Fleur stared. ‘Aslan did?’
‘I saw him with my own eyes. He pretended to me he’d simply climbed up on to the parapet on a whim. It took him a while to figure out how Orla might have learnt the truth about Callum. As it did me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Orla and Callum had plenty in common.’ He exhaled. ‘Just as Callum was a voyeur, so Orla was an eavesdropper. She heard enough to work out the rest.’
‘Heard from whom?’
He smiled, even though he felt genuine sorrow. ‘From you, Fleur, or from someone you were entertaining here.’
‘Is this some kind of macabre joke, Daniel? If so, I have to say it’s in very poor taste.’
‘No joke,’ he said. ‘A summer’s day, and with your window and hers next door both open, she must have listened to your conversation. My bet is that she heard enough to be sure that she knew not only that Callum was buried in the dogs’ grave, but also who put him there.’
Zygmunt proved to be one of the labourers Hannah had seen when she and Greg Wharf visited Lane End Farm. He’d seemed keen to avoid them, but within five minutes of his arrival in Windermere, he’d relaxed sufficiently for her to start asking questions. Stefan had poured him a pint of bitter, which he downed in a few gulps, and it helped loosen his tongue.
‘You’re sure this was on the day Orla climbed up the grain tower?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He wiped the froth from his mouth. ‘But I didn’t see her. Not then.’
Terri said, ‘Ziggy was with Hinds the farmer when they found Orla Payne’s body. A horrible experience — you must have had nightmares ever since.’
‘It was not good.’
Hannah said, ‘Was this in the morning or the afternoon?’
‘Two o’clock, maybe half past.’
‘And you saw someone around the farm, someone who didn’t work there?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Hannah leant forward. Now for it.
‘Can you give me a description?’
Dark clouds were gathering as Fleur and Daniel pushed through thick clumps of nettles in the wilderness beyond the formal gardens of St Herbert’s. They were heading for the Mockbeggar Estate. Sweat stuck Daniel’s shirt to his chest. He kept mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but only a storm could freshen things up. The weather was about to break, and he’d be soaked to the skin long before he regained the sanctuary of St Herbert’s. But Fleur had promised to take him to see the pet graveyard, an offer he was far too curious to refuse.
A holly hedge thicker than the walls of a mediaeval fortress barred off the Mockbeggar grounds, but the stream at the boundary was low after the long dry spell, and they clambered along its edge like mountain goats. At the bridge carrying the new road from Madsen’s to the Hall, instead of following the road, they kept straight on, through an avenue of lime trees with trunks gnarled in elaborate and beautiful patterns.
‘There it is.’ Fleur pointed to the tall elms in the distance. ‘The Hanging Wood.’
So that was the place where Orla and Callum had loved to play with Philip Hinds. Two children and a childlike man, all destined to die before they grew old. Daniel’s heart thudded with anticipation. Soon he would know the truth about their fate.
Fleur spoke a little about Gareth Madsen and Michael Hinds. Garrulous no longer, she chose her words with as much care as counsel delivering a considered opinion on a finely balanced point of law. Every now and then, she threw him a quick glance, as if to gauge his reaction. No teasing now, no provocative smile.
‘Gareth always liked Mike, not only because of the time they spent as students together, drinking heavily, playing sport and chasing women. Two strong, very masculine men.’
He wasn’t sure whether she meant this as a compliment. ‘But very different from each other?’
‘Yes, but they did have some things in common. Whereas Mike and my husband were chalk and cheese. I’m afraid Mike never cared for Bryan.’
‘And is the feeling mutual?’
‘Bryan never forgave Mike for heckling him once at a political meeting, when Bryan said farmers expected too many handouts from government. A silly argument, but the animosity festered for years. Mike was furious that Bryan invested so much trust and responsibility in Kit Payne. He even blamed Bryan for the break-up of his marriage.’
‘A bit harsh, surely?’
Fleur cast him a curious glance. ‘More than harsh. I’m afraid Mike sometimes seemed … unbalanced.’
‘Presumably, if Niamh hadn’t run to Kit, she’d have found somebody else.’
‘Precisely. She was too much of a free spirit to be a farmer’s wife for ever. Second time around, he married a doormat. Deirdre suited him much better than Niamh. She didn’t mind him wiping his feet on her.’
‘You speak of Mike in the past tense.’
‘Did I?’ For a moment she was flustered. ‘It’s just that … it feels as though nothing will ever be the same again. The deaths of Orla and Aslan have changed everything. Poor Mike, I don’t know how he’ll cope.’
‘You think he might choose to kill himself?’
A long sigh. ‘God, I don’t know. I’m not sure I know anything anymore. I suppose … it’s possible. Farmers have the means of death ready to hand, and Mike might decide he can’t go on any longer.’
‘Because of his grief, you mean?’
‘Grief?’ She shrugged. ‘Guilt, as well, I suppose. Here we are. The animal graveyard.’
Between a couple of the lime trees were a row of unevenly spaced slabs of moss-covered York stone. Each bore an inscription, most of which were so weathered as to be illegible. Daniel bent down over the largest stone; it was the size of a small coffin lid. A child’s coffin lid. Next to it lay a fading red rose. A tribute from Aslan, he guessed. Peering hard, he managed to decipher the words.
Castor and Pollux, semper fidelis.
‘Always faithful,’ she murmured. ‘That’s why we love dogs, isn’t it? They are so much more loyal than human beings.’
Now for it. On the way here, he’d shied away from pressing her, but he needed to know what she knew.
‘How did Callum die, Fleur?’
She took a breath. ‘It was an accident. Mike told Gareth that they had a row about the girl Callum had spied on. Callum had called in at the farm after being with Philip at his cottage. I don’t know the details, but Mike lost his rag and thumped Callum, and the boy lost his footing. They were out in the cobbled yard, and Callum fell on to a saw. It ripped open his throat; Mike said the blood spurted like a geyser.’
‘So why didn’t he call an ambulance?’
‘The boy died almost instantly, Mike said, and so he panicked. His son had been killed in horrific circumstances, and it was his fault. He was sure Niamh would seize on the chance to destroy him. He’d be prosecuted for manslaughter, and was bound to lose the farm. His life would be over. His only thought was to save himself.’
‘So he buried his own son’s body in a dog’s grave?’
Fleur’s features were frozen into a mask. ‘Yes, when we stand here and discuss it, Mike’s cruelty seems unimaginable. And yet I don’t suppose it seemed like that for him. Nothing he could do would bring Callum back to life.’
‘Why not hide the corpse on his own land?’
‘I simply don’t know, but I guess he thought that, if it were ever found, the finger of suspicion could only point at him. Although he was in a panic, he knew better than to risk his own neck.’
‘And then he put the blame on his own brother, and drove him to suicide?’ Daniel had never met Michael Hinds, but the man Fleur described sounded like a monster.
‘I suppose he was afraid Philip would tell people that Callum had gone to Lane End and he’d fall under suspicion himself.’
Daniel felt drops of rain moisten his hair.
‘And when did you find out about this?’
‘Gareth told me shortly before Orla died. He and Mike had a few drinks one night, and the alcohol loosened Mike’s tongue. He was in a bad way, because Orla’s return to the Lakes had spooked him. She’d developed an obsession about Callum, she kept raking up old ground. And I suppose his conscience kept plaguing him.’