The Grave Tattoo (30 page)

‘No, nothing like that. Just a note asking him to call Dr Gresham.’

‘Because he’s got a fearsome reputation on him. I wouldn’t want to be crossing him.’

‘You won’t be crossing him. He’ll be pleased to hear from me, honestly.’

Mrs Gallagher sighed noisily. ‘You know where he lives?’

‘D eighty-seven.’

‘Go on then, give me your number. I’ll do it right now, tonight. Before my cold feet get the better of me.’

Jane gave her mobile number, then repeated it to make sure. ‘You’re a gem, Mrs Gallagher,’ she said. ‘I won’t forget this. It’s really a big deal to me.’

‘You take care of yourself now. Mixing with the likes of the Hammer isn’t right for a woman like you.’

Jane finally managed to extricate herself from the conversation with a promise that she would come and see her neighbour when she got back to London. She put the phone down with a sigh of relief. She had no idea what Tenille and Mrs Gallagher had been up to, and she really didn’t want to know.

A few minutes later, she opened the slaughterhouse door and shone the torch on a blinking Tenille. ‘How do you fancy a couple of hours indoors? Dan’s gone back to London and Mum and Dad have gone to the pictures in Ambleside. They won’t be back till gone ten. You could even have a bath if you wanted.’

Tenille quickly wriggled out of the sleeping bag. ‘That’s baaad,’ she said, grinning. ‘Man, I’ve been losing my mind in here. It’s OK in the light, but it gets dark so early. I didn’t realise how fucking dark the countryside is.’

Tenille followed her back into the kitchen, making a beeline for the warmth of the Aga. ‘This is so cool,’ she said, looking round the kitchen. ‘Man, you are so lucky having a place like this.’

‘I know,’ Jane said. ‘Maybe you can come back again for a visit when all this has died down.’

‘That’d be gold,’ Tenille said.

‘By the way, Mrs Gallagher is going to take a note round to your dad, asking him to call me. Let’s hope he’s got some bright idea about how to get you off the hook.’

Tenille scowled. ‘I don’t want him thinking I’m not grateful for what he did.’

‘Let’s not go there. Do you fancy a bath? Something hot to eat?’

‘I’m all right with the shower. I don’t really like baths. But something hot to drink would be great. A coffee, maybe?’ She watched Jane fill the kettle and set it on the Aga. ‘I never asked you. What are you doing up here anyway?’

‘I’m on study leave. Some research I could only do up here.’

‘Research into what? Come on, Jane, take my mind off the shit. Tell me what you’re working on. You know I’m interested in all that stuff.’

Jane could see the enthusiasm in Tenille’s eyes and found she couldn’t deny her. She made coffee for them both, then settled down at the table to tell Tenille the whole story. She even produced the family trees to show how she’d come up with her prioritised list of people to interview. Tenille interrupted several times to ask questions that were surprisingly percipient and the time sped by under the spell of narrative. ‘That’s so cool,’ she said when Jane reached the end of her tale. ‘But you’re not going to get anywhere being nice, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the manuscript exists, I don’t buy it that nobody in the family knows anything about Dorcas and her papers. So if it does exist, they must have been holding it secret, like some sacred thing that was trusted to them. Or else they know it doesn’t really belong to them, so they’re keeping quiet about it. Either way, they’re not going to go, like, “Hey, Jane, we’ve so been waiting for somebody to come along and ask us for this.” They’re going to go, “Oh shit, somebody’s guessed the big family secret, we better all put our heads together and throw her off the scent.” Doesn’t matter how nice you are to them, they’re going to put the wall up.’

‘You think so? You think they’d still want to keep it secret after all this time? What would be the point?’

Tenille shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. But people are weird when it comes to family stuff. You know they are.’

‘So what would you suggest?’ Jane said frostily.

‘Nothing that would appeal to you, sister,’ Tenille said drily.

Before Jane could say anything more, the phone rang. She started, glanced at the clock and said, ‘Oh shit, look at the time.’ She grabbed the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Jane? It’s Jimmy. Jimmy Clewlow. It’s not too late to ring, is it? I know how early farmers hit the hay.’

Distracted by the call, Jane didn’t notice Tenille slip a sheet of paper under her jacket. ‘No, it’s fine, Jimmy. Just give me a minute, though.’ Jane covered the mouthpiece. ‘You need to go. Mum and Dad will be back soon.’

Tenille nodded. ‘Thanks for this evening. It’s been really cool. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’ She was already on her way to the door.

‘Tomorrow.’ Jane sketched a wave then returned to her call. ‘Sorry, Jimmy, just had to take something off the stove before it boiled over. I’m sorry about this morning.’

‘Think nothing of it. Alice is stroppy at the best of times, and this morning was a long way from the best of times. Listen, I wondered if you and your pal Dan fancied getting together for dinner tomorrow?’

‘Sounds good to me. But Dan’s had to go down to London. He won’t be back till about eight.’

‘I’ll pick you up at half past eight, then. That OK with you?’

‘Perfect.’ They chatted for a little longer, then said their goodbyes. Jane put the phone down with a smile on her face. Two birds with one stone. A possible ally in their attempts to unlock the Clewlow family memories and a perfect excuse for avoiding the dinner invitation she felt sure Jake would issue at lunch. Things were definitely looking up.

30

Riding a bike without lights in the dead of night in London would be lethal. But then, the night was never dead in London. Not like here, Tenille thought as she freewheeled down the gentle slope from Fellhead to the main road. Here, now it was cloudy and you couldn’t see the stars, it was like cycling underground. Tenille imagined herself as a tube train, speeding unlit through silent tunnels, empty of people. Just her and the rats, the only other things with a pulse. She supposed there were animals out there, doing their night-time thing, stalking and killing and being killed. But their domain was outside hers, it had no relevance.

When she reached the main road, she turned right towards Grasmere. Dove Cottage was easy enough to find, right on the main road and clearly signposted. Tenille swung off the road and propped Jane’s bike against the wall. She prowled round the cottage, imagining Wordsworth inside, hunched over the arm of his chair, scribbling a line then pausing for thought. It was weird to think what had been written inside those walls. There was nothing special about the house, she thought. You wouldn’t look at it and think, ‘Wow! Somebody special must live here.’

She walked back to the bike, thinking again how lucky it was that she’d spotted it through the open door of an outbuilding when Jane had walked her to the house. She’d thought then about borrowing it for a night ride. Anything to get out of the slaughterhouse, where she was going stir crazy. She’d known there was no point in asking Jane’s permission, so she’d resolved then and there to wait till after midnight before sneaking out and going for a ride. Then when Jane had told her about her quest, a whole other agenda had opened up.

So here she was at one in the morning, the only person stirring. Tenille turned off the main road and cycled silently into the village proper. And that was when she realised her plan wasn’t going to be quite as straightforward as she had thought. She had no idea where Tillie Swain’s bungalow might be, but she hadn’t imagined it would be hard to find in a little place like this. However, her experience was London, where streets were clearly named and even on estates like the Marshpool, doors had numbers. Grasmere was another creature entirely. Sure, it was pretty. But it wasn’t designed to make life easy for strangers. Some lanes had no markings at all and most houses had no number, just names. And of course, there was nobody to ask.

Finally she found a village map mounted in a glass case outside a gift shop. It was almost impossible to read, but Tenille struggled with it and eventually worked out where she was in relation to Tillie Swain’s house. She cycled back to the main road and turned south. And there it was, right on the edge of the village.

No lights showed in any of the group of four bungalows. Tenille left the bike at the mouth of the close then walked down to Tillie’s house, staying in the shadows as much as possible. She walked down the side of the bungalow, light on her feet as a cat. Round the back, she surveyed her options. There were patio doors, which she knew were supposed to be easy to jemmy out of their runners. But she didn’t have a crowbar and she didn’t want to risk the noise. That left the back door, which looked pretty solid with a mortise lock rather than a Yale. She’d learned about locks at an early age, but it had been a while and she didn’t have the right tools, only a pair of tweezers and some strong wire she’d picked up in the shed where the bike had been. She could do it, but she’d rather not. Her best hope was the heavy pots that were arranged around the patio. Maybe Tillie had secreted a key under a flower pot. She wouldn’t be the first.

Tenille crouched down and began to tilt the pots one by one, groping underneath for anything that felt like a key. She got lucky on the fourth pot. She pulled out a key and grinned. She rubbed it clean of dirt on her trousers and headed for the back door.

A few minutes later, she had to admit defeat. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the back door key. ‘Fuck it,’ she muttered. The only thing left to try was the front door, exposed to any insomniac pensioner who might be sitting in the dark looking out of their window. Well, there was no help for it. She was going to have to go for it.

She crept back to the front of the bungalow and tried the key. The lock turned silently and, within seconds, she was inside the hallway, breathing in the smell of old lady. The house was dark and silent. She stepped silently down the hall and glanced in at the first room on her left. The living room. A good place to start looking. She closed the door behind her and found herself in blackness. Her hand groped for the light switch and clicked it on. If someone saw the light, they’d probably assume Tillie was having trouble sleeping. She hoped.

Quickly she scoped out the room. There was an old-fashioned sideboard against one wall and she made straight for it. Both drawers were crammed with papers. Tenille pulled out the first bundle and started going through it. Receipted bills, postcards, insurance policies, a will in a lawyer’s envelope. Nothing of interest. The second drawer was equally fruitless. Why anybody needed to keep her electricity bills from the 1980s was beyond Tenille.

She took a deep breath. The bedroom was probably where an old lady would hide anything really important. But there was no way she could search in there. It wouldn’t hurt to look, though.

Tenille turned off the light and moved back into the hallway. The door opposite was closed and, with infinite care, she edged it open. It was a bedroom, no question of that. But the curtains were pulled back and the bed was empty. Yet it was obviously Tillie’s bedroom. All the old lady things were on the bedside table–a tumbler of water, a glasses case, a couple of books. A cardigan was tossed carelessly on a chair. Tenille felt a chill in her stomach. Where was the old lady? It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go.

Never mind that, she told herself. She must have gone to stay with family. Whatever. The thing was, she wasn’t here and that was a golden opportunity. Tenille pulled the curtains closed, turned on the bedroom light and started searching.

Twenty minutes later, she had to admit that she’d drawn a blank. The only papers she’d found were some letters tied in faded red ribbon along with a marriage certificate for Donald Swain and Matilda Clewlow. She glanced at her watch. It was almost two. Time to get out of here if she was going to take a look at Edith Clewlow’s cottage as well. There was only the kitchen and bathroom left here, and she didn’t think either of those was a place to store documents.

She turned off the light, opened the curtains again and left as silently as she’d arrived. She replaced the key and headed back for the bike. It seemed as if Tillie Swain had been telling the truth after all.

She cycled back along the quiet roads, seeing nothing except a lorry with a supermarket logo passing in the opposite direction. Even up here, people had to get their own-brand fix. It was harder work going back up the hill to Fellhead, but Tenille persisted. The village was hushed and dark, the only light coming from the one lamppost on the village green. Here, Tenille paused to consult her map and the list of names and addresses she’d helped herself to earlier. The late Edith Clewlow had lived at Langmere Stile, which according to the map was a mile up the fell. Not far, but not fun either, looking at the contour lines. With a sigh, Tenille mounted the bike again and set off up the hill. Man, she was going to be so fit when she got back to London.

She found Lark Cottage with little difficulty. This time, she wheeled the bike round the back. She expected this house to be empty, and she didn’t want to risk anyone passing by and seeing the bike outside. A local would be instantly suspicious, and she wouldn’t mind betting they’d be straight on the phone to the cops.

This time, she wasn’t so lucky with the back door. But the kitchen window wasn’t latched properly and she was able to raise the sash enough to squeeze through. She landed in the sink with a loud clatter and froze for a few seconds, holding her breath. Nothing broke the stillness.

It took much longer to search Edith Clewlow’s house. She had been a hoarder to a degree that would have shamed a squirrel. Tenille wondered if the old woman had ever heard of paper recycling. There were boxes of photographs, drawers stuffed to bursting with letters and postcards, an accordion file rammed full of every official document Edith and David had received. The family Bible turned up in the bedside cabinet, on top of a stack of scribbled notes about Edith’s childhood in Seatoller. Beneath that was a folder filled with newspaper clippings of her family’s exploits, from local football matches to sheepdog trials and village produce shows. But nothing about William Wordsworth or Dorcas Mason.

By the time Tenille had finished, the time was nudging past four a.m. She knew she had to get out before the world around her started waking up. She’d already learned that people round here seemed to think nothing of getting up in the middle of the night and driving tractors all over the landscape. She pushed a final stack of photographs back in a carved wooden box, then left the way she’d entered.

Within fifteen minutes, she was back at the slaughterhouse, bike safely stowed. She crawled into her sleeping bag, feeling like she’d done a good night’s work. OK, she hadn’t found anything. But at least now, two names could be properly crossed off the list.

Jane was on her second cup of coffee when her father came into the kitchen carrying the morning post, his expression glum. He had, she knew, already been up to the high pastures to check on a wether with suspected water belly, so she said, ‘What do you think, then? Are you going to have to call the vet out?’

He looked momentarily bewildered, then said, ‘The wether? No, I think he’s fine. The vet’s coming out on Thursday anyway, so I’ll get him to have a look then.’

‘That’s good. I thought from your expression that he’d taken a turn for the worse.’

‘To tell you the honest truth, what Adam was just telling me put the wether right out of my head,’ Allan said, going to the fridge and pouring himself a glass of milk.

Adam Blankenship had been delivering the post in Fellhead for as long as Jane could remember, and his van seemed to function as a magnet for all the news for miles around. ‘Bad news?’ Jane asked.

Allan glanced at her sideways. ‘It was Tillie Swain you went to see yesterday afternoon, wasn’t it? Down Grasmere?’

‘Yes. Why? Has she been complaining about me?’

Allan sat down opposite her. ‘She’ll not be doing any complaining now, love. She died last night.’

Jane’s eyes widened in shock. ‘What? She seemed fine when I saw her. Apart from her arthritis, she was quite perky.’

Allan spread his hands helplessly. ‘She was old. It happens.’

‘Do they know what it was?’

Allan shook his head. ‘Adam didn’t have much detail. Apparently, her arthritis was worst in the morning so she had a home help who came in first thing to get her up and bathed. When the woman arrived this morning, she found Tillie on the bathroom floor, cold as ice. Maybe she had a fall, maybe a stroke, maybe a heart attack.’

‘Poor woman. It’s not how you’d choose to go, is it? Lying on the bathroom floor feeling your life ebbing away. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Dying alone must be bad enough without losing your dignity as well.’

Allan ran his thumb up and down the side of his glass. ‘I don’t think there’s any dignity in death, however it comes. All we can do is try to live with dignity.’

There was nothing Jane could find to say to that. ‘It’s a bit spooky, don’t you think? Two deaths in the space of a few days. That seems a lot for such a small area. Especially when they’re both connected to what I’m working on.’

Allan shrugged. ‘It’s just coincidence. I don’t know why it happens that way, but old people often seem to die in clusters. It’s like, one goes and three or four others decide to give up the ghost. I don’t think there’s anything peculiar in them both being from the same family. Everybody from round here’s connected to everybody else. You’re related to half the village one way or another, don’t forget that.’

‘I suppose.’ Jane finished her coffee and got to her feet. ‘I’d better get off. I’m going to see a couple of people in Keswick.’

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘Picking elderberries.’

‘Is it that time of year already? It goes by faster and faster.’

Jane kissed her father’s cheek. ‘Stop trying to pretend you’re an old man.’