The Grave Tattoo (34 page)

Jane let him lead her down the panelled hall and usher her in through a door marked ‘Derwent’ in Gothic script. The room held a dozen chairs upholstered in red velvet and, set on polished oak trestles, a simple pine coffin. Uriah closed the door behind her and Jane walked slowly across to the coffin. She’d had little experience of the dead and was surprised by how mundane Tillie Swain’s corpse appeared. She was expertly made up, but her pallor was hard to hide. She wore a dress with a mandarin collar in peacock blue silk with matching necklace and earrings. She looked like a rather unappetising mannequin.

Jane tried to empty her mind and find something meaningful to focus on. But her brain refused to offer her anything but cliché and, after a few minutes, somehow disappointed in herself, she decided to leave. As she walked back towards the front door, a tiny young woman came bounding in the door in a most unfunereal manner. Long dark hair cascaded round her face and she grinned at the young attendant as she passed. ‘Hi, Chris,’ she said cheerily.

‘Good afternoon, Dr Wilde,’ he said, his grave tone a reproach to her energy.

Startled, Jane stopped short. As the woman drew level with her, she said, ‘Excuse me? Are you Dr Wilde, the forensic anthropologist?’

River paused. ‘That’s right, yes.’

‘You’re dealing with the bog body?’

River gestured towards a flight of stairs leading downwards. ‘He’s right here on the premises.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

River smiled. She was always happy to share her expertise. ‘Of course.’

‘The tattoos. Are they typical of the South Sea islands? Tahiti in particular?’

‘They are, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve a theory that your bog body is Fletcher Christian.’ Seeing River’s frown of curiosity, she added, ‘You know? Mutiny on the
Bounty.
Mr Christian–’

‘Here we go again,’ River said impatiently. ‘Yes, I know who Fletcher Christian is. You’re not the first person to mention that very possibility to me. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something in the water that has everybody wondering if my Pirate Peat was Fletcher Christian.’

‘Pirate Peat?’

‘My nickname for the bog body. We’re making a TV programme, they like something catchy. So what’s your interest?’

‘I’m a Wordsworth scholar. I’m exploring the possibility that Fletcher came back to his native land and told his story to William.’

‘Sounds pretty vague to me.’ River glanced at her watch. ‘Look–’

‘I’ve got a lot of circumstantial evidence. And a couple of letters that back it up. I don’t think there’s anyone around here who knows more about Fletcher Christian than me. If you want accurate historical detail for your TV programme, I could help.’

River grinned. ‘But actually, what you want is to know if this is your man?’

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, but the offer still stands. Any chance of it being him?’

River made a decision. ‘Come on down and I’ll show you what I’ve got so far,’ she said, heading for the stairs. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Jane Gresham.’

River turned and they exchanged a clumsy handshake on the stairs. ‘Did you come here to see me?’

‘No, I came to pay my respects to someone I interviewed a couple of days ago. Not anyone close, but I just wanted to…oh, I don’t know. Everybody seems to be dying.’

‘Everybody?’

‘Well, only the ones I interview for my research project.’

‘What? The Wordsworth thing?’ River swung round at the foot of the stairs to face Jane, a vaguely incredulous look on her face.

Jane paused on the bottom step and sighed. ‘Yeah, the Wordsworth thing. I drew up a list of people to interview–descendants of the last person to have had the manuscript. And all these old dears on the list seem to be slipping away. It’s a bit spooky, that’s all.’

‘Unexplained clusters of elderly deaths do occur from time to time. There’s always a reason–heart, whatever–but often no particular thing that points to why today as opposed to any other day.’ She put a hand on Jane’s arm. ‘Don’t let it get to you. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Pirate Peat. We’ve finished filming for today and the students won’t be back for a bit, so we can have him to ourselves.’

Jane followed River into a room that could have provided a film set for a Victorian operating theatre. On a table in the centre of the room lay a surprisingly small bundle. Without muscles and flesh, Pirate Peat looked like a human-shaped leather bag filled with bones. The tattoos were evident, their decorated bands circling his waist. Jane looked for the other tattoo she knew Fletcher Christian had possessed, the star of the Order of the Garter on the left side of his chest. But that area was missing, rough tear marks round the edge of a hole roughly eight inches in diameter. ‘What happened there?’ she asked, pointing to it.

‘Probably eaten by animals at some point,’ River said.

‘Could it have been deliberately cut away? By the killer?’

River frowned and examined the tear more clearly. ‘I don’t think so, it looks more like it’s been torn by teeth. What makes you think it might have been deliberate?’

‘Because Fletcher Christian had a distinctive tattoo just there.’

River raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re as good as your word, Jane. Full of interesting gobbets of information. Tell you what, I’ll take another look under the microscope, see if I can come up with a definitive answer…’ She paused, as if struck by a thought. ‘This manuscript of yours–is it something a dealer would be interested in?’

‘You bet,’ Jane said. ‘If there really is a poem in a holograph manuscript, it would likely fetch over a million at auction. Which would mean a tidy commission for the dealer. Why do you ask?’

‘A guy came up to me the other night, over in the hotel bar. He said he was a document dealer, that he was following up reports of a possible manuscript connected to Fletcher Christian. And he was interested to know whether I thought this could be the man.’ She gestured at the body on the table.

Jane felt her heart sink. ‘His name wasn’t Jake Hartnell, was it?’

‘You know him?’

‘Only too well,’ she said heavily. If she’d needed confirmation that Jake was more interested in the manuscript than in her, here it was. ‘Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye on most things.’

River raised one eyebrow. ‘Can’t say I took to him myself.’

Jane gave a wry smile. ‘Then you’re at least as good a judge of the living as the dead.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks for showing me this.’

‘My pleasure. And I’ll keep you posted. If this turns out to be Fletcher Christian, you’ll be the first to know.’

Ewan Rigston was briefing his team on an armed robbery at a petrol station when the message came through from the front desk that Alice Clewlow was waiting to see him. He wound up the briefing and had her sent up to his office. He remembered Alice. She was a few years younger than him, but he’d once asked her out to a rugby club hop. She’d laughed, not unkindly, and told him he was wasting his time. He’d been offended at the time, but over the years, it had gradually dawned on him that her rejection had been generic rather than specific. Not that she broadcast the fact. Discretion, that was always the name of the game in a small town.

He hadn’t seen her except at a distance for a few years, and he was pleasantly surprised to see how little she’d changed. A few more lines, a few silver hairs. But still the same old Alice. She’d retained the air of confidence and competence that he remembered as surprising in a teenager. As she sat down, he noticed a tension round her eyes that he hadn’t spotted at first glance. ‘Hello, Alice,’ he said, waiting till she was settled before he sat down.

‘Thanks for seeing me, Ewan. Or should I call you Detective Inspector Rigston these days?’ There was a genuine enquiry beneath the light tone.

‘Ewan will do fine,’ he said. ‘I was sorry to hear about your grandmother,’ he added, remembering the mention of Edith Clewlow’s death in the weekend report.

‘That’s what I’m here about,’ Alice said.

Rigston frowned. ‘You think there was something suspicious about Mrs Clewlow’s death?’ His heart sank. There was nothing more troublesome than relatives who got a bee in their bonnet about perfectly natural deaths.

‘I didn’t at the time,’ Alice said. ‘But since then, two other relatives have died. Both elderly, it’s true. But one was my gran’s sister-in-law, Tillie Swain. Over at Grasmere. The other was Tillie’s second cousin, Eddie Fairfield. He lives here in Keswick. They all died in the night, and they’ve all been certified as natural causes.’ She paused, her expression one of caution. ‘You think I’m daft, don’t you?’

‘No, Alice, I’d never think that of you. But I’m struggling to understand why you think this is police business. I know it’s hard to accept, but old people often pass away without there being any sinister implications.’

‘I understand that, Ewan. But would you feel the same if I told you there was something else linking them?’

‘What sort of something else?’ he asked, leaning forward, his interest piqued.

‘There’s a woman called Jane Gresham–’

‘From Fellhead?’ Rigston interrupted. ‘Gresham’s Farm?’

‘That’s right. You know her?’

‘Let’s just say our paths have crossed in a professional capacity. What’s Jane Gresham’s connection to your gran?’

‘She’s looking for a manuscript that she thinks one of our ancestors might have got from Wordsworth. She came to my house with some bloke she’s working with when my gran was barely cold, pretending to offer her condolences. But what she was really after was finding out whether Gran had these papers. Her brother–he’s the headmaster at the primary school in Fellhead–he’d rung Gran about it the day she died. Helping his sister, I suppose.’

‘I’m still not quite sure where this is taking us,’ Rigston said, his interest seeping away.

‘You remember my little brother Jimmy? Plays drums?’ Rigston nodded and Alice continued. ‘He was pally with Jane when they were kids. They hooked up again at the wake. They went out for dinner last night. Jimmy didn’t get home till the small hours, and when I told him about Eddie this morning, he looked really shocked. He said Jane Gresham had a list of people she thought might have this manuscript. Gran’s name was top of the list. The next name was Tillie Swain and after her came Eddie Fairfield.’ Alice stopped and gave Rigston a level stare. ‘Now do you think it might be suspicious?’

‘It’s odd, I’ll grant you that. But are you really suggesting Jane Gresham is running round the district killing old people just to get her hands on some old manuscript?’

Alice shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think, Ewan. All I know is that members of my family keep dying. And I think you need to look into it.’

34

Jane’s phone started ringing on the doorstep of Gibson’s, making her start guiltily. Just as well it hadn’t rung while she’d been paying her respects to Tillie Swain. She pulled her mobile out of her backpack and glanced at the display. An unfamiliar mobile number. Only one way to find out who was calling. She hit a key and put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

The voice on the other end was deep and formal. ‘Dr Gresham? I believe you wanted to speak to me? Bearing in mind that cellphone to cellphone is not what you could call secure…’

The Hammer, she realised, looking around instinctively to make sure nobody was watching her.
Thank you, mad Mrs Gallagher.
Thanks for calling. I need to speak to you about the matter we discussed last week.’

‘Again?’ There was a chuckle in his voice, which frightened her more than any threat could have.

‘The solution you came up with last time appears to have created some fresh problems,’ Jane said, choosing her words carefully.

‘So I heard.’

‘Our friend now refuses to solve her problems in the obvious way because she feels too much loyalty. And she’s adamant that you too must avoid taking that particular course of action.’

‘I think I understand you. Neither of us wants to talk to William, right?’

The name threw Jane off balance. Why was the Hammer talking to her about Wordsworth? It took her a moment to make the connection; William, Bill, Old Bill. ‘That’s about the size of it,’ she said cautiously.

‘You’re very close to our friend, right?’

How did spies manage this sort of cloaked conversation, Jane wondered. She felt completely out of her depth in shark-infested waters. ‘Yes, but I don’t know how long that’s going to last,’ she said, hoping he would understand.

‘If you can manage to make it last till the weekend, I’ll get it sorted.’ Hampton sounded calm and confident.

‘You’ll both be OK?’

‘Oh, you can count on that, Dr Gresham,’ he said, and ended the call.

Jane stood staring stupidly at her phone. She needed a drink, she decided. It wasn’t normally her first recourse, but then it wasn’t every day she had a killer on the other end of her mobile. She left the car where it was and walked down the hill towards the town centre, turning into the first pub she came to.

She bought a Southern Comfort and Coke and found a quiet corner where she could turn her back to the room and recover herself. So it was that she had no advance warning of Jake’s presence. One minute she was alone, contemplating John Hampton’s inscrutably dark world and fervently hoping she never had to come closer to its epicentre than she had just done. The next, Jake was beside her, one hand on the back of her chair, the other touching the edge of the table. ‘Jane, what a surprise,’ he said.

She whirled round so fast a curl whipped into her eye, making it smart and water. Rubbing her eye fiercely she said, ‘Stalking me again? How much clearer can I make it? We. Are. Through.’

Jake looked discomfited, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anyone in the half-empty pub had picked up on their personal drama. Happily they were all deep in conversation or Sudoku. ‘I didn’t follow you,’ he said. ‘I was out for a walk when it started raining. I dived in here to get out of the rain.’ He held out the arm of his jacket, stained with dark circles. ‘Look, rain.’ He gave her the grin that had once made her stomach flutter. Now it made her stomach turn.

‘Whatever. Doesn’t change the message.’ Jane pointedly looked away, staring at her drink on the table, trying to avoid looking at his hand. He took his hand away and she thought for a moment he was going to take her at her word. But no. Instead he sat down next to her. She pushed her chair back, preparing to leave. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers a handcuff round her bones.

‘Let me go,’ she hissed, still bound by the English convention of never making scenes in public places.

‘I accept what you said.’ Jake spoke quickly. ‘About us. It’s not what I want, but I accept it. I want to talk to you about something else.’

‘You want to talk me into helping you get rich quick,’ Jane said contemptuously. ‘Now let me go.’

Jake released her wrist and she rubbed it with her other hand. ‘It’s not like that,’ he said.

‘No? Then what were you doing asking Dr Wilde if the bog body is Fletcher Christian? And why are you still here? You’re trying to cash in on my hard work.’

‘I’m not trying to do you out of anything,’ Jake protested. ‘Yes, there’s money to be made. But please don’t pretend you’re indifferent to money. I know how much you hate doing two jobs to make ends meet, and how much you’d love to be able to do nothing but your own work. Well, if we work together on this, all that would be within your grasp. I’d get the commission on the sale, you’d get first crack at the poem.’

‘Stop it, Jake,’ Jane said. ‘I’m not interested in your little schemes. You sit there and talk about commission, but what you’re really about is trying to con people. I know you. If you find this manuscript, you’ll make whoever has it an offer they can’t refuse. They’re not smart London operators, they’re straightforward Lakeland people–they’ll be blinded by the zeros. They won’t know you’re only offering them a fraction of what it’s worth.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ he protested. ‘I’m not here to rip anybody off. I want to play fair.’

‘You might, but I bet your precious Caroline doesn’t. Jake, watch my lips. I really don’t care about the money.’

At this, Jake snapped. He got to his feet and thrust his face close to hers. ‘Maybe not, Jane. But other people do. And they will go to extraordinary lengths to cut you out of the process.’

He turned on his heel and marched out into the rain. Jane stared after him, stunned. For the first time since she’d heard about the body in the bog, it dawned on her that there might be personal danger in what she was doing. There were, it seemed, bad people out there who were a lot less obvious than John Hampton.

Rigston stared through the rain streaking his window to the grey rooftops beyond. Bloody miserable afternoon, he thought. Better things to do than sit on the end of a phone waiting to be connected to some bloody doctor who clearly still subscribed to the view that the only people whose time had any value were those in the medical profession. It wasn’t as if he expected anything earth-shattering from the conversation. Not if the two previous calls were anything to go by.

‘Yes? Is that Inspector Rigston?’ the voice in his ear said, sounding peevish and about twelve years old.

‘Speaking.’

‘Jerry Hamilton here. Dr Jerry Hamilton. My receptionist said you needed to speak to me about a patient. Now, you must be aware I can’t discuss medical records–’

‘You can when they’re dead,’ Rigston snapped, running out of patience. ‘Especially when it’s you that signed the death certificate.’

‘Ah yes, well, that does rather alter the situation,’ Hamilton said, his tone more emollient. ‘And the death in question would be…?’

‘Edward Fairfield. I believe you attended him this morning.’

‘Ah yes, Mr Fairfield. Perfectly straightforward, Inspector. Heart failure.’

‘Did Mr Fairfield have a history of heart trouble?’ Rigston doodled heart shapes in a line across his pad.

‘He had a minor heart attack just under two years ago. He’d been keeping reasonably well since. But this happens with the elderly all the time. The heart just runs out of beats.’

‘So you’d say it wasn’t an unexpected death?’ Rigston asked, adding arrows to the little hearts.

‘On the contrary, Inspector. I would say it was unexpected–but not surprising, given his age and general health. Does that make it any clearer for you?’ The peevish tone was back.

‘And there were no suspicious circumstances?’

‘I don’t know what you mean by suspicious.’

‘Signs of a struggle? Petechial haemorrhages consistent with smothering? Any indications of a fatal injection?’ Rigston said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Bloody doctors.

‘None of the above. Nothing that was in any way inconsistent with natural causes. Why are you asking these questions, Inspector?’

‘I’m pursuing a line of enquiry, sir. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time,’ he said mechanically, ending the call. Rigston leaned back in his chair. Three dead old people. Three different doctors. Three unequivocal verdicts of natural death. He should be satisfied.

But he wasn’t.

Dan leaned back on the sofa and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say. On the one hand, you’d think somebody would notice a maniac bumping off old people all over the place. On the other hand, Harold Shipman was murdering elderly patients for years before anyone noticed.’

‘Living where they did, Edith, Tillie and Eddie would have had different doctors,’ Jane said. ‘So it’s not some crazy doctor doing his own form of euthanasia.’

‘So we’re back to natural causes.’

‘Maybe they were scared to death,’ Jane said, pushing her foot against the floor to build up momentum in the rocking chair that sat in the corner of the cottage living room.

Dan pulled a face. ‘I don’t think you can scare someone to death very easily. And you couldn’t rely on doing it time after time. I think Dr Wilde is right–they just turn up their toes when they’ve had enough. Maybe when somebody in the family dies, it sort of turns their mind to it. What do I know? I’m just a simple student of language.’

‘Do you think we should get Jimmy to warn Letty? I mean, if there is something dodgy going on, she’s the next on the list.’

Dan snorted. ‘Oh yes, let’s make sure we scare her to death. “By the way, Letty, somebody’s out to get you.” That’ll be helpful. Jane, if there’s no murders, there’s no murderer. And so no risk to Letty.’

Jane scowled. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm for her to be on her guard. And Jimmy’s family.’

Dan gave a little cat-like smile. ‘He’s family, all right.’

‘I don’t want to know,’ Jane said firmly. ‘Harry’s my friend too, remember?’ She got up and stretched.

‘I’m going to get some fresh air. Ever since Jake accosted me, I’ve felt like I should be looking over my shoulder. Like there’s someone watching me.’ She looked out of the window to the valley below and shivered. ‘It’s not a nice feeling. I wish I could shake it off.’ She turned back to face him. ‘It’s cleared up nicely now. I think I’ll drive up the fell and take a walk. Clear my head.’

‘OK. Have we got plans for later?’

Jane shook her head. ‘Let’s leave it till tomorrow.’

As she drove down the hill in the dying light of the afternoon, Jane spotted Matthew wheeling the buggy across the road from the Post Office. She slowed to a halt and wound down the window. ‘Don’t stake your hopes on Letty Brownrigg,’ she called to him. ‘I’ve seen the papers and she’s got nothing from Dorcas.’

Matthew’s eyes narrowed and his brows lowered. ‘You are pathetic,’ he snarled at her, turning into his driveway and disappearing behind the hedge.

The satisfaction was petty, she knew, but it was satisfaction nonetheless. Jane stepped on the gas and headed up past Langmere Stile. She felt a pang as she passed Edith Clewlow’s cottage.
Nothing to do with me.
The thought lacked conviction.

A mile further on, she swung left into the National Trust car park for Langmere Force. Hers was the only car there at that time of the afternoon and Jane felt calm creep over her as soon as she cleared the stile and walked up the woodland path to the forty-foot waterfall that cascaded from the high fell into Dark Tarn below.