory? Or is that a contradiction in terms, given the — uh — face shortage?’
‘It’s no joking matter, pet!’ Miriam’s eyes widened. ‘Gertrude Smith was murdered on Hallowe’en, and the person who killed her wasn’t hanged. That’s why her spirit is tormented. Justice was never done.’
Outside the house, someone hammered on the old oak front door. Miriam jumped at the very moment that Shenagh dissolved into a fit of helpless laughter.
‘You gave me the fright of my life.’ Miriam was only pretending to scold her son. In her eyes, Robin could do no wrong. ‘We were talking about the Faceless Woman.’
‘Sorry to make such a racket.’ Robin Park chortled, not looking sorry at all. ‘The doorbell needs fixing. Want me to sort it out when I get a moment, Francis? I was telling Shenagh the other day, if the gigs ever dry up, I’d make a pretty decent handyman.’
Palladino’s reply was a non-committal grunt. Robin never would get a moment. The offer was for his mother’s benefit, one more thread in the tapestry she’d woven, depicting Robin the Virtuous, a man kind and generous to a fault. Shenagh thought him lazy and self-obsessed, but she’d met fellers a hundred times worse. He was good-looking, good company, and a pretty good jazz pianist. She’d have been tempted, definitely tempted, but at the cocktail party where Oz Knight introduced them, she also met Francis. And Francis might not be a lean hunk with startling blue eyes, but he was a civilised and childless old-school Englishman who owned a mansion. No contest.
Robin grinned. ‘Gertrude Smith, eh? She’s part of Ravenbank’s heritage. Like Mum, really.’
His mother frowned. ‘It’s no joke, dear. What happened to that wretched young woman was pure wickedness. It makes my stomach heave just to think of it.’
‘Take it easy,’ Shenagh said. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Gertrude Smith never could rest in peace.’ Miriam swallowed hard. ‘On dark nights in the cottage, when Robin is away, I can’t help thinking about that poor young creature, walking down Ravenbank Lane, without a face.’
Robin put his arm around her bulky shoulders. ‘Not to worry. Nobody left alive has ever seen her ghost.’
‘What exactly happened to Gertrude?’ Shenagh asked.
Miriam cleared her throat. ‘Someone battered her face with a heavy stone, and kept on until all that was left was a bloody pulp. No eyes, no nose, just a mashed-up mess.’
Francis frowned, and opened his mouth to speak, but there was no stopping Miriam in full flow.
‘And that’s not all. Gertrude’s face was covered with a woollen blanket, like a shroud. The men who found her had to rip it off. The cold had frozen the shroud to her flesh.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘You don’t suppose Miriam was frightened of being attacked as she walked home?’ Shenagh asked, an hour later. ‘Is that why Robin came, to keep her company?’
‘Miriam is perfectly capable of looking after herself, on Hallowe’en or any other day. Besides, who would want to murder her?’
‘Oh, I dunno. A homicidal ghost, thirsting for vengeance because of the wrong done to her?’
Breathing hard, Palladino shifted his position in the bed. The sudden movement of his crumbling joints caused a spasm of pain to cross his face. ‘Miriam doesn’t have an enemy in the world. She deserved better than a good-for-nothing husband, let alone that idle lad of hers. Calls himself a musician, but does nothing except take advantage of her good nature.’
In fact, the idle lad was thirty-plus, and Francis’s distaste stemmed from the way Shenagh let him flirt with her. Not that either she or Robin meant anything by it. He wasn’t into commitment, frustrating Miriam’s dream of surrounding herself with grandchildren she could spoil. The old lady had even tried a bit of unsubtle matchmaking between the pair of them. But although Miriam would be the ideal mother-in-law, she was wasting her time. As far as Shenagh was concerned, Robin’s role in her life was to divert attention from her latest bit of fun. Like Mom, she’d never been a fan of monogamy. Francis didn’t have a clue about what she was up to, thank God. Anyway, it was harmless enough. No way would this latest dalliance interfere with her plans for the future.
She nibbled Francis’s dry lips. He was such a well-dressed man that it always came as a shock when he shed his clothes to reveal this scrawny body. His flesh felt like pudding pie, and the wonky vertebrae cramped his style as a lover. Massage helped, but it couldn’t make him young again. Not that she was complaining. Long ago, she’d learnt you can’t have everything, though it didn’t stop her trying.
Over his shoulder, she stuck her tongue out at a photograph in an ornate ironwork frame standing on the bedside cabinet. Esme, again. In this black-and-white, head-and-shoulders portrait, she was in her thirties, hair in a bun, wearing her irritable schoolmarm face. The mirthless smile betrayed impatience, as if she wanted to scold the photographer for being so slow to take the picture. It amused Shenagh that Esme was gazing at her, in bed with her husband. Sort of a turn-on, having a dead wife as a voyeur.
‘Miriam won’t come to any harm.’
‘Hope not. She’s petrified of ghosts.’
‘So was Esme. But only when she was four sheets to the wind. Claimed she saw Gertrude Smith at Ravenbank Corner one Hallowe’en, and managed to convince Miriam it wasn’t a hallucination. She’s extraordinarily credulous, for such a tough old boot.’
The tough old boot was younger and fitter than Francis, but Shenagh kept her mouth zipped. She’d learnt not to tease him about his age.
Her hand sneaked between his legs, but when he didn’t respond, she murmured, ‘Hey, it’s Hallowe’en. A night when all sorts may happen.’
‘A feeble excuse for shops making money, and children making a nuisance of themselves.’ He’d lapsed into grumpy old man mode. ‘I blame the Americans. Thank God we don’t have trick-or-treating in an out of the way place like this.’
‘I’m still glad Robin walked Miriam back to her cottage, made sure she’s all right. She’d have a seizure if she caught a glimpse of the Faceless Woman.’
‘Superstitious claptrap, that’s the top and bottom of it.’
Sure was, but Francis needed contradicting, every now and then. If he couldn’t handle contrariness, he should’ve signed up for the senior citizens’ tea dance down the road in Penrith, not started shagging a red-headed westie from Penrith Valley on the other side of the world.
‘Several people have seen Gertrude’s ghost over the years. Jeffrey Burgoyne told me so.’
‘When were you talking to Jeffrey Burgoyne?’
He sounded disgruntled, but surely not even Francis could be jealous of Jeffrey? ‘Must have been back when we first met. He asked if I knew about the legend.’
Francis snorted. ‘Pay no attention to Jeffrey. Fellow’s an actor, spends too much of his time prancing around like a poor man’s Ian McKellen. And he’s a dreadful gossip.’