The Cipher Garden (21 page)

On his way to Keepsake Cottage, Daniel decided that he couldn’t help liking Marc Amos. How stupid to feel a pang of jealousy because Marc had Hannah all to himself. But was Marc jealous too, did he suspect that something was going on between her and the Sergeant? And if so, was he right? Daniel hadn’t had time to study Nick Lowther. He seemed amiable and wore a wedding ring, but colleagues at work often had affairs. Hannah Scarlett didn’t seem the type to play around, but was there really a type? It was all down to individual chemistry; you never knew what might happen when circumstances thrust two people together.

One more thing he’d rather not think about, like Kirsty’s death. He dragged his mind back to the stone tablets. All four were meant to be found, no question. They were so close to the surface that any serious attempt to clear the ground would uncover them. The carved words might be part of an elaborate code – shades of Beatrix Potter’s diaries – but he doubted it. His bet was on a simple if cryptic message. He’d start by juggling with the phrases he’d discovered.

Perhaps there was a pattern. Assume that the four stones he’d found – the willow, the two monkey puzzles, and the yew – were connected by the circumference of a rough circle. Start at the willow and move clockwise.

Why did you leave? Leaves from the garden. Will take our leave. Together again for eternity.

Outside the sun was high, but Hannah stayed indoors. Her skin burned too easily in heat this fierce. She gulped down a can of Coke for the sugar boost. Talking to Terri had made her feel half human again, but she was still tired. She plucked a musty hardback at random from Marc’s Ravenglass haul. She reached as far as page twenty before deciding she wasn’t in the mood for murder by Italian dagger in a locked room surrounded by snow with not a footprint to be seen. The choice of daytime TV shows was unspeakable and soon she was stretched out on the sofa with eyes shut, forcing herself to focus on whatever had made it necessary for Warren Howe to die.

When you know Howe, you know who – but what else was there to know about Warren Howe? The picture in her mind was of a man to whom plants meant more than people. With Gail, Bel and Roz among conquests, he was capable of turning on the charm to lure a pretty woman into his bed. He was single-minded and seemed to have mastered the art of getting what he wanted. Every scrap of evidence suggested he didn’t have an unselfish bone in his body.

Gail, Bel and Roz. Three old friends. Women could be so close with each other. Closer even than Terri and her. Suppose the trio had nourished a grudge over Warren’s treatment of them? Maybe she’d been too hasty in dismissing Les Bryant’s suggestion of a conspiracy to kill. But the youthful flings with Bel and Roz were ancient history. There was so much that theory left unexplained. Not least the anonymous accusation of Tina. If one or more of the women had sent it, why resurrect the old case if they had something to hide?

No, Tina was still her suspect of choice. Warren had
betrayed her with Gail and it was one betrayal too many. The stumbling block was the Hardknott Pass alibi. But just as locked rooms were meant to be breached, so murderers’ alibis were meant to be broken.

The moment Daniel pulled up outside Keepsake Cottage and got out of the car, the heat hit him. It was like walking into a wall. He was about to ring the doorbell when voices came drifting through the air. People must be outside, at the back of the house. He made out the words of a man who sounded frantic.

‘Suppose the police find out? That woman, Hannah Scarlett. Roz, this is serious, how can we keep quiet?’

‘We must!’ A woman’s voice, full of anguish.

‘But…’

‘Oh God, how I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.’

This was fall-out from Kirsty Howe’s death, had to be. He waited, but nothing more was said. He pressed the bell. After a minute he rang again and at length he heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. A brisk woman with a helmet of grey hair, wearing a sleeveless top and shorts. When she took off her dark glasses to inspect him, it was obvious that she’d been weeping.

‘Mrs Gleave?’

‘That’s me.’

He extended a hand. ‘My name’s Daniel Kind.’

‘I recognise you, don’t I? You were on the television.’

‘A while back, yes.’

She raised her eyebrows and Daniel sensed that, for all her distress, this was a woman of considerable strength of mind. ‘What on earth brings you to my house?’

‘I live in Brackdale and I’ve been reading your book about the riddles of South Lakeland.’

‘Not my book, really,’ she said. ‘I’m only a humble publisher.’

He grinned. ‘A humble publisher? Some people would say that’s a contradiction in terms.’

‘Not if they know anything about the realities of running a small press.’ She mustered a tired smile. ‘I don’t do long expense-account lunches or six-figure advances. In fact, I don’t do advances at all. Our authors write for love rather than money. An occasional royalty cheque is a bonus. The book you’re talking about was written by – let me see, Eleanor Sawtell? Nice lady, primary school teacher. She’d been collecting curious tales from her neck of the woods for donkey’s years.’

‘I was wondering how to make contact with her. Is she still alive?’

Roz sighed. ‘Yes – but the last I heard from her daughter, poor Eleanor was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Her husband had died and she’d moved into a care home in Kendal.’

Shit. ‘In that case, could I pick your brains?’

‘To be honest, it’s not convenient.’

He assumed a doleful expression. ‘Of course, I’m happy to make an appointment and come back another time.’

‘No, no.’ She took a breath. ‘It isn’t every day that a television personality shows up on my doorstep. Do come in. On second thoughts, let’s sit out in the garden. This weather won’t last forever. Might as well make the most of it. My husband’s doing just that.’

He followed her round to the back of the cottage. Chris Gleave was sitting on the edge of a low stone wall. He was wearing brief shorts and nothing else, his body was slim and brown. Daniel noticed the look of proprietorial pleasure on Roz’s face, as she considered her husband while introducing them.

‘I saw some of your programmes on the box,’ Chris said. ‘History as detective work. Neat concept.’

‘Now,’ Roz said, evidently reluctant to become distracted by chit-chat with their unexpected visitor. ‘What is it you want to know about Eleanor’s book?’

He explained about Jacob Quiller and the garden at Tarn Cottage. ‘Did Eleanor have any inkling about the cipher?’

‘If she did, I don’t remember her sharing it with me. She wasn’t a professional researcher; I think she relied on anecdotes that she’d gathered over decades for most of her tales. As most of my authors do.’

‘Only when I’ve asked about the Quillers in Brack, nobody seems to know anything about them.’

‘It was a long time ago. Eleanor’s scraps of knowledge might date back as far as the Forties or Fifties.’

‘If that’s right, there’s not much chance of my finding out much more about them.’

A bleak smile. ‘A test of your prowess as a historian, then.’

‘Or as a detective.’ He sighed. ‘Your own garden is gorgeous. Did you create it yourselves?’

‘Not exactly,’ Roz said. ‘We used a professional firm.’

‘I’ve called in experts to look at our garden too. They are based near here. Flint Howe. You know them?’

She nodded, unwilling to commit herself to words. Daniel saw that Chris had paled beneath his tan.

‘Have you heard about Sam Howe’s sister?’

Roz blinked. ‘You know about Kirsty?’

‘I was at the airfield yesterday.’

Chris whispered, ‘Jesus.’

He looked as though he too was about to burst into tears. Roz fired him a nervous glance.

‘I’m sorry. We’ve known Kirsty since she was so high.
The news has come as a terrible shock to both of us. Really, it’s not something either of us can bear to talk about. Now, if you don’t mind, I really ought to be catching up with some work.’

‘On a Sunday?’

She moved forward, waving him back to the front of the cottage, like a farmer trying to shift cattle from his field. ‘Running a small business from home is a seven day a week affair, I’m afraid. Sorry I can’t be more help.’

The church was a cool refuge from the heat outside. A couple of elderly ladies were up near the altar, arranging flowers and enjoying a good moan about the weather. On a table near the door were scattered a selection of leaflets about fair trade and third world poverty. Nothing about the history of the parish or the denizens of the graveyard. But at least the rector had got his priorities right, Daniel thought as he ambled down a side aisle, inspecting the plaques set into the wall. The memorial to the Quillers’ son was easy to find. A large rectangular cast-bronze panel, bearing an embossed inscription.

To the glory of God and in memory of a much-loved son of Brackdale who lost his life in the war in South Africa. Major John Quiller, of the 1st Northumberland Fusiliers, died of enteric fever, 5 April 1902. Faithful unto death.

He heard footsteps echoing on the stone floor and someone humming an approximation of ‘Praise my soul, the King of Heaven’.

‘Mr Kind, how good to see you again. Still on the detective trail?’

Daniel turned to face the rector of Brack, a tiny man with sparse grey hair and half-moon spectacles perched on
a pointed nose. His manner suggested a gregarious church mouse.

‘You remember my interest in the fellow who built our cottage? This is his son.’

‘Ah.’ The rector peered so closely at the panel that Daniel thought he was going to rub his little snout against it. ‘A tragic business. Death in war is so futile, don’t you agree? Take this young fellow, for instance. If I’m not much mistaken, the war was over within weeks of his death. He’d survived everything the enemy could throw at him – only to die of natural causes. So sad.’

‘His parents never got over it. A local legend grew up about them.’

As Daniel explained about the cipher garden, the rector’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘Dear me, dear me, how very intriguing. I once had a parish in Norfolk, with an elderly monkey puzzle growing by the edge of the graveyard. Not an attractive tree to my mind, I much prefer the good old English oak myself. But there was no question of chopping it down, my parishioners wouldn’t have heard of it. Would you happen to know why?’

Daniel shook his head.

‘By tradition, the sparse foliage is meant to deprive the Devil of a hiding place. If the branches were leafy, he might be able to spy on funerals and steal the souls of the dead.’

‘What about yew trees and weeping willows – any symbolism there?’

‘Most certainly.’ The rector twittered with delight at the opportunity to display his expertise. ‘Yews are supposed to represent immortality. Weeping willows, as you might guess, are associated with sorrow and bereavement. So how do you interpret the cipher, may I ask?’

‘Strictly speaking, I don’t think it is a cipher. Ciphers
involve the substitution of letters. This just looks like a cryptic message.’

The rector wagged his forefinger in playful rebuke. ‘Ah, there speaks the Oxford don!’

‘Pedantic to a fault, I know. Trouble is, breaking a code may require more than precise, minute analysis. Sometimes imagination is called for.’

‘Goodness, do I take it that you have solved the conundrum?’

‘Yes.’ Daniel stared at the bronze panel. ‘Unfortunately, I think I have.’

‘Are you all right?’ Marc asked.

Hannah contemplated several possible answers before saying, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘We could go away somewhere.’ He chewed a last mouthful of burnt bacon before slinging his plate and cutlery into the dishwasher with a crash. ‘Spend a bit of time together. You’re due plenty of leave.’

The coffee he’d made was bitter on her tongue but she drained the cup anyway. Better make the most of his solicitude; it wouldn’t last. At once she rebuked herself for cynicism. He was making an effort. She slid off the stool. All she’d felt like eating for breakfast was a single slice of unbuttered toast.

‘What about the shop?’

‘Tim and Melanie can look after things for a few days. I’ll cancel the Haydock Park fair.’

‘OK, let’s talk about it tonight.’

‘I’ll call you later.’

‘No need. I thought I’d go into work later this morning.’

‘Are you serious?’ He caught her hand, squeezed her fingers between his. ‘You’ve had a miscarriage, for Christ’s sake!’

Miscarriage. It sounded so dramatic. Actually, what had happened was more like a painful and very heavy period. Her GP, a severe woman whose no-nonsense manner wouldn’t have been out of place in a sergeant-major, was brisk to the point of being dismissive. These things were commonplace in the early weeks. Nature’s way of telling you that something wasn’t quite right. Hannah fled from the surgery before she could be told that her loss was a blessing in disguise.

‘The sooner I get back to normal, the better.’

‘You need to look after yourself! Work can wait. You’re not indispensable.’

The kitchen tiles were cool under her bare feet. Already the sun was beating down outside. When was the weather going to break? She wasn’t an invalid and she had no intention of succumbing to self-indulgence. Right now, she needed the job more than the job needed her. Better to drag her mind away from what had happened and bury herself in that overflowing in-tray. But she couldn’t face an argument.

‘All right.’

‘Great.’ When he smiled, the white even teeth and laughter lines around his mouth reminded her why she found him so difficult to resist. ‘You’ll feel like a different person once you’ve had a proper rest.’

A different person? Confident and in control, not diminished by emptiness and loss?

‘Yes.’

His dry lips brushed her cheek. ‘Listen, Hannah. I’m so sorry about this. Perhaps – it just wasn’t meant to be.’

The doctor had said the same, but Marc’s meaning was different. His sympathy was genuine, yet she detected a lightness in his manner that had been absent after she’d told him she was pregnant. As if he’d been granted a reprieve.

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. She hated herself for thinking he was selfish. But even as she felt his fingers ruffling her hair, she knew she was right. Sifting out the truth from a jumble of confusing evidence was what she was supposed to be good at, after all.

‘So Kirsty’s father was murdered.’

Miranda was gasping as she dragged herself up to the top of the path leading up the slope of Tarn Fell. Daniel pulled his floppy hat down over his eyes. The sun had disappeared behind clouds and the air was heavy. The heat had become a physical presence, an unseen oppressor. Each stride forward felt as though you were pulling against a ball and chain. He’d hoped it would be cooler on Priest Edge, but there wasn’t a hint of breeze.

‘Hacked to death with a scythe,’ she continued. ‘Mrs Tasker was regaling a customer with the story when I went to the shop first thing. The papers are full of it. Maybe Kirsty was killed by someone with a grudge against the family.’

As Louise moved along the narrow stony ridge, Daniel muttered, ‘She ripped off her own helmet, unhooked her own parachute.’

‘What if she’d been drugged?’

‘Do the reports suggest that?’

‘No, but the police might not be telling.’

‘They’d drop a hint to the journalists, off the record. You know how they work.’

Louise came to a stop where the path broadened out. ‘Wasn’t there a skydiver once who staged his suicide to make it look like murder?’

‘Allegedly,’ Daniel said. ‘Nobody knew for sure and the inquest recorded an open verdict. This is different. We all saw what happened.’

For all the heat of the morning, Louise shivered. ‘Unspeakable. I’m not surprised you’re not sleeping, Miranda.’

Miranda took no notice. She’d had another bad night, but over breakfast they’d agreed that a walk would do them good. ‘Remember how uptight she was in the restaurant? What if she was frightened of someone? Suppose she’d been threatened? Darling, are you planning to talk to Hannah Scarlett?’

‘There’s no way she’d share confidential information with me.’

‘Come on. She’s taken a shine to you. It was written all over her when we met at the airfield.’

He threw her a sharp glance, but her expression was mocking rather than suspicious. ‘I spoke to Marc Amos yesterday when I was checking out the history of the garden and he told me Hannah wasn’t in work. She’s off sick.’

‘You don’t imagine police officers being stressed out by an encounter with sudden death, do you? You’d think they were hardened to it.’

‘They’re only human,’ Louise snapped.

They walked on in silence. Daniel thought: you weren’t so forbearing when Dad made his great mistake. He knew better than to voice what was passing through his mind. Lately, he’d felt closer to his sister than ever, but in a few hours she would be leaving for home. This
wasn’t a good time to reopen old wounds.

Miranda mopped her brow. ‘This humidity – I can scarcely get any oxygen into my lungs. Thank God the forecasts are promising a drop of rain. Shall we turn back?’

The Sacrifice Stone lay ahead, a dour grey boulder. As they approached, Louise said, ‘Close up, it looks smaller than when you look up from the cottage. But my God, what a view!’

Brackdale stretched out below them. Daniel’s eyes travelled along the thin ribbon of road that ran through the village, past the church and the last resting place of the Quillers, beyond the Hall and Tarn Fold, towards the abandoned quarry workings and the stern crags that closed off the far end of the valley. A small, enclosed world. He imagined living here a century ago. Jacob and Alice Quiller would have felt bereft after the death of their only child. Lifelong believers, they must have found that John’s death tested their faith to destruction. How could they not feel betrayed by God?

In their horror and confusion, he was convinced, lay the secret of the cipher garden.

‘Hannah? This is Nick. How are you?’

He sounded as anxious as a first-time offender. Touched by his concern, she said into the cordless handset, ‘Much better, thanks. I’ll be in tomorrow.’

‘Nobody here can remember you taking a day off sick.’

‘I’m becoming a hypochondriac in my old age. Probably could have made it today, but Marc came over all protective.’

‘Thank God you listened to him. You push yourself too hard.’

‘I don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool. The doctor
tells me I’m suffering from a touch of sunstroke. It’s the fashion.’

It was an off-the-cuff lie. She trusted Nick, but she hadn’t figured out how to handle the miscarriage in her own mind, whether to talk about it with friends or simply behave as though it had never happened. For now she wanted to keep both options open.

‘What happened to Kirsty Howe was grisly. Enough to knock anyone sideways.’

‘Maybe that was a factor, I don’t know.’ Nor did she know whether it had played a part in the miscarriage. ‘What’s the latest on her death? Any suggestion of anything untoward?’

‘I spoke to a couple of guys working on the investigation. The forensic gurus are crawling all over her kit, but witnesses saw her checking it herself, as per standard procedures. The jump was routine, she’d done it hundreds of times before.’

‘Remember what the good book says. Think murder.’

‘Pity the Murder Investigation Manual doesn’t go into detail about death by skydiving. There’s not a shred of evidence to suggest sabotage. She died because she ripped off her gear and didn’t take any of the precautions that might have saved her life.’

‘No doubt it was suicide?’

‘None. A spectacular way to choose to die, but it’s happened before.’

‘A new trend, killing yourself in front of an audience?’

‘Gone are the days of discreetly sticking your head in a gas oven. Now even people who want to end it all fancy their fifteen minutes of fame.’

She was draped over the sofa, phone wedged between head and shoulder, determined to think about anything
except the sight of Kirsty’s remains spread across the dropzone. When Nick called, she’d been watching daytime TV. A fast-talking presenter was urging a surly
sixteen-year
-old to identify which of three tattooed boyfriends was the father of her baby girl. Even with the sound muted, the kids’ faces told the story more eloquently than any words they might mumble.

‘What do the other skydivers say?’

‘They never picked up a hint that she had anything untoward in mind. But they didn’t know her well; she was someone who lurked on the edge of things. Skydivers party hard, presumably because they never know if the next jump might be their last. She’d had a couple of
one-night
stands with fellow skydivers, but nothing recent. Several chaps had tried it on with her, and got nowhere. They reckoned she’d found a lover who wasn’t part of their community.’

‘Perhaps she was just sick of men.’

‘By the sound of it, none of the skydivers could imagine how a woman could ever get sick of men.’

‘Charming.’

‘She was very quiet before the jump, even by her standards. In the plane, someone asked if she was feeling under the weather, but she said she’d never felt better. She looked haggard, but the guys put it down to a night on the tiles. In fact, she was working at The Heights the previous evening.’

‘Anything out of the ordinary there?’

‘If so, Bel Jenner and Oliver Cox aren’t telling. Her death has stunned them. Bel was in tears and Oliver looked as though he’d been run over by a truck. Mind you, good waitresses aren’t that easy to find.’

‘You’re so cynical. How about her family?’

‘Tina Howe says Kirsty had mood swings and she’d seemed down in the dumps, but there’s no history of her threatening to do away with herself. No overdoses, no
self-harming
. She wasn’t the sort to cry for attention. This suicide came literally out of the blue.’

‘Spur of the moment decision?’

‘Looks like it. She wasn’t a heavy drinker and there’s no evidence she ever so much as smoked a joint. Plenty of work to be done yet, but they haven’t found anything that links in with our investigation.’

‘Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to find.’

‘It is a coincidence that she dies shortly after we receive the anonymous tip-off pointing the finger at Tina.’

‘Suppose she discovered something that proved her mother killed her dad?’

‘Such as?’

‘If she and Sam lied to give Tina an alibi, they must have had suspicions from the outset. Perhaps Kirsty wrote the anonymous letter herself.’

‘And the letter that Tina received?’

‘Attempting to put her under pressure, force her to cough? Or maybe Tina made up the letter. Peter never saw it, remember.’

‘What if Sam was the culprit and Tina and Kirsty lied to save his neck? He might have sent the letters to divert attention from himself.’

‘Why resurrect the case if for years he’d got away with murder?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Hannah scowled at the television screen. The girl was snivelling and her mascara had started to run. Motherhood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, perhaps. Even so, Hannah wanted to find out for herself one day. The
putative fathers were smirking with a mixture of cockiness and embarrassment as they waited for the presenter to reveal the answer.

‘We need a fresh angle. Instead of focusing on who killed Warren, let’s ask who might have given us the tip-off and work forward from there.’

‘Isn’t that a blind alley, without any forensic evidence from the letter?’

If Nick hadn’t been such a good friend, she wouldn’t have restrained the impulse to snap back at him. Ben Kind often complained that technological advance discourages even the best cops from reasoning for themselves.

‘Think laterally. Who might want to stick the knife into Tina?’

Nick pondered. ‘Leaving aside her kids?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Gail Flint,’ he said. ‘Revenge for taking her husband?’

One of the lads on TV grinned stupidly at the news that he was a father. The girl was still crying as the presenter led the audience in a round of enthusiastic applause. Hannah felt like joining in. She’d come to the same conclusion as Nick.

‘Let’s talk to her tomorrow.’

‘Thanks for everything,’ Louise said.

‘Sorry about Saturday,’ Daniel said.

She hesitated. ‘I suppose it brought back memories?’

She was, he knew, talking about Aimee’s suicide.

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re still hurting, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not looking for sympathy.’

‘You never do. But everyone needs a bit of comfort sometimes.’

‘Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I should never have dragged you out to the airfield.’

‘You weren’t to know she was going to kill herself.’

Confession time. He cleared his throat. ‘No, but I knew about her father’s murder from Hannah Scarlett. It’s a cold case she’s investigating. That’s why I asked Peter Flint for advice about the garden. I knew he was Warren Howe’s business partner.’

Louise groaned. ‘As a kid, you wanted to be a detective. Just like Dad.’

‘Maybe I haven’t grown up as much as I’d like to think.’

‘Which of us has?’

They were killing time with a coffee and cake in the platform buffet at Oxenholme. The latest announcement warned that the train from Glasgow was running forty minutes late. Miranda wasn’t with them. She’d elected to chase the builders on the phone rather than come along to see off their guest. At the door of the cottage, she and Louise exchanged pecks on the cheek and promised to keep in touch, but these were the meaningless formalities of English good manners. Daniel knew it wouldn’t break their hearts if they never clapped eyes on each other again.