Murder at Blind Beck

Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates

Bruce Beckham

Lucius

Copyright © 2025 Bruce Beckham

All rights reserved.  Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work.  No part may be copied or transmitted or used for AI training without written permission from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2025
Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2025
Hardcover edition first published by Lucius 2025

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Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
Beta reader Kathy Dahm

EDITOR'S NOTE

BRUCE BECKHAM brings a lifelong love of the outdoors to the contemporary crime novel. He is an award-winning author and copywriter. A resident of Great Britain, he has travelled and worked in over 60 countries. He is published in both fiction and non-fiction, and is a member of the UK Society of Authors.

His series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’ features the recalcitrant Cumbrian detective Daniel Skelgill, and his loyal lieutenants, long-suffering Londoner DS Leyton and local high-flyer DS Emma Jones.

Set amidst the ancient landscapes of England’s Lake District, this expanding series of standalone murder mysteries has won acclaim across five continents, with over 1 million copies downloaded, from Australia to Japan and India, and from Brazil to Canada and the United States of America.

Murder at Blind Beck is a stand-alone mystery, the twenty-fifth in the series.  It takes place in and around the ancient Westmorland town of Kendal, where many of the places featured fictitiously may be visited.

Absolutely no AI (Artificial Intelligence) is used in the writing of the DI Skelgill novels.  All quirks, twists and liberties taken with the English language are the work of the author.

the di skelgill series

Murder in Adland

Murder in School

Murder on the Edge

Murder on the Lake

Murder by Magic

Murder in the Mind

Murder at the Wake

Murder in the Woods

Murder at the Flood

Murder at Dead Crags

Murder Mystery Weekend

Murder on the Run

Murder at Shake Holes

Murder at the Meet

Murder on the Moor

Murder Unseen

Murder in our Midst

Murder Unsolved

Murder in the Fells

Murder at the Bridge

Murder on the Farm

Murder at Home

Murder in the Round

Murder Mere Murder

Murder at Blind Beck

Murder on the Menu

Glossary

SOME OF THE Cumbrian dialect words, abbreviations, British slang and local usage appearing in Murder at Blind Beck are as follows:

Area – small sunken yard

Arl fella – father/old man/husband

Arl lass – mother/old lady/wife

Beck – mountain stream/brook

Blow the gaff – reveal a secret

Bobby – police officer (from founder, Robert Peel)

Bookie – bookmaker

Builders’ – very strong hot tea

Butty – sandwich

Caff – café

Caw canny – go carefully

Chippy – fish-and-chips takeaway outlet

Copshop – police station

DAA – Derwentdale Anglers’ Association

Dead ringer – doppelganger

Deek – look/peep

Donnat – idiot/good-for-nothing

DWP – Department for Work and Pensions

Fag – cigarette

Frit – frightened

Gaff – place/home/base

Gay – very

GHB – drug that causes drowsiness

Ginnel – alley

Haar – sea mist

Happen – maybe

His nibs – person in authority

Int’ – into the

KC – King’s Counsel (barrister)

Kirk – church

Knees-up – party

Marra – mate (friend)

Mash – tea/brew tea

Mind – remember

Mither – nag/bother

Mizzle – drizzly mist

Naff – vulgar

Nicker – pound sterling

Nowt – nothing

Ower – over

Owt – anything

Plod – police beat officer

Reet – right

RP – received pronunciation (King’s English)

Ruddy – extremely mild expletive

Spark – electrician

Spate – sudden flood of a river

Stotting – raining heavily

Summat – something

T’ – the (often silent)

Us – often used for me/my/our

Watter – water, lake

While – until

WPC – woman police constable

Yon – that

PROLOGUE

The last woman to be transported from Cumbria

BARELY OF AGE, eighteen-year-old Flora Mary Graham was found guilty by a jury of twelve good Kendal men and true of the murder in his prime of the Seventh Earl of Fellside, by striking him about the head and sending him to his death in Blind Beck, the town’s stream running in violent spate on the stormy night of Halloween, 1852.

Apprehended at the scene bearing a babe in arms, the child swaddled and soaked, three gold sovereigns were found in Flora’s possession, half a year’s wages for a servant girl such as she.  The motive ascribed was thus one of robbery, but Flora had been born a deaf-mute and was unable to proffer a defence.

It was speculated by the Prosecution that Lord Fellside, great benefactor and philanthropist, had come across Flora in the act of drowning her child, and in a vain attempt to thwart her had forfeited his own life, an altruist to the last.

Flora would have been for the gallows, to swing against the bleak wall of Carlisle gaol, but for the recommendation to mercy entered by the jury and acted upon by the judge in the interests of the innocent infant.  And thus Flora – with her three-month-old son – became the last woman to be transported by convict ship from Cumbria to Van Diemen’s Land.

KENDAL MAP

QUOTATION

“Cool it with a baboon’s blood,

Then the charm is firm and good.”

From the witches’ incantation, Macbeth

Saturday

27th October

1. A DARE

Fortune Antiques, Kirkland, Kendal – 5.45 p.m.

‘YOU’RE A FISHERMAN.’

Skelgill does not flinch.  Behind the woman a small grimy window, a little ajar, is set in the apex of the eaves, beneath which she has nested amongst dusty furniture, drapes and bric-a-brac.  From his low stool – perhaps intentionally chosen so that her head is silhouetted against an external downlighter – he cannot glean her expression.  But if she’d stood on her own chair, she might have been able to peer into the narrow street below and see him scowling into the glass of Shooting Lines – a fishing tackle and gun shop that is well named for either genre of sportsperson.  His scepticism (in window shopping) derived from a display of a telescopic “multi-purpose” travel rod.  To Skelgill’s mind, the Swiss Army knife of fishing rods does not exist; no fly angler can send out a shooting line from the same stiff carbon fibre that would be suitable for spinning.  Still, he had coveted the blasted thing.

The woman gives a faint cough, no more than a modest clearing of her throat, barely a murmur, but there is the hint that she is seeking his confirmation of her assertion.

If she were doing this business by holding his palm, he would assume there are telltale signs that can be learned – of trades and hobbies (like carpenter and golfer) – and he wonders what they would be of the angler.  He finds himself looking down at his hands.  There are plenty of callouses of a minor kind, but they are an assemblage of evils: rope work in the mountain rescue; hanging on grimly to the dog’s leash; handling embers; and not least rowing.

‘You’re left-handed.’

He starts and looks up into the shadow of the face.  He has been unable to glean much of her appearance, her age, her form and figure.  She wears a kind of cloak with the hood drawn up (part of the act?), and when he had entered, advertising his arrival, clumping up the narrow, winding stair she did not rise, merely greeting him with “Merry meet, good sir”.  While the phrase was suitably Dickensian, in keeping with the archaic surroundings, the voice was younger than he had anticipated, the tone friendly, and the words uttered in a mild and unaffected Cumbrian accent.

That he is left-handed would be obvious if he were to have drunk the obligatory tepid tea and passed over the cup for her to swirl the leaves.  But she has asked for no interaction on his part.  The door to the attic had creaked to behind him.  What else might she have seen him do?  He can think of no minor action that reveals the characteristic: striking a match; taking the lid off a jar; buckling his watch on the right wrist (he does not have it on).  He just came in and sat down.

A buzzing in his head persists.  He can hear DS Leyton’s voice.  Possessed of an influential bookie uncle, his colleague is always quick to assess the odds.  “How many geezers fish, Guv?”  The answer might be one in ten, at a push.  “And you southpaws – now that’s one in ten, an’ all, right?”  Even Skelgill can do the sums – it would be a one-a-hundred stab in the dark that he is a left-handed angler.

It is quite a leap to take, for the first things to say.  Surely the opening interactions are designed to establish credibility and build trust.  The conventional ground would be the quack clairvoyant’s clichés: “You’ve lost a family member; you’re planning to cross water; you’re swithering over a big decision”.  High probability presumptions that are the bread-and-butter of the cold reading technique.

‘Left-handed.’  She seems to take affirmation from his silence.  ‘Creative.’

Aha.  Subjectivity.  Despite that it is the very charge levelled against left-handers when there is a problem to be solved.  Expectation from the negligently wired brain that sees its surroundings in a different way.  Supposed compensation for the affliction of living in a world where everything from books to birthday cards, can openers, potato peelers, scissors to tape measures is the wrong way around.  How often have his bemused subordinates watched him flick through Trout & Salmon upside down – his retort, it’s either that or from back to front.

Of course, she might not mean him, that he is creative.  She could simply be replaying the received wisdom.  Most likely it is indeed part of the flattery.  Soften him up by getting a few things either right or desirable.

‘Carol.  Oh – I’m sorry.’

He is rocked.

A wave of dizziness sweeps over him.  There is a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, sweat at his armpits, his ears burning, and suddenly the scent of her musky perfume.

How could she possibly know this?  And what would be the chances of guessing?  To pluck one name from a thousand possibilities.  The imagined DS Leyton’s one-in-a-hundred shoots exponentially off the scale.  The laws of probability fly out of the window like a bat knocked prematurely from its rafter.

He feels compelled to answer.

‘Aye.’

But she does not respond.  She sits unmoved, as composed as hitherto, though her breathing has become audible.  He cannot tell whether her eyes are open or closed.

‘The law.  A wise counsel.’

At first he draws no meaning – except – does she know he is a police officer?  He racks his brains.  Has she eavesdropped on what passed between him and Jones when they were squabbling downstairs?  Maybe not squabbling.  A whispered to-and-fro, hard to overhear.  They were screened by shelves of antiquarian books – the reason for their visit, that his companion had spotted a rare tome in the window.  And there was no mention of their profession.  Merely teasing, that he was too much of a sceptic (meaning coward) to have his fortune told.  His rising to the bait.

‘The lass.  With child.  The water.’

The woman jolts – she might be looking at him in alarm.

Quite inadvertently, he reciprocates – but she reaches up and pulls back the hood and he sees she is no older than he; she has long, straight black hair and a pale complexion set with prominent but fine features.  Observing his reaction as though it is a surprise to her, she smiles reassuringly.

‘There you go, love.’

Her tone is conversational, all tension has drained from her demeanour, the sentiment expressed that his consultation is complete.

He seems to know to rise and back away, indeed he wants to rise and back away, and she bows her head a little majestically, suggesting he is acting correctly.

He lets gravity do its work as he tackles the cramped stair, and he descends into the cluttered and shadowy ground floor in an ungainly fashion to find DS Jones apparently gone and the possibly corpulent (being extravagantly clad in coats and scarves) middle-aged lady seated behind the antique writing-desk-come-makeshift-shop-counter laying out a hand of dog-eared tarot cards.  She looks up, her eyes twinkling in the light of the smoking oil lamp that hangs close by.

‘How do I pay?’

She smiles, keeping her lips together so that dimples form in her plump cheeks.

‘There’s nowt to pay, love.  But you’re welcome to make a donation.  It all goes towards the upkeep of the almshouses.’

She indicates with a card face up – Justice, he notes – to a church collection box that is not immediately obvious, being crowded by pieces presumably for sale: tarnished bronze statuettes, cloudy-lensed military field glasses, old coppers coated in Verdigris, crooked silver cutlery, dented tobacco tins, a vintage brass fly reel.

He is tempted by the reel.

He extracts a sheaf of notes from his wallet and folds it and tucks it into the box like a person might insert their ballot paper on polling day, patting it down.

‘That’s gay generous, love.’  She sweeps Justice over the items.  ‘Choose summat.’

He frowns; she knows he wants the reel.  She is offering it free, yet it must be worth more than his charitable contribution.  He raises a palm in protest.

‘Nay – you’re alreet, thanks.  Keep it to sell another day.’

The woman seems satisfied with his response; she even murmurs as if she is having an unspoken dialogue with her inner self.  She looks at him, with the hint of a proprietorial nod, as though he is a novice initiate.  She pulls open a drawer at her side and selects something from it and presents her closed fist.

‘Give it to the fair lass, eh?’

Skelgill instinctively extends a hand and she drops into his upturned palm a tiny charm on a fine braided bracelet.  He doesn’t know what to say – and meanwhile the woman rises, a little stiffly, though perhaps mainly encumbered by her excessive wrappings; the shop is almost as cold as the October evening.  She turns to pull aside a curtain behind her to reveal a low planked door and opens it and steps into the space beyond.

‘Come back if you need.’

And she disappears, closing the door and leaving him alone in the shop.

A clock is ticking in a dark corner, and he takes a moment to gather his wits.  He stares at the charm and then, somewhat abstractedly drops it into a breast pocket of his jacket.

Outside, the narrow Kendal thoroughfare glistens with what is not rain, not even mizzle, but a kind of dampening mist that hangs in the air and yet wets the pavements and the cobbles. There is a faint tang of autumn smoke.  Directly opposite, a Chinese takeaway incongruously occupies a section of Georgian façade.  DS Jones, slender and suitably modern, leans against the window, her head bowed as she reads from a small book that she holds reverently, like a hymnal.  Beneath the neon of a streetlamp, her bronzed blonde hair seems to spark with electrostatic energy.

But she senses his scrutiny and glances his way – and in her glinting eyes there is not only contented recognition but also a flash of intrigue.  He is about to protest the latter – but she pre-empts him.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

He scoffs.

‘Aye.  Eating toast, halfway up a lamppost.’

She grins at his evasion.  But she does not let him off the hook.

‘Maybe I’d better stand you a drink.’

‘I thought it was me that lost the bet?’

‘You can buy the fish supper.’

Skelgill contrives a face that might be suitable for one playing young Jack returning home cow-free with a handful of beans.

‘I just donated all my spare cash.’

2. ONE GOOD TURN

Ring O’ Bells, Kirkland, Kendal – 6.30 p.m.

‘DID YOU KNOW this is the most haunted pub in Britain?’

Skelgill has to extract his nose from his pint of foaming ale, and not without bringing evidence that he quickly erases with his cuff, sensing that DS Jones might be about to do the same thing.

‘Says who?’

She slides a leaflet along the table; they sit side by side on a wooden trestle, an old church pew, in the cosy, beamed bar.  She glances up at the counter, but the woman who served her has disappeared behind a curtain.

‘The landlady – she gave me this.’

Skelgill grimaces.  They have repaired to the nearest local hostelry, literally just a stone’s throw from the antiques shop.  It is close to the ancient Holy Trinity Church and Abbot Hall, part of the old settlement on a bend of the River Kent demarcated from Kendal proper by Blind Beck and known – like its thoroughfare – as Kirkland.

‘What does it say?’

DS Jones grins wryly and retrieves and opens out the little brochure.

‘It dates from 1741.  It was intended for the refreshment of church wardens and bellringers.’  She ponders.  ‘Hence the name, I suppose.  And it says it’s the only pub in England that’s built on consecrated ground.’

‘How does that make it haunted?’

She does not answer immediately but reads on.  After a minute she takes out her mobile phone and taps in a sequence of letters.

‘Here, look – they’ve posted a video.’

She leans closer so that he can watch.  A grainy CCTV image of the bar in which they sit shows a man place a mug of beer on a table and return to the counter.  While he perhaps pays or waits for another order, the beer mug slowly shifts across the surface of the table and topples off the edge, eliciting a shocked reaction from a couple seated in the detectives’ place, and causing the man at the bar to spin round accusingly.

Skelgill sits back and lifts his pint.

‘Waste of good ale.’

DS Jones laughs.

‘Are you suggesting it was a set-up?’

He shrugs.  ‘If the pint pot were wet on the bottom and the table had a slope, the combined weight of the glass and the ale would overcome any friction.  I’ve slipped down enough rocks that look flat, in my time.’

DS Jones does not attempt to gainsay his claim.  She picks up the leaflet and turns it over to read further.

‘Apparently a paranormal group holds regular meetings in the cellars.’

Skelgill makes an ironic growl.

‘That’s just an excuse for a lock-in.  And I reckon paralytic’s the word you’re looking for.’

She chuckles – but she takes the opportunity of a subtle segue into what has been piquing her curiosity.

‘Speaking of the supernatural – how did you actually get on?’

But she can detect immediate reticence in his reaction, a swift retreat into the depths of his pint.

It is with some reluctance, after a few moments that he yields; he shoots her a tentative sideways glance.

‘She mentioned the name of my late sister.’

‘Oh.’

That he has not retorted with sarcasm or scepticism makes her suddenly a little regretful; she is about to apologise, but he intends no discomfort and moves to put her at ease.

‘Probably just a lucky guess.  I expect these folk have a talent for it.’

She grins a little apprehensively; his assessment sounds unconvincing.  And he obviously decides he has said enough.  He indicates to a wrapped brown paper bag that she has placed safe from spillages, if not poltergeists, at the far edge of the table.

‘You got your book, then?’

She hesitates – and then reaches for the little package.  She brings out the item in question and passes it to him.  Skelgill turns it over in his hands but does not open it.

‘Malice Aforethought?  I thought that were a saying.’

‘I guess it is.  I imagine the saying came first.  It’s a bit tatty – but it’s a first edition, 1931.  I felt a little guilty – I think I got it for a song, so I put an extra twenty in the charity box.’

Skelgill splutters, a choked laugh.

‘They saw us coming – I did much the same.’

DS Jones seems content, however, with the state of play.  She picks up the bag again and passes it to Skelgill.

‘I also splashed out on you.’

‘Eh?’

He realises it contains what must be another small book.  He pulls out a faded red cloth-bound antiquarian volume and recognises it as what looked like the hymnal she was perusing beneath the streetlamp.  There is gilt embossed lettering: “Through Guides – English Lakes.”

He turns it, to read the spine.

‘It’s a Baddeley.  He lived down by Windermere.’

He seems a little lost for words – but she understands that showing gratitude to order is not his forte and she points carefully to the base of the spine: “5/- net”.

It prompts a response.

‘Five bob, as the arl fella used to say.’

‘How much is that?’

Skelgill squints pensively.

‘A shilling – it’s 5p, I reckon.  Twenty-five pence.’  He makes a growl of irony.  ‘Inflation, eh?’

DS Jones takes a considered sip of her drink.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?  I think you’ll be intrigued.’

He yields – and begins to flick from the back, and is quickly arrested by an advertisement for the Royal Oak Hotel, Keswick: “Patronised by the Late Queen Dowager, HRH The Prince of Wales, the King of Saxony, the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, &c., &c.”  His jaw falls a little open.

‘That’s just the ads at the end.  If you turn to the beginning it covers the whole of the Lakes, place by place, with walks and activities in minute detail.’

She watches as he follows her instruction – but she sees immediately that the pages of tiny, dense type cause him to flinch.

‘Keep going – you’ll get to the first map.  There are fifteen, by district – they fold out, and there’s a detachable one of the entire area in a flap inside the back cover.’

Skelgill thumbs with deceptive speed for a man with large hands and long fingers, but there is something of the fisherman’s dexterity about his fine motor skills.

‘Aye.’

It is an approving rejoinder.  He settles on “Penrith to Patterdale” and carefully unfolds the flimsy paper and his eyes dart about, taking in the entirety of Ullswater, the great ribbon lake, and its majestic overseer, Helvellyn, marked to his satisfaction in feet, at 3118.

That he falls silent and lingers tells DS Jones that she has hit the spot with her gift, though he is oblique in expressing his appreciation.

‘This is a Bartholomew map.  They were decent.  I wonder when the survey were done.  I’ll need a magnifier to see it properly.’

‘The guide is the 1895 edition – I guess it would have been well before that.’

Skelgill is nodding.  And now meticulously – almost with inordinate care – he folds away the map and slides the volume into the capacious left side pocket of his jacket.  Without further explanation he delves next into the right breast pocket and, with a little difficulty, brings out an item concealed by his pinched fingers.  He offers his hand, much like the woman had done to him.

‘One good turn.’

DS Jones regards him a little doubtingly – as if it might equally be a spider that he just happens to have kept for such an occasion.

‘Go on, lass.’

She relents and holds out a palm – and he drops into it the little charm bracelet – which he sees now in the better light of the alehouse to be a symbol of a pentacle engraved upon an antique silver moon and set with a vivid blue gemstone at its centre.

‘Oh – that’s – that’s gorgeous.’

Skelgill makes to speak – but then obviously thinks the better of it.  Perhaps he detects unexpected approval of his good taste and decides to bank the unearned credit.

He watches a little sheepishly as she fastens it onto her left wrist and displays it to catch the light.

Indeed, Skelgill moves to quit while he is ahead.  He drains his pint and gets a little awkwardly to his feet, shuffling around the end of the table.

‘Howay, lass – let’s find the chippy while we can still see straight.’

DS Jones, a little bemused, finishes her own drink and gathers up her belongings and deposits their empties on the unmanned counter.

As they exit, leaving the bar room empty, the curtain behind the counter is drawn aside; the landlady stands, pensively fingering a charm held on a braided strand around her neck.

Sunday

28th October

3. WISE COUNSEL

Carnegie Library, Kendal – 11.00 a.m.

‘FIRSTLY, THANK YOU everybody for giving up your Sunday morning to take part in unravelling this exciting historical mystery project.  I appreciate, for serving police officers, in particular, that time is a precious commodity.’

‘We can give up as much of our own time as we like.’

Skelgill’s dry quip raises philosophical smiles from his two sergeants, though it is plain they have no desire to put a damper on proceedings.  They turn their attention back to the speaker.

‘If everyone has a drink and a biscuit, why don’t we do a quick round-robin of introductions, since some of us are new to one another?’

The young woman’s proposal is met with various degrees of enthusiasm from those seven others seated at the circular table, ranging from DS Leyton’s vigorous nods of assent to Skelgill’s scowl at his side plate as though he is worried that his ration of chocolate digestives might not see him through the meeting – or perhaps not even his present mug of tea.

‘Super.  Well – I am Jen, managing director of Turnpike Media, along with Mel, on my left, here.  My role is writer and producer, while Mel is our audiographer – she’ll be the one poking a big fluffy boom mike in your face if we record on location.’

This elicits nods of silent appreciation.

‘Mel also does all the clever technical work and compiles the first-stage edits before they go off into the studio for digital remastering and what we call the sound design.  Those of you with whom we’ve worked previously will know we have a video production unit, but for an audio-only podcast like this, we just need the two of us.  Feel free to ask any questions as we go along – you’ll soon get to know us – and we’re so excited about working with you – such a formidable team that Inspector Skelgill has kindly assembled.’

Producer Jen turns now to Skelgill.

‘Happen you all know us three.’  He glances about – but then decides a cursory mention is merited; he casts a hand to his right.  ‘DS Jones.  DS Leyton.’

They bow accordingly and attention moves on to an elderly man with a distinctive shock of white hair, wearing a lived-in tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and, as a flamboyant buttonhole a Victorian salmon fly, recognised by Skelgill to be a Jock Scott.

Though he is gaunt of features and frame, and a little slow in his movements, his eyes are bright – and he grins self-effacingly.

‘James Hartley – call me Jim, everybody does – or worse than that behind my back.’  There is a protest from his audience.  ‘I’m just a humble retiree that once spent a bit of time delving into English history.’

He seems willing to stop here, but Skelgill is having none of it.

‘Howay, Jim.’  He looks round at the group, with almost a hint of menace.  ‘In his day, he was the top historian this side of London.  Never off the radio when they wanted an expert to consult.  Deciphered the true meaning of the Keswick Viking Sagas – and – what else – there were summat local here – to do with Henry VIII, weren’t it, Jim?’

The professor folds his hands and inclines his head ingenuously.

‘Well, yes.  Catherine Parr – you know, the wife who outlived Henry?  She of the rhyme who survived.  Her family were in possession of Kendal Castle.  On which note, I should confess that my area of expertise, the Middle Ages, falls a little before our case – but I’ll do my best with my old methods, and my even older contacts, if they’re still with us!’

The remark produces a respectful round of laughter – and also an interjection from DS Leyton.

‘Scuse my ignorance, Professor Hartley – when exactly was the Middle Ages?’

The professor raises a reprimanding finger.

‘I repeat – Jim, please. Otherwise, I shall have to insist upon emeritus.’

DS Leyton flinches – and perhaps additionally fears the worst for asking a dumb question.  But the professor regards him magnanimously.

‘It is nonetheless a very good question, sergeant.  Hah!  Ask ten academics and you’ll get twenty answers – and almost as many spellings of the word medieval as my students used to write in their essays!  A simple rule of thumb is 500 A.D. to 1500 A.D. – the millennium sandwiched between the Romans and the Tudors.  Though I prefer to think of it as permeable at the edges – much in the way that, let’s say, Cockermouth – and, indeed, Kendal, where we sit – are not in the National Park – but they are every bit an integral part of the Lake District.  Most surely, it would be a sight poorer without them.’

At this point, producer Jen interposes politely.

‘Speaking of where we sit, I believe we owe our thanks to you, Jim, for obtaining the use of this wonderful meeting place.’

She raises both hands to indicate their surroundings.  They have to themselves the private reading room of Kendal’s magnificent Carnegie Library, opened in 1909 and distinctive for its striking red sandstone and immense latticed windows and vaulted glass ceiling designed to admit the maximum of daylight.

‘Yes, I’m a long-standing friend of the Head Archivist.  This place is the repository of a treasure trove of knowledge – if only one can crack the code for winkling it out.  I have spent many happy if frustrating days bent over faded manuscripts in this very room.  I’m afraid we can only use it during normal opening hours – she made a special exception for this morning on the condition that I buy her Sunday lunch at the Drunken Duck!’

He turns deftly to his right and makes an exaggerated cap-doffing gesture to the elderly but strikingly upright woman at his side.

‘And you, of course, M’ Lady.  Besides – enough of me – the floor is yours.’  He continues, however, turning back to the group.  ‘I pass you over to the person whom, I am certain, will prove to be our secret weapon.’

The object of his flattery tuts reprimandingly, but in her steely gaze and precise movements and her impeccable appearance, turned out as she is in a blue-and-grey tweed suit, she gives every indication of living up to her impertinent tormentor’s billing.  Indeed, she begins as she clearly means to go on.

‘Since false modesty will be pounced upon,’ (she flashes a reproachful glance at Skelgill) ‘I shall shoot from the hip and keep it short and simple.’  She regards each of the onlookers with penetrating blue eyes set in tanned features which, if lined with age, retain the essence of lifelong beauty.  ‘Dame Alice Wright-Fotheringham KC, retired.  Former Senior Counsel of Lincoln’s Inn Chambers, latterly County Court Judge on the Northern Circuit.  As a barrister I specialised in sex discrimination, and I co-authored a work entitled Jurisprudence and the Green Shoots of Female Emancipation in the Nineteenth Century.  And … call me Alice.’

She gives an imperious shake of her glossy shoulder-length brown hair and rests her case.

Silence reigns.  The audience is stunned into awe.  There are her credentials, for one thing – but more impressive is her commanding presence – the feeling that one would not want to appear before her bench having committed a misdemeanour – nor perhaps even as a barrister with a minutely flawed case.  The words filet and skewer spring to mind.

Skelgill seems to be staring at Alice Wright-Fotheringham as if he is suddenly seeing her anew.

Meanwhile, the young man beyond her and next in turn visibly swallows.

‘Er … Kendall Minto.  Special Crime Correspondent, the Gazette.’

His voice comes out an octave higher than intended and there is a suspicion that he has improvised his job title on the spot.  His gaze darts about – he sees that DS Jones is looking at him with what might be an expression of encouragement.  He sweeps a hand through his hair as it threatens to fall across his eyes and flashes a rebellious grin.

‘Consider me the office runner.  Though I should say the august organ of my employ was founded in this very town in 1818 – so I am hoping that in our own archives are the smouldering embers of vital information, just waiting to be unearthed to spark our imagination.’

‘Don’t count your chickens.’

Skelgill’s intervention draws a look of mild censure from DS Jones – that it might be interpreted as peevish and a little heavy handed.  Under her scrutiny, he folds his arms belligerently.  But she recognises that it is Skelgill’s way, antipathy to conjecture is his default.  And, while producer Jen is nominally leading the project, it is fair to say that a police presence lends the trappings of an official investigation to what would otherwise be considered an amateur venture.

There is also the fact that, for reasons DS Jones tries not to think about, he is not exactly Kendall Minto’s number one cheerleader.

Producer Jen, perhaps sensing the potential for tension between the two protagonists, employs her status as Chair to hurry the subject on.  She utters a polite ahem.

‘Very good.  So, that’s everyone.  Now, since time is not on our side – and I don’t wish to eat gratuitously into your weekend – I should like to share what little we do know about this case – and then to identify some pointers for each of us moving forwards.’

There are murmurs of agreement and a shifting of bottoms on seats and a clinking of crockery as drinks and biscuits are consumed in the small hiatus.  Audiographer Mel performs a circuit of the table, handing out to each person a manilla file containing a thin sheaf of documents and bearing on its cover the melodramatic title, “The Earl and the Servant Girl – 1852.”

Jen resumes.

‘As you know, we specialise in cold cases within living memory – unsolved crimes in which victims, or their relatives, or even the perpetrators are still alive.  This case is different, since it dates back to the mid-1800s.  So, we shan’t have eyewitnesses – unless we also have a medium in our midst!’

Her quip raises a murmur of amusement, though DS Jones glances at Skelgill to see he remains impassive.

Jen lifts the top page from her file.

‘The first item in your pack is Kendall’s excellent article – the piece that set the hounds running – and I’d like to ask him to recap in his own words.’

The young reporter looks ready to duck another brickbat from Skelgill.

‘Er – okay, sure – delighted.  Well – you see – I was assigned to write a piece on dangerous lead pipes found in the Fellside paupers’ hospital and almshouses.  My Editor is keen on health and safety news.’  He gestures with a hand to indicate where the high street runs beyond the windows.  ‘The old hospital is a café nowadays – it’s just a five-minute stroll from here, south along Stricklandgate and Highgate.  You can’t miss it – it dates from 1659.’

He receives nods of recognition; it would not be possible to pass the building without marvelling at its antiquity.  The professor looks especially enamoured – perhaps that there is a surviving edifice from the flexible outer limits of his beloved Middle Ages.

Kendall Minto continues.

‘It was brought to my attention that a locket had been discovered in what was once a side ward of the hospital.  The plumbers had cut open a section of lath-and-plaster wall to replace a nineteenth century water main.  The locket was lying on a ledge of original stone behind the pipe – the suggestion being that it was hidden there when the property was renovated in 1852.  The locket was engraved with a name – “Flora Mary” – and a handwritten note was folded within.  It didn’t make a great deal of sense, so I wrote it up as a curious aside to the main article.’

He looks across at Jen, perhaps a little sheepishly, as if he had erred in this regard.

But she simply picks up the story.

‘Excellent.  Thank you, Kendall.  So, this is where we at Turnpike Media come in.  One of our eagle-eyed freelancers has been researching nineteenth century Cumbrian crime.  She had got hold of a publication that catalogued some forty cases, mostly drawn from unattributed sources – in many respects oral history.  The book was privately published a half-century ago, and the author is no longer alive.  But here’s the interesting part.  One of the cases was entitled, “The Last Woman to be Transported from Cumbria” and concerned a young housemaid – a girl of eighteen.  The year of her trial was 1852.  Her name was Flora Mary Graham.’

Skelgill makes an inarticulate noise – but eyes turn to see that he has apparently dangled a biscuit too long in his tea.

Jen continues.

‘Flora’s tale is brief, but dramatic.  Seemingly removed from Fellside Workhouse, she became a servant at Abbot Hall – family seat of the then-Seventh Earl of Fellside.  Her crime – she was caught red-handed, accused of assaulting and robbing the nobleman and of pushing him to his death in Blind Beck, the stream that borders the grounds of the hall.  Flora was a deaf-mute and proved unable to offer a convincing defence.  The jury found her guilty of murder – but with a recommendation to mercy.’

‘Why mercy?’

It is Skelgill’s terse inquiry.

Jen is nodding earnestly.

‘It’s a good question, Inspector – and that’s part of the mystery.  Flora was apprehended carrying a babe in arms.  Perhaps it was on account of the child that the judge accepted the jury’s appeal not to send her to the gallows.’

Skelgill makes no further comment, though his gaze drifts to Alice Wright-Fotheringham, who gives the slightest nod.

Jen picks up the narrative.

‘There is however a contradiction.  The historical account goes on to suggest that Flora had taken her illegitimate child to the beck, and that the Earl of Fellside intervened as she tried to drown it.  And it is in this context that the recently excavated note is so intriguing.  A copy is next in your file.’

A silence ensues as they each ponder the spidery, barely legible hand, a plaintive echo that reaches down through the centuries:

Save there souls My Lord

as dround bairns an all

It is DS Leyton who breaks the ice.

‘Kendall’s right, ain’t he?  It don’t make much sense.’

But the professor helpfully throws his cap into the ring.

‘Of course, most folk of her class – a servant girl – they would have been illiterate.  And there’s her disability, to boot.  But it’s possible she had some basic education – perhaps from Sunday school.  The content certainly marks her out as God-fearing.’

Kendall Minto shifts uneasily.

‘But it is the paradox that Jen speaks of.’  He looks at the producer, who is nodding.  ‘The message surely refers to drowned children, yet the infant survived, and the Earl did not.’

Now Alice Wright-Fotheringham interjects.  Rather dismissively, she waves her sheaf of papers, though her voice is clear and authoritative.

‘Jen, with the greatest respect to your source, this account – it is little more than hearsay.  It would not stand up in a court of law.  We should discover much more of what took place before we leap to conclusions.  Perhaps then, we shall find it is one and the same Flora.  Perhaps then, we can know for sure the note belonged to Flora.  Perhaps then, the meaning of Flora’s note will assume clarity.’

Skelgill is staring at her; no one is about to gainsay the retired judge.

Indeed, Jim Hartley is quick to agree.

‘Quite right, Alice.  We must corroborate that part of the story.’

Jen gives a little cough of apprehension.

‘I should say at this point that we have encountered one small fly in the ointment.  We’ve not had a favourable response from the present-day Lord Fellside, the Thirteenth Earl.  Or at least – we have been blanked by the estate manager, a man by the name of James Crabstaff.’

Her sentence ends with a questioning inflexion; but there are blank looks all around.

Kendall Minto is first to speak.

‘Well – perhaps I can dangle some bait.  I’m aware they have property interests in the town – not least Paupers’ Café where the repairs were done.  I might persuade my Editor to offer some favourable advertising rates to their tenants.’

Jen claps her hands together and speaks with renewed enthusiasm.

‘Thank you, Kendall – and on that enterprising note perhaps we can make a first stab at how we might divide and conquer.  How the skills and experience that we each bring may be best applied to the task of discovery.’

DS Leyton raises a hand.

‘Sorry to sound a bit slow on the uptake – but what actually are we trying to prove here?  I mean, it seems this girl was caught bang to rights – the geezer croaked it.  It was all wrapped up.  Or am I missing something?’

Skelgill is regarding his colleague through narrowed eyes.

Jen responds more amenably.

‘I quite understand, Sergeant Leyton.  On the face of it there is no miscarriage of justice – no murderer who has escaped their due punishment.  Yet the story of Flora Mary Graham feels entirely incomplete.  There is something deeply unsettling about the message she left behind.  At Turnpike Media hundreds of proposals come across our desk – I’d like to think we have a nose for those rare cases that will make compelling listening.’

There is silence until Skelgill speaks.

‘I’d like to know why Fellside Estate’s not taking the same view.’

And the professor enjoins his argument.

‘Quite right, Daniel – grist to our mill.  I say, let’s hoist our sails and see where they take us.  Even if we have to ruffle a few noble feathers.’  He turns to Jen.  ‘Young lady, I feel my contribution should begin with an investigation of the social history of this era and of the Kirkland neighbourhood.’

And Alice Wright-Fotheringham follows.

‘I shall interrogate the legal records.  I can think of various sources that might take us close to the bottom of this case.’

Kendall Minto sits up with a jolt.

‘I guess I shall spend a couple of days confined to the catacombs – I don’t believe we have anything before the year 1900 on microfiche.’

Jen is making notes.  When she finishes writing she turns to Skelgill, as if waiting for his contribution.

He grimaces and glances at his colleagues.

‘Aye – we’ll have a deek about.’

Jen seems to recognise she ought not press him.

‘Tremendous – that all sounds very exciting.  How would it be if we reconvened – say – on Tuesday morning?  Would that give us time to make some initial inquiries?’

There are nods of agreement and – from Skelgill – no sign of dissent.

Jen picks up her mobile phone.

‘I thought perhaps a WhatsApp group would be the most efficient way for us to keep in touch and share news.’

There is further consensus – though DS Jones grins as she recognises Skelgill’s expression of quickly concealed panic.

She is swift to put him at ease.

‘Jen – I’ll be our point of contact.  You have my number, right?’

Jen nods.

‘Any ideas for the group name?’

Kendall Minto raises a finger experimentally.

‘How about the Kendal Inquisition?  Oh – no – cripes – that sounds self-serving.  Silly me.’

DS Leyton cuts in with a groan.

‘They’ve already got wind of it back at the station.  They’re calling us the Time Team.’

Jen compliments him.

‘That’s actually not bad.’

But Skelgill is glowering; it will be a mickey-take begun by DI Smart.  There will be a barbed punchline.

The professor leans in.

‘How about Wise Council?  That’s spelled C-I-L at the end.’  He sweeps a hand towards Alice Wright-Fotheringham.  ‘A play on words – with due deference to our esteemed legal advisor.’

Jen claps her hands together.

‘Oh, that’s good – very good – the collective noun.’

DS Jones can see that Skelgill remains perturbed – but he must sense he is outvoted and holds his peace.

Jen gives a thumbs up.

‘Super.  I’ll send you invitations to join.  Thank you for your time this morning.  Onwards and upwards – Wise Council!’

As they begin to rise and gather in their belongings, minor conversations break out.  Jim Hartley approaches Skelgill, who has drifted to stare out of the window at the grey and amorphous October sky.

He speaks quietly.

‘Daniel, you’ll be off to the river, I don’t doubt?’

Skelgill flashes him a sideways grin.

‘It is the crime scene, Jim.’

‘Of course, of course – besides, there’s too much water after last week’s rain.’

Skelgill’s old mentor refers to the current unsuitability of conditions for angling.

‘Still, you never know.’

The professor nods.

‘At least you won’t have to trespass.  The Fellsides are long gone from Abbot Hall.  They moved to Fellside Grange in the last century.  Abbot Hall is a public art gallery these days.  It houses a nationally important collection of Romneys.  And – one for you, Daniel – jewel in their crown, Turner’s Windermere.’

Skelgill nods, somewhat blankly.

‘Library … art gallery … what next, Jim – the ballet – the opera?’

‘We’ll have you cultured yet, lad.’

Skelgill raises a cynical eyebrow.

‘Actually – I’ve just got a book I must show you.  It’s an old Baddeley – from the late 1800s.’

‘Ah.  You might find something of interest in there.’

‘At my rate of reading?’

The professor chuckles – but he is distracted by the sight of Alice Wright-Fotheringham, who is hovering at the door.  He makes his apologies, and the senior pair head for their lunch date.

Skelgill begins to follow suit.  DS Leyton is chatting with the two young women, Jen and Mel.  Skelgill sees that Kendall Minto has engaged DS Jones, and now he overhears a snatch of their dialogue.

‘I like your charm, Emma.’

She frowns a little and then smiles.

‘It comes naturally.’  Her voice is hushed.

Kendall Minto reaches to brush her wrist.

‘Very funny – but I mean your charm bracelet – I couldn’t help noticing – what an unusual and pretty design.’

Skelgill is approaching, and DS Jones catches his eye.  She smiles at Kendall Minto and now speaks more lustily.

‘Someone has good taste.’

Kendall Minto takes a step back – and uncharacteristically seems a little lost for words.  But before the situation can develop further, Jen calls across to them.

‘Inspector.  Mel and I are staying at an Airbnb in a yard just beyond the almshouses.  We have the wherewithal for a late full English breakfast – let’s call it brunch.  You’re all welcome to come.’

Skelgill is plainly stirred – and Kendall Minto expresses his assent to the suggestion.  But Skelgill rejects the offer.

‘We’ll leave you three to it, thanks all the same.  Like you said, time’s our enemy.’

Kendall Minto’s face falls and he grins a little forlornly at DS Jones.

‘See you Tuesday, then.’

‘Don’t bank on it.’

4. THE KENT

Around Kendal – noon

‘WHAT MADE YOU say to Minto not to bank on seeing us Tuesday, Guv?’

DS Leyton is having to huff and puff to keep up as he and DS Jones flank their superior striding briskly north along the town’s narrow central thoroughfare.

‘Leyton, we could walk slap bang into a murder case first thing tomorrow morning.  We’d have to drop this like a ton of hot bricks – whether the Chief likes it or not.’

DS Jones looks as though she is not entirely convinced by Skelgill’s argument.

‘I thought she sounded pretty keen on this case, Guv.’

‘Aye – keen on the limelight.  The glad rags.  The spin.  That champagne last time’s gone to her head.’

His colleagues are obliged to nod.  He refers to the Northern Television Awards ceremony at a swish Manchester hotel, where Turnpike Media had won not only the Best True Crime Documentary but also the overall prize for ‘Murder on the Farm’ – or, rather, their commanding officer had been diplomatically sent on stage to collect the gongs – tottering somewhat unsteadily on her heels by the time the coveted Grand Prix was announced.

DS Leyton is phlegmatic.

‘It was a good night, Guv.  Cracking dinner, an’ all.’

Skelgill grimaces at the memory.  Tuxedos, posing for photographs, and more than one knife and fork do not figure in his idea of a good night – never mind the dancing later.  Though he glances at DS Jones – he remembers the dress she wore.  She certainly stole the show at the after party.  Albeit Minto was there.

She catches him looking at her and smiles.

‘I think you’re hooked.’

It is a bold assertion – but he frowns in a way that suggests her insight lands not far from the mark.  And there is also a certain vanity that Turnpike Media’s direct approach to the Chief has been delegated to him.  That said, he has put himself out on a limb by enlisting his two old friends as experts, unimpeachable though their qualifications might be.

As if by way of deflection he veers across the road, causing his team to follow and all of them to scuttle as a delivery van comes up too fast, the driver hooting and cursing them from his window as “bloody tourists”.

They do not react, though reaching the safety of the opposite pavement DS Leyton picks up the point.

‘Thing is, Guv – it ain’t actually touristy, is it?’

‘Kendal, you mean?’

‘Yeah – there ain’t no fancy boutiques and pricey restaurants – or even outdoor-gear shops.’

Skelgill casts about.  They are none of them regulars here; it is off their usual patch.  But DS Leyton is right; the profile of shops is that of a local community.  And those pedestrians afoot offer a further clue; tourists dress in newer, smarter clothes – like the extras in a movie street scene, who have all been kitted out by the wardrobe department and produce a collectively unnatural impression.  Ordinary people wear their old stuff.  Tourists walk more slowly, with less purpose, and carry small backpacks.

He offers an explanation.

‘Aye, well – Windermere’s only twenty minutes up the road.  Bowness, Ambleside, Grasmere – they’ve corned the market.  Hawkshead’s a reet honeytrap.’

DS Jones is nodding.

‘I like it here – I kind of feel at home.’

Skelgill makes as if to reply – but now they meet a contradiction, and he is diverted.

‘Here’s your shop, Leyton.’

At the end of the terrace to their right is a small retail premises with its signboard boldly proclaiming it to be “Ye Olde Kendal Mint Cake Shoppe”.

Indeed, their little detour is on account of DS Leyton having mentioned a promise to take back the said confectionery as a peace offering for his absence on a Sunday morning, when regular parental duties include taxiing and sideline cheering for the likes of football and swimming lessons.

Skelgill strides ahead to open the door, but finds it locked.  He gives it a good shake, but to no avail.  He steps back to squint at the trading hours card set behind grimy glass.

‘Should be open according to this.’

DS Jones is looking into the main window, shading the reflection with both hands above her brow.

‘It looks abandoned.’

Skelgill scowls belligerently.

‘It can’t be – this is the original shop.  This is the shop.  Where else are folk supposed to go?’

DS Jones persists.

‘Come and see.’

But Skelgill peers in from his own vantage point.  Sure enough, the shelves in the tiny emporium are half empty, and what stock is in place looks faded and dusty.  There is mail piled up on the mat.  At the rear is the serving counter with more dated stock, and depleted cobweb-strung shelves behind, and an open passage or entrance into a back room.

He sees a movement, a shifting shape.  He jerks his head closer – and bangs his nose.

His muttered oath attracts his colleagues’ attention.  DS Leyton steps alongside.

‘What is it, Guv?’

‘I thought I saw someone – in the back shop.’

But he turns around – a flock of feral pigeons is circling – perhaps it was the shadow they cast.

DS Leyton feels self-conscious of their situation, of taking up their time.

‘No worries, Guv – I can stop off at the shop at Tebay – I’ve seen it in there.’

Skelgill ignores him and drops to one knee to open the letter box.

‘Hey up!  Anyone home?’

But his entreaties, even when repeated more vociferously, are met with no response.  He rises and steps back a few paces, glaring up at the flat above.  It is impossible to know whether it is the shopkeeper’s accommodation, or a separate private apartment.

DS Leyton tries again.

‘Leave it, Guv.’

Skelgill shrugs, but he is plainly frustrated in defeat – and perhaps too in that what is a local institution might have gone out of business.  Not enough tourists?  He turns and sets off.

‘We’ll start by the river.’

His sergeants exchange ironic smiles – how often have they heard this phrase, when there is a choice of routes in some inquiry!

Infrequent visitor he may be, Skelgill seems to know his way around, and within just a short distance ducks into a steeply sloping passageway lined with small shops and eating places.  The main old district of Kendal lies on the west bank of the River Kent, the town having first extended upon Kendal Fell.  The hillside is referred to as Fellside.  Across the river, and towering over the town, commanding the dale, is Kendal Castle, a Norman edifice built on a great glacial drumlin.

They quickly reach the walkway alongside the west bank, and Skelgill leads them southbound, with the flow.  The water is lapping high at the margins.  Terrestrial plants have only their heads showing.  Small rafts of ducks are forced to tack against the current.  A makeshift pontoon for construction traffic engaged in flood defence work is partially submerged – it looks like a bridge that has collapsed under the strain of the torrent.

Presently they approach a footbridge, signposted to the castle.  Skelgill takes the bridge but stops in the middle, and leans on the south rail, watching the rapidly retreating flow.  His colleagues join him.  They know he sees much more than they.

DS Leyton affects a shudder.  He indicates with a thumb the low-lying properties that sit just a few yards from the east bank.

‘It would give me the willies, living this close to the river.  I’d never sleep at night, not a wink – not while it was raining.’

Skelgill – who bears no such antipathy to water – nods pensively.

‘Happen they’re starting to get on top of it.  The old town’s on more of a slope – it doesn’t flood as bad as the likes of Cockermouth.  But there’s parts of Kendal where they’ve built on the flood plain.  Take Rinkfield – used to be a water meadow that flooded and froze over in winter.  You’d think the clue was in the name.’

They stare collectively over the railing at the rippling silt-stained conveyor that slides beneath them.  It is possible to imagine it is not the river but they who are moving, hurtling back in time.  The fast flow, the flotsam, might almost be a metaphor for the urgency and indeterminate nature of their task, for the fleeting chance to grasp a vital straw before it is gone, swept away, lost to history.

After some reflective silence, their thoughts subsumed by the pleasantly hypnotic effect of the water, Skelgill perhaps surprises his colleagues as the one to pose a question.

‘What did you reckon to the meeting?’

It is aimed at neither one in particular – but DS Jones realises he is perhaps fishing for approbation.  After all, he has – as Jen stated – shouldered the responsibility and assembled the team of volunteers – and might be suffering buyer’s remorse.

But she too has been biding her time.  She leapfrogs the obvious platitudes.

‘She’s a Graham.’

Skelgill flinches – much as he did in the library when his maternal clan’s name was revealed.

DS Leyton is royally entertained.

‘Yeah – that’s right, Guv.  What if you’re related?  Hah!’

Skelgill turns, irritated.

‘Leyton, Graham’s the third-commonest surname in Cumbria.  You’re talking thousands of folk.  I’ve told you this before.’

DS Leyton grins amiably.  Skelgill is ever quick to claim or deny possible lineage, depending upon the desirability of the circumstances.  A Graham felon – no relation.  A Graham waitress or bartender who might provide preferential service – must be a cousin!

Nonetheless, DS Jones had noted Skelgill’s reaction at the time.  He let his biscuit break off into his tea.  She doubles down.

‘You looked – a bit – well, disconcerted.  When we were discussing the name for the WhatsApp group.’

Now it is plain that evasion is coming.  Skelgill gives a growl of frustration.

‘I were just thinking I didn’t want to be mithered by Minto – you know what a donnat he can be.’

Skelgill has not only deflected – he has turned the point back upon her – something of a challenge, even.

But she moves to reassure him.

‘Don’t worry – I can handle him.’

‘Better you than me.’

There is something in Skelgill’s tone that suggests the sentiment is slightly more complicated than on the face of it; perhaps that it is better for Kendall Minto in more ways than one.

DS Jones falls back on pragmatism.

‘Turnpike were always going to involve him; they’ve got a partnership deal with the Gazette – and in this case there’s an obvious benefit that someone has access to the newspaper archives.’

And now DS Leyton pours a little more oil on troubled waters.  He has witnessed the young reporter’s blatant attempts to woo their colleague.

‘Besides, Guv – he’s onside in this case.  We can send him in first – to tread for mines.’

DS Jones makes a face of mock horror – although DS Leyton is right; it is better that the intrepid reporter will be snapping around someone else’s ankles for a change.

Skelgill mutters something under his breath about “glory seeker”.

DS Leyton decides it is time to raise the query that has been puzzling him.  He gestures towards the waters below.

‘Is this where it took place, Guv – the drowning of the Earl of Fellside?’

Skelgill turns to him sharply.

‘This is the Kent, Leyton.’

‘What – the river?  The River Kent?  Same as the county?’

Skelgill looks a little bemused.

‘Aye – well – same name, I suppose.’

‘But no connection?’

‘Leyton, Kent’s about as far as you can get from here without being in France.’

DS Leyton fights his corner.

‘I know, Guv.  That’s my neck of the woods, remember.’  He jerks a thumb back towards the steps by which they gained the bridge.  ‘But that sign says Norman castle – and it was Kent where the Normans invaded England – the Battle of Hastings.  I thought there might be some connection.’

Skelgill gives a toss of his head.

‘Leyton – I reckon we should leave the history to the Prof.  Besides, the Medway’s the main river in Kent.  Decent for chub.  And bream.’

And he leans over the rail, and it seems sinks into reverie – perhaps comparing the merits of this fast-flowing cold water streaming down from the wild fells to the gentle meandering of the river that drains the manicured Garden of England.

DS Leyton’s thoughts, too, have plainly drifted at a tangent of their own.  He speaks musingly.

‘I’ve still got relatives live on the Old Kent Road.  Always crowing that their gaff’s worth more, since it’s on the Monopoly board.  I never liked to point out it was the cheapest property you could buy – sixty nicker, if I recall.’

DS Jones is looking on, perhaps a little frustrated by the direction the conversation has taken.  She circles back to the task in hand.

‘I noticed a plaque about Blind Beck last night.’

Skelgill emerges from his brown study.

‘Aye, we walked right over it on the way to the chippy.’

‘Really?’

‘Blink and you miss it.  It runs through a culvert under the main street.’  He pushes off from the railing and stands upright, flexing his spine and staring diagonally back across the river in the direction of a church tower that rises above trees.  ‘It meets the Kent just over there.’

And he sets off.

DS Leyton loiters; he seems disappointed.

‘So we ain’t heading for the castle, Guv?’

‘The castle can keep, Leyton.’

His sergeant grins.

‘Hah! Very good, Guv.  Keep.’

5. SIGHTS

Kirkland, Kendal – 12.45 p.m.

‘IT DON’T LOOK dangerous enough to me, Guv.’

Skelgill contrives a contrary frown.

‘You can’t judge by what you see now.  It’s a local beck.  Hardly runs for a mile – tiny catchment area.’  He raises an arm towards the rising hillside of the town.  ‘It springs yonder – on Kendal Fell.  In a squall it can be in spate within half an hour and then back to normal half an hour later.  I’ve seen photos of the high street under water, where it’s overwhelmed the culvert.  The Kent’s catchment’s more like fifty square miles.  It can take a couple of days to reach peak flow.  That’s how they can give advance flood warnings.’

DS Leyton glances over his shoulder; the trio stand on the River Kent walkway at a wall beneath which flows Blind Beck, just short of its outfall; the Kent is at their backs.

They contemplate the smaller stream.  Canalised, it arrows due east in a neat stone-lined cutting some six feet wide and five deep; though fast-flowing, its water is barely a foot in depth.  Directly beneath them there is a cage contraption designed to filter out debris.

Skelgill continues.

‘This channel’s manmade.  Reminds me of Glenridding Beck, where it runs through the village into Ullswater.  Though I reckon this is pretty close to the original course.  You can’t alter the lie of the land.’

He turns to DS Jones.

‘Where you saw the plaque, if we’d stopped and looked through the railings, you’d have seen it coming down between the backs of the buildings.  It’s so narrow you wouldn’t guess there’s a beck there.  It ducks under the road and slips behind the Chinese takeaway.  Then it divides the car parks and this rec.’

He inclines his head to the right.  He refers to the open green they have passed through, with a children’s play zone at its far corner, and an avenue of mainly limes and yew hedges that borders the sunken watercourse.  The cries of small well-wrapped children reach their ears, and the barked reproach of a dog owner whose mongrel is set on a close-up inspection of a dachshund as it goes about its business.  There is just the subdued autumn song of a robin, and occasional wafts of breeze bring down flurries of yellowing lime leaves and their propellor fruits, rotating hypnotically in dappled sunlight; some land on the water, destined to colonise pastures new.

DS Leyton waves a hand.

‘So this is the spot, Guv – where the geezer drowned?’

Skelgill seems to close his eyes as if trying to picture the tempestuous night almost two centuries ago.

‘Shame we can’t turn the clock back.’

DS Leyton gives a little chortle.

‘We’re working blind, eh, Guv – hah!’

But Skelgill steps away and leads them alongside the beck until they reach a footbridge.  Crossing, they emerge through trimmed shrubbery onto a wide lawn, across which they are confronted with their first view of Abbot Hall.

It is an imposing property.

What they see is the rear, though it is no less impressive, of mansion house proportions in early Georgian style, grey stone and great bays, a scene of austere symmetry and formidable social status.

They halt as one, without conferring.  As products of the working classes, like most ordinary English folk they bear a deference to the symbols of the aristocracy and the landed gentry, a folk memory of knowing one’s place – battered into successive generations by their parents who had it battered or even starved into them.

Skelgill turns to see DS Jones’s features are pained.

He shows uncommon solicitude.

‘Alreet, lass?’

She jolts – her hazel eyes glistening.

And she sighs.

‘So, Flora worked here as a servant.’

It is a question of sorts, but one not requiring a response.  Indeed, they must all reflect on what little they have been told.  That the poor deaf-mute girl brought out her baby beneath the cover of the storm.  That she hurried in darkness across this lawn.  That the Seventh Earl – what?  Glimpsed her and followed?  A skirmish took place – the peer drowned.

‘I suppose I didn’t realise it was so close by.’

Skelgill nods as he narrows his eyes.  She is right; the mansion and the beck are hardly a cricket pitch apart.  He turns his gaze upon the building.  Two long vertical banners advertise its present-day function.

‘Howay.  We can’t come to Kendal and not look at the Turner.’

He strides off, leaving his colleagues exchanging perplexed glances – until they realise he is following signs not for “Gallery” but for “Café”.

For a property of grand salons and great windows, the café is something of a contradiction, lit by artificial light in a rectangular basement, its décor modern and bright, plastic chairs in mustard, grey and black, and a display of colourful ceramic plates on its long wall.

DS Leyton pushes to the fore.

‘I’ll sort this.  Lucky dip.  Cortados all round, right?’

Skelgill acquiesces; thus he and DS Jones find a suitable table and settle, while their colleague procures a choice from the glass display cabinet.  They wait in reflective silence during the couple of minutes it takes for their order to be assembled.  Then Skelgill watches hawkishly as their tray hovers, perhaps identifying his target.

DS Leyton pronounces, a little tentatively, in case his selection is not entirely appreciated.

‘Westmorland duff.  Local speciality.  She reckons it’s their top seller.’

But he sees that Skelgill’s attention has drifted; he is staring at the woman behind the counter.  Equally, the woman is looking quizzically at Skelgill – and he wonders if this is another one of those situations where some familial relationship is being considered by both parties.  But he can detect no obvious resemblance.  And the woman is hardly more than a girl – she might still be in teenage, a student who works weekends; she is quite tall and slender, frail almost, with a mass of long dark hair that covers much of her face.

Skelgill continues to look in her direction for a few moments; DS Leyton sees he is lost in thought – he ostentatiously clinks the shared plate and it does the trick.  Without speaking, Skelgill scoops up a slice of cake and dunks it into the fine froth of his coffee.  His colleagues look on with some trepidation – but this time he judges correctly and the piece makes it safely to his jaws, though he champs at it in the manner of an unsettled steed.

DS Leyton brandishes an information leaflet and then flattens it out on the table surface before him.  The centrepiece is an old sepia photograph of Abbot Hall, taken from the lawn they have recently crossed.  It shows a gathering of formally dressed adults, the men in strict morning dress and the women floating in extravagant white frills and hats like wedding cakes.  There is silence while he reads, though both his colleagues have their eyes on the page.

DS Jones is first to speak.

‘Does it say when that was taken?’

DS Leyton attempts to focus – but the tiny point-size of the caption defeats him and he slides the leaflet to her.  She leans closer.

‘It just says Victorian garden party.  I suppose that covers most of the Nineteenth Century.’  After a pause, she continues.  ‘Hm.  So, this place was built in 1759 on the site of the old Abbot’s Hall, where the Abbot or his representative would stay when visiting from the mother house of St Mary’s Abbey, York.  It was Benedictine.’

DS Leyton pipes up, covering his mouth as he simultaneously eats.

‘Hah – good old Benedictine – flamin’ firewater it is.  The wife’s old Nan used to swear by it for a chest infection.  Always coughing, she was.’

Skelgill glances rather bemusedly at his colleague – but DS Jones flashes a wide grin and continues to narrate.

‘The property fell into disrepair – it doesn’t say how – and came into public ownership.  It was restored and reopened as an art gallery after extensive refurbishment in 1962.  It houses a collection by renowned portraitist George Romney – born in Beckside and lived for a time in Kendal – also works by Lucian Freud, Joan Eardley and John Ruskin – oh, and … JMW Turner.’

She looks up at Skelgill in surprise.  He pretends not to be paying attention.

He finishes his last morsel; he is well ahead of his colleagues.  He surveys their plates with something of a scowl.  He drains his modest mug and rises.

‘I’ll have a scout about.’

His colleagues exchange resigned looks.  Skelgill casts a parting glance at the counter; it elicits a small smile from the girl who is standing unoccupied, idly thumbing her phone.

It is perhaps another ten minutes before DS Jones finds Skelgill.

An expansive former drawing room is both flooded with daylight and crowded by visitors, but despite that he and all its other occupants are motionless, he stands out as incongruous for they are a party of college students, paradoxically homogenous in their variously modish attire and outlandish hairstyles; a collective rebellion that belies their academic diligence, for they methodically make notes upon bulk-issue clipboards.

Skelgill has his face just inches from a painting – he might be deemed to be hogging it.

Yet he seems to know it is she who has moved silently to his shoulder.

‘I’m trying to work out what they’re catching.’

He shifts aside, and DS Jones steps back a little, better to take in the actual landscape itself.  It is entitled Windermere, Looking South, 1797 – a scene of itinerant fisherfolk who might live on their craft – or are they early tourist boats?

She waits – she knows he will explain.

After a while he turns; in his eyes there is a look of protest – but also of wonderment, his features animated by what he has seen.

‘They used to net tons of fish from the lakes – it’s unthinkable now.  It were a proper industry – in Windermere the Arctic char were a prime target.’  He shakes his head ruefully.  ‘Nowadays you need a permit for a single rod and it’s catch-and-return.’

‘When did it stop?’

Skelgill frowns and shakes his head.

‘The arl fella used to talk about it – it were his great grandfather as used to net in Ullswater.  There were a fish market in Pooley Bridge – imagine that.  I reckon it died out by the end of the 1800s.’

He peers again at the masted fishing craft as if he still cannot quite believe his eyes.

As he does so, DS Leyton arrives, a little breathless.

‘JMW Turner?  Course – he’s arguably Britain’s greatest-ever artist, invented abstract painting and influenced the Impressionists.’

Skelgill plies his subordinate with a suspicious glare.

‘You’re the proper little oracle, Leyton.’

DS Leyton grins.  ‘I know how you like your facts, Guv.’  He winks at DS Jones and taps his jacket pocket from which the information leaflet protrudes.

Skelgill, however, is drawn away by an alternative landscape; the first-floor gallery with its great bay window has a commanding view to the river; he contemplates the manicured parkland; not so long ago, like much of the flood plain, it would have been a flourishing water meadow.

He checks his watch – and signals towards the exit without speaking.

But passing out through the main foyer, DS Jones exclaims.

‘Oh, look – come and see.’

They line up in front of three large works – not exactly a triptych, but full-length life-sized portraits of some of the Earls of Fellside, former incumbents of Abbot Hall.

‘Is this our geezer?’

DS Leyton has addressed the first in line.  DS Jones moves in to read the title card.

‘This is the Fifth Earl – ours is the Seventh.’

‘So – he’s Earlier, you might say.’

DS Jones chuckles – and sidesteps to the last of the paintings.  ‘Here’s the Seventh Earl.  Lord Edward William Fellside.’

Not for the first time they stand in collective awe.  For most visitors it would be the sheer brilliance of the artist, to complete such a large work, so vibrant and lifelike and yet not a brushstroke in sight.  Little wonder that Romney and his successors were such highly sought-after portraitists among England’s upper classes.

But DS Leyton remains pragmatic.

‘Looks to me like he fancied himself.’

His remark gets DS Jones’s attention – she gazes at the glowing features; there is certainly the hint of an aristocratic smile, and a glint in the dark eyes that to one onlooker might be deemed salacious and to another ruthless.  The pose, too, is ambiguous.  Leaning casually against a long casement window, part of a great bay that must be one of the galleries today, could be an athletic figure, poised for action, or instead languid, under the influence of drink.  The composition is masterful; the light filtering over the right shoulder further emphasises the duplicity, a Jekyll-and-Hyde-like character, half in shadow.  On the man’s left a great drape, in dark green, like a curtain, forms the backdrop in contrast to the pastoral view of the sheep-grazed water meadows through the glass on his right.

DS Jones relays a fact from the exhibit label.

‘It says the curtain represents Kendal green – the cloth they wove in the woollen mills that the Fellsides established.’

DS Leyton is prompted to respond.

‘Wasn’t that Robin Hood?’

As Skelgill appears not to be listening, DS Jones requests clarification.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Robin Hood and his Merry Men.  They dressed in Kendal green.  I remember from when I used to watch it on the telly, as a nipper.’  But now he has second thoughts; he runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.  ‘Wait – or was it Lincoln green?’

Skelgill produces the familiar gurning face that oft foretells of a burst of affected local vernacular.

‘Reet – let’s have a deek at yon kirk.  Track down His Lordship.’

He sets off without further explanation.

However, it has not escaped his notice that DS Leyton bears a small white paper bag.  He calls over his shoulder as his sergeants scurry to keep up.

‘What’s in the bag, Leyton?’

‘Ah – saved me a detour, Guv.  Homemade Kendal mint cake from the café.  It’s chocolate coated – but that’ll just add to the attraction.’

Skelgill growls.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Leyton.  You’ll have them bouncing off the ceiling if you feed them too much of that stuff.  It’s rocket fuel.  You know Mallory took it up Everest?’

‘Don’t worry, Guv – strictly marching rations only.’

Skelgill mutters some cynical retort, but it goes unheard since he exits the main door ahead of the others.  He emerges onto a paved landing with two-way stairs leading down to a formal driveway.  Here, he hesitates.  To the right runs Blind Beck, invisible within its channel and bordered on its far bank by shrubs.  To the left the view is unimpeded, other than by an ancient yew that stands between Abbot Hall and the imposing parish church with its perpendicular Norman tower.  Skelgill is reminded of the square symbol topped with a cross that will be found on the Ordnance Survey map.

‘The church is close, as well.’  It is DS Jones who makes the observation.  ‘I suppose it was all part of the glebe.’

But Skelgill is staring in the opposite direction.  And, when a moment ago he strode ahead, now he continues to waver.  He turns back to the main door and takes half a step – it is as if he had considered some act and now regrets his omission.

Without looking at either of his colleagues he reaches for the door handle.

‘I’ll catch you up inside the kirk.  Just pay a visit.’

His lazy phraseology leaves his colleagues a little baffled, if unsurprised by his eccentricity.  There is the suggestion that he intends to avail himself of the restrooms.  But they follow their orders and begin to descend the left-hand flight of steps.

Skelgill returns to the foyer.

He stands for a good minute before the painting of the Seventh Earl of Fellside.

Presently, he fishes out his mobile phone from his hip pocket and takes a surreptitious snap of the portrait.  Some galleries have rules prohibiting photography, but Skelgill does not bother to enlighten himself.  However, as he turns on his heel he realises that the tall girl with the mass of dark hair from the café has been watching him; she stands facing him, maybe twenty feet away as other visitors mill about between them.  He makes a small face of mea culpa – as if to enlist her in the secret knowledge of his misdemeanour – and she responds with a reprise of the enigmatic smile, and then resumes what was perhaps her original purpose, and crosses the foyer to confer with the elderly gentleman who sits behind the information desk.  As Skelgill passes to leave, she abstractedly draws back her tresses on one side to reveal an earring with a bright blue stone.

6. THE KIRK

Holy Trinity Church, Kirkland – 1.30 p.m.

‘COME AND SEE what we’ve found.’

DS Jones is a little excited, breathless.  She has returned to the vestibule to intercept Skelgill as he enters the church.

‘The bar’s open?’

‘You’re not so far from the mark.’  She beckons for him to follow her but then stops and turns.  ‘Wait, have you been here before?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Honestly?  Probably not.’

Skelgill grins wryly.

‘Lead on, Macduff.’

DS Jones cannot suppress a laugh as they emerge into the narthex; it escapes before she can pay due deference to their surroundings – and it draws an inquiring glance over the spectacles from a demure elderly lady who sits knitting in a chair placed near a table of harvest festival produce that appears to be for sale.  But the woman smiles in a welcoming manner, which DS Jones takes as permission for them to pass.

She leads Skelgill to the left, along the back of the last line of pews, and beneath a winged arrangement of scaled pipes – an organ of colossal size.

‘It says by the door that it’s the largest church in Cumbria, with its five aisles.  During the town’s cloth-making peak it regularly accommodated over a thousand worshippers.’

Skelgill frowns; there is something tyrannical about her description.

Her object, however, is hung on the rear wall at ground level, what seems at first sight to be a substantial oil painting on board.  It is a good five feet high by four wide and framed in blackened oak.

‘It’s the original pub sign from the Ring O’ Bells.  I read in the pub’s leaflet that it’s kept here.’

DS Leyton has been examining an adjacent exhibit of similar proportions, but now he crowds in with his colleagues.

‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen a pub sign in a church before.’

Skelgill inhales to retort – and the guess would be that it is to inquire how often his subordinate has actually been in a church – but he catches DS Jones looking at him and decides the taunt would be of the kettle-and-pot variety.  He holds his peace.

They consider the artwork.

Beneath the arch of a ringing chamber a team of bellringers stand in a circle facing inwards – except the one nearest to the artist, so to speak, who stands apart, and perhaps by dint of a blue pendant on a silver chain is the designated leader.  The figures are anonymous, though monk-like in long dark-green cloaks with their hoods raised.  All have their arms reaching aloft, while above them in belfry windows is a representation of four of the bells.  Though the ringers are portrayed as static, at full stretch, the bells are tumbling.

Skelgill clears his throat.

‘Thirteen.’

DS Leyton turns his head.

‘Come again, Guv?’

Skelgill has counted.

‘Thirteen bellringers.  Well – twelve and a conductor.’

The artwork lacks something in accuracy, and its hues are of a pastel nature, and after half an hour of admiring genuine masterpieces, it is not easy to evaluate its artistic worth.  But these very features, combined with the faceless straining figures, their bodies distorted in their heavenwards striving, imbue a sense of unease, an unnerving quality that might truly be said to capture something of the sinister horror of Botticelli’s interpretation of Dante’s Inferno.

DS Leyton breaks the silence.

‘Kendal green.’

‘You what, Leyton?’

DS Leyton reaches tentatively to touch one of the characters.

‘These cloaks – that’s your Kendal green again, ain’t it?’

He turns to look at DS Jones for concord.

She nods.

‘For sure, it must be.  Supplied by the Fellsides’ woollen mill, perhaps.’

DS Leyton sidesteps a couple of paces to stand before the adjoining exhibit.

‘Speaking of the Fellsides, I reckon I’ve found our first clue.  Look at this.’

The large black board is of equally ancient appearance and is inscribed with gilt lettering in gothic blackletter script.  It is headed “DONATIONS TO THE POOR FOR BREAD” and comprises a list of entries in descending date order.  DS Leyton traces with a finger to about halfway down: “1852.  Lord Edward William Fellside, Abbot Hall, Kendal.  Interest of £198. 15s. 2d. 5 per Cent Consols.”

‘I reckon that means he donated the annual returns on government bonds.  Thick end of two hundred quid.  What would that be worth, now?’

Skelgill does not reply, though he is staring at the entry, the precisely itemised amount in pounds, shillings and pence, the old LSD – and the date, the year of the benefactor’s death.

DS Jones has been quick to interrogate her mobile phone.

‘It’s about £18,000 in today’s money.’

‘Jeez!’  DS Leyton has exclaimed before he knows it, and makes an involuntary ducking motion, in anticipation of divine retribution.  He continues with his voice hushed.  ‘No wonder they wrote it on a board.  I thought I was being generous when I stuck a tenner in that collection box by the door.’

Skelgill regards him with a look of surprise.

‘Did you ask for a receipt?’

‘Don’t worry, Guv – I shan’t be claiming it.  Consider it penance.’

Skelgill makes an inarticulate growl, but now he turns and sets off along the first aisle.  His colleagues follow.  They separate and move slowly, casting about like museum visitors, uncertain of what they should be appreciative.

The walls and floors are adorned with memorial plaques and gravestones.  The coloured windows produce pleasant light effects.  Old battle flags hang suitably tattered, like the ghost regiments they represent.

DS Leyton halts to admire a second organ.  Though small compared to the main organ, it is nonetheless impressive, in its own right a huge contraption entirely filling a great arch between the first and second aisles.

‘Alexa, play Stan Getz.’

DS Jones glances back briefly before moving further ahead, and though Skelgill has stopped it is to crouch to inspect one of a series of metal grills embedded in the strip of stone floor that crosses the head of the nave.  DS Leyton reaches his side.

‘What is it, Guv?’

Skelgill is scowling, plainly disconcerted.  He strains to see what is beneath the grill.

‘I reckon this must be a heating vent.  Maybe get at the wiring an’ all.  But look.’  He shakes a hand at the surrounding floor.  ‘There’s gravestones all around.’

DS Leyton understands his colleague’s concern.

‘Tell you what, Guv – I wouldn’t fancy being the spark that had to open that up to fix a blown fuse.  Imagine, dropping a screwdriver and a skeleton hand comes up with it between bony fingers.’

Skelgill remains pensive.

‘Reckon there’s folk buried under these?’

DS Leyton shrugs, a little melodramatically.

‘It’s what it says on the gravestones.’

But now DS Jones returns to interrupt them.

‘I think you ought to come and see.’

She leads them past the altar.  All round the east end of the church, either side of the apse, is an arrangement of chantry chapels, each partially screened off by latticed partitions in ancient oak.  These private compartments house tombs and memorials.

‘This is the Fellside chapel.  It’s where the priest would hold special services for the family.’

The ornate stained-glass window depicts a pastoral scene, a shepherd and his flock, and at its centre a coat of arms with a horned sheep surrounded by bale hooks, a staple tool of the wool trade.  The motto reads: “UT OPERARETUR ET CUSTODIRET”.

DS Jones approaches the window, beneath which rests a substantial stone sarcophagus.

‘Listen to this.’  She leans over and reads verbatim from the upper surface.  ‘“Here lie the mortal remains of Lord Edward William Fellside, cruelly taken from us in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and fifty-two, and of his wife, Elizabeth, Countess of Cumberland, and of his two daughters, Mathilda and Emily.”’

She is still holding her mobile phone, and now she takes a photograph of the inscription.  Skelgill remains unmoved, but DS Leyton can hardly contain himself.

‘Crikey – do you reckon they’re all in there?  In that actual coffin?’

There is no reply from his colleagues – but now the three turn as one as a polite “Ahem” comes from behind them.  In the open doorframe of the chapel stands the woman from the harvest festival stall.  She is small and rotund – though well clad for the autumn chill of the church in a thick coat and scarf – and she smiles benignly from a pleasant round countenance fringed by neatly curled grey hair, her blue eyes reflecting the brightness of the window.

‘If I may interject?’  She pauses only momentarily and continues before they can respond.  ‘The Burial Acts of the 1850s prohibited intramural church burials for reasons of space and hygiene.  Where you see gravestones, they are more likely to indicate the position of the coffin in the undercroft.’

She glances down at the stone flagged floor and indicates beneath her feet with a small sweeping motion of one hand.  Indeed she stands now upon a black slate gravestone polished by shoe leather.  She is about to speak again when her name is evidently called – for she turns towards where a small group of children are collected around tables in the south transept, and a second woman has a hand raised as if to request the first’s attendance.

‘Excuse me, please.  Sunday School are carving turnips for First Vespers of All Saints – the Halloween service.  I hope there has not been a mishap.  Take your time, won’t you?’

The woman leaves them to their own devices; in some respects they are none the wiser as regards the issues that puzzle them; but perhaps she is a source of information to whom they can revert, if necessary.

DS Leyton voices a new conundrum.

‘I’m surprised they’re having a Halloween service.  I thought that was supposed to be a pagan thing?’

But DS Jones knows enough to speculate a little differently.

‘A hallow is a saint – and Halloween is the night before All Saints’ Day – so I suppose it’s just like Christmas Eve is to Christmas Day.’

They leave the chapel and begin to drift down the central aisle.  A burst of children’s laughter emanates from the transept, and it seems the more senior female churchwarden is amusing them.  There are pumpkin decorations being painted and costumes designed and fitted.

Now DS Leyton is provoked further to digress.

‘At least for Halloween it’s the nippers that dress up.  Not like flippin’ Christmas Eve.’  He performs another reluctant ducking motion.

Skelgill seems to know what he is talking about.

‘I expect you make a cracking Santa, Leyton.  Just don’t try and get down the chimney – else that’ll be you for Christmas.’

DS Leyton is a little miffed but acknowledges with a good-natured frown that he had left the open goal.

They reach the presently unattended harvest festival table and with surprising decisiveness, Skelgill picks up a jar marked “Westmorland Damson Pickle” and pockets it in his jacket.  Then he produces a generous note from his wallet and feeds it into the slot of a wooden honesty box.

‘Consider it the swear box, eh, Leyton?  I’ll pay your fines.’

DS Leyton seems to approve.

‘Very good, Guv.  For that much, I reckon I’ve got a few in hand, in case of next time.’

That they may not return prompts DS Jones.  She brandishes her mobile phone and indicates that she is going to take a photograph; she veers off towards the Ring O’ Bells pub sign and the gilt donations board.

Her colleagues hold their course and pass out through the vestibule.  Skelgill cranes to look up at the tower.   Paired slatted windows indicate the belfry; it is a good height, perhaps eighty feet to the parapet above, beyond which a faded St George’s cross can just be glimpsed hanging limply in the damp autumn air against a pallid afternoon sky.

‘That’s creepy.’

Skelgill turns to see what new aspect troubles his colleague; he follows DS Leyton’s line of sight.  Closer at hand, where the gutter of the pitched roof of the fourth aisle meets that of the fifth, the rainspout takes the form of a gargoyle, a winged and horned ram with the lead pipe outlet protruding between its bared teeth.

Skelgill contemplates the stone carving; certainly it is a little unconventional, decidedly avenging when forgiving might be expected.  But there are other gargoyles ranged along the drainage points, and they are of the regular grotesque variety, reputedly so to ward off evil spirits.  Fight fire with fire.

A stone cross of some ten feet in height now draws their attention.  It is of indeterminate age, heavily weathered and lichen-scarred, and any inscription is long gone – though a more recent panel announces it to be a Plague Cross, a commemoration of the 245 deaths in Kirkland suffered during the outbreak of 1597.

Skelgill is moved to speak.

‘That must have been above half the population.  Kirkland district is just this bit round here.  Blind Beck marks the parish boundary with Kendal proper.’

DS Leyton has been holding his breath, and now he exhales ponderously.

‘It’s not exactly the most cheering of places, Guv.’  It seems he refers to the generality of their visit.  ‘Do you reckon they buried all the victims here – in one place, like?  I watched a documentary about the new Elizabeth Line – they kept tunnelling into plague pits under the City of London.’

Skelgill casts about, and though he slowly shakes his head, it is more with uncertainty than absolute doubt.  It takes him a moment to reply.

‘In Abbot Hall, there’s a painting of the kirk – from the 1800s.’  He swings an arm, taking in the neatly mown grassy sweep of the churchyard.  ‘There were graves everywhere.’

What he points out is that the memorials are now gone.  But DS Leyton looks rather thoughtfully at his superior – for there is the small insight into what else Skelgill might have been up to when he was roaming about the gallery.

Skelgill gives a tug on the sleeve of his colleague.  Evidently there is something he has noticed.

He leads DS Leyton around to the side of the church close to where they crossed from Abbot Hall.  Beneath the shade of the venerable yew and set into a right-angle of the church’s outer walls, is a neatly paved yard – neatly paved with gravestones, close upon a hundred, and not a space for moss between.

‘Cor – a paveyard.’

DS Leyton has invented the term.

Skelgill grins.  He steps confidently onto the rectangle of slate and granite.

‘Obviously, they couldn’t have buried folk like this.  They must have decided to have a big tidy-up.’

DS Leyton follows, treading more gingerly.  He wanders a few paces.

‘They’re pretty ancient.  I can’t see one dated after 1840.  I suppose if their relatives were long gone there’d be no one to object to them being carted over here.  Reckon they moved the remains, an all?’

Skelgill does not reply.  He is staring at a headstone that bears a skull and crossbones.  “A pirate’s grave!” was always the boyhood refrain, when the family took flowers to the local churchyard.  It was something to distract from the sombre nature of their visit.

He exhales and shakes his head – attracting his colleague’s attention.

‘What are we looking for, Guv?’

DS Leyton admits to the collective doubt that they all must harbour.

Skelgill, however, holds to the official line.

‘You said yourself, Leyton – we’re working blind.’

‘But you reckon there’s an unsolved crime?’

Skelgill emits a scoff of frustration.

‘Who knows what’s under our feet.’

Though unintended, his metaphor seems aimed at the actual substrate, the gravestones – and DS Leyton takes him literally.

‘Tell you what, Guv – on another day, this would be a decent place to hide a corpse – or even under a plague cross – I mean, who’d want to dig there?’

But it is something less tangible than a hidden corpse that they seek, of an ethereal nature that they cannot yet grasp.  Skelgill decides it is time to cut their losses.  He gazes pensively at the church.

‘Jones is taking her time.  Howay, we’ll wait by the road.’

He begins to head towards the elaborate wrought-iron gates that lead out to the late medieval thoroughfare.  There is the suggestion that the stark condition of waiting will precipitate their colleague’s appearance.

But DS Jones is waylaid.

In passing out through the vestibule her eye has been caught by a photograph in a locked glass-fronted wall-mounted cabinet in which church notices are imprisoned; the image bears a strong resemblance to the pub sign.

In fact, it is a leaflet promoting the present-day bellringers.

The team of campanologists wear green cloaks – with hoods down – and what has stopped her in her tracks is that – to a person – they are all female.

She prepares her mobile phone and sways about to compose a photo that avoids the reflection from the glass – when a voice comes from close behind.

‘No need, my child – here, take this one.’

She turns; it is the churchwarden, the same small, smiling demure lady who offered advice at the Fellside chapel.  She proffers to DS Jones a copy of the leaflet that is on display.

‘Oh – thank you.’

DS Jones is sidetracked – how could the woman have known – to have a copy to hand?

‘We’re always keen to blood new members.’

DS Jones finds herself stuck for words.  The woman has pounced upon her interest.  She could say that she is not a local – or that she is a police officer at work – or even just that she has other commitments, gym, yoga and so on.  But she says none of these things before the woman continues.

‘Yes.  Come along on Halloween – as an observer.  We have practice for All Saints’ Day at seven-thirty p.m. – it’s as late as we dare without raising complaints.’  Her smile broadens.  ‘Without raising the spirits.’

DS Jones finds herself assuaging a concern that has barely been expressed.

‘Oh – I’m sure it’s welcomed – the sound of church bells is so wonderful.’

The woman is smiling – but staring almost a little hypnotically; the shining blue eyes have lost none of their intensity, even in the shadowy vestibule.  It is as if she already knows what is the answer to her proposition – and that for it to be declined would be entirely unlikely.

‘Well, then – there you are.  I’ve written my number at the bottom.  I’m the tower captain.’

The woman’s hand drifts to her throat.

DS Jones looks at the leaflet – and there is the number, and the woman’s name, Liza Pendle – and now she recognises her in the photograph, facing out in front of the circle of ringers and wearing the same chain of office as the leader in the original pub sign painted some two centuries earlier.

DS Jones is feeling more than a little obliged, and uncomfortable with the possibility of giving offence – and yet, strangely, she lacks any strong sentiment of outright objection.

She continues to stare a little helplessly at the leaflet – and now it provides a line that comes to her rescue.

‘Are you seriously called The Dead Ringers?’

The woman chuckles.

‘Our vicar has an excellent sense of humour.’

‘Oh, yes – I guess so.’

‘Think about it, my child.  Nothing to lose, something to gain.’  The woman reaches to press her wrist.  ‘And I do love your little bracelet.’

7. FEELINGS

The high street, Kirkland – 2.15 p.m.

‘YOU LOOK LIKE one of those kids in Halloween costume’s given you a fright.’

‘Do I?’  DS Jones brushes absently at her hair.

DS Leyton, however, is phlegmatic.

‘Don’t worry, girl – churches give me the jitters.  All that right and wrong crammed into one place – it gets confusing.’

She nods, appreciative of his solicitude; Skelgill would not let her off so lightly, without inquisition.

And now DS Leyton notices she glances about.  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

‘I said I’d wait here by the gate – else you wouldn’t know where we’d gone.  The Guvnor’s said something about fishing tackle.’

She leans to see past her colleague.  Diagonally across the road, Skelgill is peering into a window – but it is not in fact that of Shooting Lines, but the much smaller glass of the adjacent outlet, Fortune Antiques.  It being a Sunday, it looks like both retailers are closed.  They cross to approach him.

DS Leyton gestures to a small piece of torn cardboard taped on the inside of the window that in untidy handwriting states: “Tarot and Clairvoyant readings – inquire within”.

He chuckles.

‘You ain’t thinking of getting your palm read, eh, Guv?’

Skelgill swivels his head in alarm – and in this instant fails to conceal that he has been caught out.

DS Leyton grins broadly.

‘You’ve had your palm read?’  He appeals to DS Jones.  ‘Emma – he’s winding me up?’

DS Jones finds herself on the horns of a minor dilemma.  Skelgill last evening had been discomfited – much as she is presently experiencing, following her encounter with the tower captain.

To her relief, Skelgill takes responsibility for his answer.

‘Call it an experiment, Leyton.’

When he might press home the chance to rib his boss, DS Leyton makes a face that suggests intrigue.

‘I’ve always quite fancied it myself.’  He steps back and looks the building up and down.  There is a date stone under the eaves that bears the numerals 1313.  ‘I mean, look at the age of this place.’

Skelgill regards his colleague for a moment but does not comment and instead turns back to press his forehead against the window.

DS Jones now inquires as to his objective.

‘Was there something?’

‘They had a brass fly reel.  Always fancied trying one.  It would go nicely on the split-cane rod Jim Hartley gave us – when I were starting out.’

He gives a growl of frustration.

‘It were beside those brass candlesticks.  Now I don’t see it.’

His colleagues join him in solidarity, and collectively they begin to steam up the cold pane with their breath.

‘They’re not open while Monday, folks.’

As one, they turn at the voice.  It is becoming the pattern of their trip.

Straddling a kerbstone, facing them is a traffic warden.  She wears the quasi-paramilitary garb that is required these days, accommodated by an oversized hi-vis jacket, an outfit that conceals what is probably a skinny build.  She is of average height, perhaps in her late fifties, with blonde-to-mousy shoulder-length hair drawn back tightly in a band, and regular, weaselly features that give her a slightly provocative demeanour.  She looks them over with small watery eyes and quickly takes them in.

‘Just visiting, are you?  That’s nice.  We like to see folk coming.’

She speaks with a strong local accent.

DS Jones senses it falls to her to reply.

‘We were just over at the gallery – and the church.’

The woman nods as if she actually knows this.

‘There’s plenty more not to miss.  Kendal Castle’s just ower t’ river – five minutes, or so.  Or stay this side – cross Blind Beck and take the left, that’s Allhallows Lane – you can see the old Fellside Workhouse up there – it’s all social housing these days.  And there’s Fellside hospital in Highgate.  The front’s a tearoom now – Paupers’ Café.  Go through t’ ginnel int’ yard and there’s the almshouses – they’re still occupied for their original purpose.’

DS Jones glances inquiringly at her colleagues.

‘I think we like the sound of the tearoom.’

The woman pats the ID badge that she wears on a lanyard.

‘Folk see the warden’s uniform – think I’m about to give them a ticking off.  But I like to do my bit for community relations.’

As she speaks, however, car horns begin to sound at her back.

The medieval main street is part of the A6, the longest trunk road in England.  The one-way system brings two lanes sweeping through the lower half of the town.  No stopping is permitted, but a flashy BMW has pulled up on the double yellow lines outside the Chinese restaurant and its occupant has climbed out to peruse the menu.  Vehicles are rapidly backing up.

The woman flips on her official cap.

‘Sometimes community relations have to take a back seat.  Have a good day, folks.’

She strides out into the one lane of moving traffic, holding up a palm to staunch the oncoming flow.

The offender is a burly character, but no match it seems for the tongue lashing that swiftly sends him packing.  They watch as she strides towards the town centre, and turns into the side street signposted for Abbot Hall.

DS Leyton makes a sound of trepidation.

Skelgill frowns.

‘What’s up?’

‘Thing is, Guv – that’s where I’m parked.  I was running late for the meeting – just took the first spot I came to.  I hadn’t got no change – and for the life of me I couldn’t get the contactless to work on the machine.  Hope she don’t find my motor – knowing my luck, she’s bound to give me a ticket.’

Skelgill shrugs.

‘No use crying over spilt milk.’

And he checks his watch and starts moving, away from the antiques shop, towards the neighbouring fishing tackle shop.  But when he might stop, he surprises them by continuing.  Perhaps he casts a strained glance at the multipurpose travel rod featured in the window display.

And just when they might think Paupers’ Café is in his sights, he performs a U-turn and darts across the road and, leaving his colleagues to make their own crossing decisions, he strides along in the direction of the Ring O’ Bells.

By the time they catch him, he is procuring drinks, and he signals with a toss of his head that his sergeants should make themselves comfortable. They take seats at a corner table; the public bar is no bigger than a modest sitting room, and for the present they are the only occupants.

It is the same woman serving as the previous evening – the landlady, Skelgill assumes, and there is an unspoken suggestion of recognition on her part, a smile, her dark eyes catlike.  She wears black jeans and a t-shirt bearing the logo of an IPA that is on sale as a guest beer.  He guesses she is in her early forties; she has long, dark, glossy black hair, generous lashes and mascara, and pleasant features and a trim figure that suggests athletic interests.  He watches as she expertly pours the ale, when disreputable pubs will retail their customers a head of froth at the best part of a pound an inch.

‘Sometimes you just need a pint, eh, Guv?’

DS Leyton’s remark reveals an understanding of his superior’s mood that belies his affable nature, but he does not press for an explanation and instead gestures as Skelgill lowers their glasses.

‘Better stick ’em in the middle of the table.  Emma’s just showed me the video of the moving beer.’  He laughs.  ‘Wait till I tell the nippers – tombs, gargoyles, the Great Plague – a fortune teller – a church with a crypt – and now a pub with a poltergeist!  They can’t get enough of spooky bedtime stories, especially with Halloween coming up.’

Skelgill settles beside DS Jones, his expression somewhat forbearing, though he is free of such parental responsibilities, and his only seasonal complaint can be trick-or-treaters at his door.

DS Jones is a little more enamoured of her colleague’s predicament.

‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it – how they like to be scared – to step into the shadows provided they feel like they’re attached by a strong elastic rope that will pull them back to safety.’

DS Leyton is nodding – but now Skelgill quips.

‘It’s like you and your cavalier parking, Leyton – chancing your arm.’

DS Leyton scowls.

‘Don’t remind me, Guv.  I can’t believe what these car park operators get away with as fines.  If you overstay in our local supermarket, it’s fifty quid – and a ton if you don’t pay in twenty-eight days.’

DS Jones flashes a reproachful glance at Skelgill – she has seen inside the glovebox of his car.

But his thoughts have shifted.

‘She knew exactly where we’d been.’

‘Sorry?’  It is DS Jones’s question.

‘The traffic warden.  She knew we’d been to the kirk and the gallery, before you even told her.’

Skelgill takes a slow drink of his ale.

‘And look where she pointed us to.’

A small frown creases DS Jones’s brow.

‘Do you mean in relation to Flora Mary Graham and Lord Fellside?’

It takes Skelgill a moment to nod.

‘Aye.’

He stares inscrutably into his beer.  And then it seems he reaches a conclusion.

He waves the glass in the approximate direction of the high street.

‘That fortune teller – last night – she gave me a description – very brief – of the scene at Blind Beck.  A lass with a child, the water.’

His colleagues sip their drinks, but for the time being it seems Skelgill will be no more forthcoming.  DS Leyton is plainly ruminating at some speed; it is not like his boss to succumb to such speculation.  Then he notices that, standing unobtrusively behind the bar, the landlady is immersed in a copy of the local newspaper.

‘Wait a mo, Guv – what about Minto’s article?  The Gazette came out Friday, right?  They could have read all about it.’

Skelgill’s grey-green eyes narrow.

‘But how would they know me – or us?’  He indicates to DS Jones.

She resorts to logic.

‘What did we talk about in Fortune Antiques?  Did we mention the Turnpike project?  They could easily have overheard.’

Skelgill frowns and now makes a small admission.

‘I thought about that.’

Again, however, he declines to enlarge.

DS Leyton develops his theory.

‘You don’t know that they singled you out, Guv.  They might try the same ruse on everyone.  They can’t get many customers – not this time of year.  What if they just pick events that have been in the news?  Let’s face it, at the end of the day, they just want to dip your pocket.’

Skelgill huffs.

But his sergeant has a point; they succeeded on that score – and there was the invitation to come back.  But was that because it was obvious he wanted the infernal reel?  Or because, in due course, he would want something else?

He takes another drink and sinks back against the settle.  Above the small hearth opposite hangs a darkened oil painting.  Of an impressionist nature, it features the Holy Trinity Church, indeed the angle of the building where he and Leyton had stood – the ‘paveyard’ as DS Leyton described it.  On the left the ancient yew spreads its shadows over the gravestones, while on the right the tower with its distinctive arched belfry windows rises against a troubled evening sky.

DS Jones notices that he is looking at it.

‘Do you think it’s a long-lost Turner?’

Skelgill shakes his head.

‘It’d be worth more than this building.’

They ponder the idea – but perhaps the notion of riches sparks a more pressing need for DS Leyton.  He checks his wristwatch and downs the last of his drink and rises, groaning stoically.

‘I’d better skedaddle.  I’ll need to stop off at a cashpoint.  I’ve promised to take the nippers to the matinee – the latest Ghostbusters.’

Skelgill regards DS Leyton benignly.

‘Aye – on you go, Leyton.’

DS Leyton begins to step away.

‘Do you want a lift – up to where you’re parked?’

But Skelgill grimaces.

‘Nay – we’ll walk up, Leyton.  The one-way system’s a nightmare.  We’ll just make you late.’

*

Though his car is just a short walk away DS Leyton quickens his pace once he has gained the pavement – and he has worked out a short cut through the churchyard and gallery grounds.  He spies his car.  Even at a distance he can see there is a penalty notice pinned beneath a wiper blade.

He stomps across cursing under his breath.  So much for community relations!  He tears it off and is ready to crumple it in his fist when he notices the registration number is not his.  And beneath the warden’s signature – which might read “V. Nabb” – a handwritten message has been added:

“Had to ticket your car in case of Supervisor checking – but this is a spoiled one thrown away by angry motorist.  Safe trip!”

‘Stone the crows.’

DS Leyton rubs a hand vigorously over his scalp.  How did she know it was his motor?

Shaking his head he clambers into the driver’s seat.

He places the paper bag with his Kendal mint cake carefully in the central console and eyes it.

Maybe just a nibble, to celebrate?

*

Skelgill and DS Jones drain the last of their drinks.  DS Jones collects the glasses and returns them to the bar, while Skelgill lingers to look more closely at the painting.

‘Thanks, love.’

DS Jones finds herself face to face with the landlady, who extends her hands over the counter to receive the empties.  Of course, she saw the woman last evening – but now she feels a sudden strange pang of recognition – and finds herself lost for words.  Instead, she bows in an exaggerated fashion – and then turns to merge a little clumsily with Skelgill as they simultaneously reach the exit.

‘See you next time, folks.’

Skelgill turns sharply – as if it has been remiss of him not to say cheerio – but the bar is unattended, and there is just a small residual movement in the curtain that conceals the door to the staff quarters.

The pair swing north to walk what will be the entire length of the high street, perhaps a mile to DS Jones’s car.  They proceed initially in silence, a period of reflection that lasts a good half minute before DS Jones speaks.

‘How are you feeling – about coming back on Tuesday?’

The question is perhaps too open-ended, and it takes Skelgill a while to respond.  When he does, he answers with a question of his own.

‘Like we’ll turn up empty-handed?’

She frowns.

‘But it doesn’t feel like that.’

She regards him interrogatively.  It cannot have escaped him that she has twice in quick succession referred to sentiments, when facts are what they will be expected to lay out on the meeting room table.  So, at least she is in step with him – that they wade, albeit a little apart, through a swirling October mist in which vague forms take shape and disappear, the suggestion of connections tempting but unclear.

Suddenly Skelgill seems to be doing his own bit of mind-reading.

‘What kept you, at the kirk?’

‘Oh – I – er – I was just reading the noticeboard.’

Inexplicably she finds herself prevaricating.  Momentarily, the old buildings of the twisting high street swirl before her eyes – and she recalls the warm touch of the tower captain’s fingertips on her wrist – and just now the penetrating gaze of the landlady.

The landlady who is also in the photograph of the bellringers.

Tuesday

30th October

8. ARDAS NAILS

The high street, Kendal – 9.30 a.m.

‘Jeepers, Guv – we should have waited for Emma – this is definitely more her cup of tea.’

Skelgill is putting on one of his irregular grimaces, the sort that reveals his front teeth and inner conflict.  He is piqued not so much by DS Jones’s absence, but the reason for it.

They loiter uneasily on the kerb, not so far from the Carnegie Library where they are due in half an hour.  Pedestrians pass between them and the small retail emporium they face, but none stops to wonder why two males in their late thirties – one stocky and slightly ill-fittingly besuited and the other, taller and kitted out more like a rock climber – appear to contemplate the services advertised in the large shop window of the Vietnamese nail bar.  There has to be a limit to vanity, and surely neither of the pair can seriously be considering nail extensions, gel shellac or builder gel.  Builders’ tea from the café opposite would seem more likely.

When Skelgill does not reply, DS Leyton offers a less contentious observation.

‘These joints, Guv – it should just say “launderette” across the front.’

Skelgill produces an ironic growl.

‘Come clean, eh?’

‘Hah – very good, Guv.’

It is money-laundering to which they refer; the generic nail bar is high in the list of cash-heavy businesses like barbers, car washes and takeaway restaurants through which ill-gotten gains of various species may be taken in dirty bundles to emerge immaculate from the wringer.

DS Leyton half swivels on his heel.

‘I bet they’ve spotted us, Guv.’

‘Course they have, Leyton.  Like we need our nails done.’

DS Leyton wavers.

‘There’s still the chance to wait.  We could send Emma in – and they’d never know.’

Skelgill’s scowl moderates to just a lightly furrowed brow.

‘Aye, well – we can keep that up our sleeve.  But there’s still questions that need to be asked.  There’s no getting round that.’

DS Leyton shrugs phlegmatically.

‘Yeah, I s’pose so, Guv.’

Skelgill reaches inside his tactical jacket to pull out a sheet of paper; there is the impression that he is making a move, and now DS Leyton turns to step towards the entrance.

‘Wait on, Leyton.’

The sergeant watches – a little baffled – as his superior produces from a sleeve pocket a Swiss Army knife, and proceeds using the flip-out scissors to cut around the upper part of what is a slightly blurred head-and-shoulders image of a young woman.  He crumples the unwanted piece and – when he could drop it into an adjacent waste bin – he hands it to his oppo.

DS Leyton opens his mouth to question Skelgill’s purpose – but now the latter peremptorily pushes past him and disappears into the nail bar, not even waiting to hold the door for his colleague.

By the time DS Leyton enters and is getting his bearings, it appears that Skelgill has already shown the photograph to three of the four young Asian women who sit in a row behind their workstations.  Their clients, mainly elderly ladies who look to be undertaking some curious prayer-ritual, their arms stretched out and their palms flat on the surface, goggle at him in surprise.  Skelgill now interrupts the fourth girl, jamming the image between a powerful angle-poise LED lamp designed to cure the gel polish and her customer’s splayed fingers.

DS Leyton notices two other Asian girls crouched in the far corner, attending to a single middle-aged woman in a dentist’s chair contraption who has her bare legs submerged up to their shins in a foot spa.  In the rear wall is a doorway covered by a beaded curtain, and above its lintel a large sign in red capital letters stating “CASH ONLY” – and no please.

With a sudden jerk the curtain parts and a man emerges.  In his mid-thirties with short-cropped black hair and prominent black eyebrows, he, too, is of Far Eastern appearance, although perhaps of mixed race, for his skin is as pale as that of a typical ethnic Englishman.  A stretch t-shirt reveals a muscular build, and he approaches Skelgill with the coiled athleticism of a martial arts exponent.

DS Leyton feels a pulse of adrenaline and shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet.  But the man reaches Skelgill before he can move – when Skelgill, bent over, and without even looking shoots out his left hand into the aggressor’s face.

The man instinctively recoils and freezes and stares, nostrils flared.  At the tip of his nose is a police warrant card.

Instantly, a change comes over him.  He takes a step back and holds up his hands and laughs in an exaggerated, friendly manner.  Indeed, he makes unintelligible murmurs of bonhomie.

But then just as quickly he turns to the two girls kneeling in the corner and barks out an order in a foreign language.

The girls rise and meekly file out through the curtain.

The manager – for this is plainly his role – sees Skelgill’s suspicious gaze.

‘They’re making you cà phê sũ’a nóng.  Vietnamese coffee.’

His English accent sounds native – albeit lacking any obvious regional provenance.

Now he pulls out a roll of banknotes from his back pocket and strips off a fifty.  He leans past Skelgill and hands it to the last girl to whom Skelgill is in the process of questioning.  She has a name badge, “Anna” – but he speaks fluently in the same language as before.

This girl, too, rises – apologising to her client – and bows to both men without making eye contact and walks steadily towards DS Leyton who blocks the exit.  He steps aside and holds open the door – she might give a faint nod but does not engage with him.  He watches through the glass.  Immediately outside is a pelican crossing where shoppers wait their turn – but she darts between moving vehicles and pushes into a small minimarket directly opposite.

‘How may I help – Police Inspector?’

DS Leyton turns at the man’s raised voice.  There is the suggestion that he has stressed Skelgill’s title for the benefit of his remaining staff.

But Skelgill is squinting towards the exit – he, too, has followed the girl’s progress.

The manager, meanwhile, is craning to get sight of the paper that Skelgill has at his side.

Skelgill senses the attention and turns and hands him the clipped sheet.

‘We’re trying to find this young woman.  Is she an employee of yours?’

The man stares at the photograph for no more than a second.  Emphatically he hands it back.

‘No.  I have never seen her.’

‘Could she have been a customer – recently?’

The man smiles, showing small, neat teeth with enlarged incisors; he might almost be wearing a false set of Halloween dentures.

‘You have asked the girls.’

His tone speaks of his confidence that they have not identified her.

Skelgill casts a glance towards the beaded curtain.

‘I’ve not asked all the girls.’

The man shakes his head, still smiling.

‘We only started them this morning.’  He sweeps a hand to indicate along the line of workstations.  ‘These are my regular girls – they would know.’

DS Leyton can see that Skelgill is vacillating but trying not to show it.  The manager’s perfunctory reaction to the photograph was as good as a reflex denial – and three of the girls have been blatantly dismissed from their presence.

But he suspects his superior will not risk burning bridges – and, sure enough, he begins to step away.

‘Reet – we’ll leave you to it.’  He jerks a thumb towards the curtain.  ‘Tell the lasses not to bother with the coffee.’

While the manager utters no verbal protest, he chaperones the two detectives to the door, making hand gestures that affect disappointment at their departure.

And now, as they exit, he remains with the door ajar, looking out – presumably for the return from her errand of his staff member, Anna.

The traffic is steady, and Skelgill and DS Leyton wait with fellow pedestrians; the Carnegie Library is on the other side of the high street.  As the lights change to red and the advisory tone indicates it is safe to cross, Skelgill recognises the girl from the nail bar as she steps off the opposite kerb.  She does not appear to have noticed them.

She is clasping several slippery purchases between the long, colourfully varnished nails of her childlike hands.  A moment before they meet midway a packet of twenty cigarettes escapes and skids across the damp tarmac towards Skelgill.  He deftly slides a left boot to block it with his instep, and bends – just as she stoops to one knee to pick it up.  They almost clash heads.

There is an urgent whisper.

Then the girl has the packet and rises and strides on as if nothing has happened, hastening as the beeping ends and the green figure begins to flash caution.

DS Leyton has heard, however.

‘Guv – what, the –?’

Skelgill lurches onwards.  He hisses between clenched teeth.

‘Shut it, Leyton – walk!  The caff.’

DS Leyton understands the tenor of the order well enough without needing to know his superior’s precise logic, and heads purposefully for Paupers’ Café, as if this has been their intended destination.

Once inside, Skelgill approaches the small window that overlooks their approach.  He knows that external reflection and internal gloom will make him invisible.  The manager of the nail bar has watched them, and continues to stare in their direction, as if to satisfy himself they have not just taken temporary cover.

Skelgill overhears DS Leyton at the counter, ordering flat whites and sausage rolls and is content not to interject.  Instead, he finds a table set back from the window but from where they can sufficiently observe the nail bar.

DS Leyton lays down their refreshments.

‘You didn’t fancy their style of coffee, Guv?’

Skelgill makes a choked exclamation.

‘Leyton – coffee – or whatever he told them – it was their codeword for scarper.  I heard the back door slam the second after they went through the curtain.’

DS Leyton raises his eyebrows over his drink, as he gingerly tests the temperature. Small wonder that Skelgill struck without waiting for permission.

‘What’s going on, Guv?’

Skelgill does not reply; instead he pulls out the picture from his jacket.  It is crumpled; he flattens it on the tabletop.

‘That lass – name badge, Anna – she recognised her.  And his nibs knew she would – that’s why he sent her packing.  That’s why he watched her like a hawk.’

DS Leyton widens his dark eyes, contrasting their clear whites.

‘What did she say?  I didn’t quite catch it.’

Skelgill stares at the image of the girl; he replays in his mind the urgent words.  They came fast and strongly accented, but perfectly clear.

“Maria.  Castle witches have her.”

He contorts his features as though the act of recall is troubling him.  Without looking at his colleague, he answers grimly.

‘She called her Maria.  If I heard right, she said she’s gone into hiding.’

DS Leyton exhales.

‘Phew.  Where, Guv?’

‘She mentioned the castle.’

‘The castle?’

Skelgill shakes his head slowly.

‘I can’t see it.  It’s a ruin.  There’s a couple of dungeons intact.  You might play hide-and-seek there – but that would be your lot.’

DS Leyton rakes the fingers of both hands vigorously through his thick hair, as if the action might dislodge a useful thought.

‘Does it have extensive grounds?’

Skelgill does not immediately reply.  He is thinking he will need to refresh his memory.  His last visit was a school history field trip and all he can recall is getting into a fight over a lass and being reprimanded by one of the teachers for scaling the wall of the keep.

He stirs.

‘Aye – aye, I reckon it does.  Some woodland.  But I can think of better places to kip rough, this time of year.’

DS Leyton sits back and folds his arms.  He sighs dutifully.

‘Could she have been making it up?’

Skelgill grimaces.  There was nothing made up about the incident.  To his mind it was skilfully contrived – they could have been two spies passing a message.  At the critical moment, she was bent over, head bowed so that she could not be seen to speak.  She made no eye contact and gave no sign that the exchange took place.  She hid what she did from her supervisor.

But he does not contest his sergeant’s reasonable doubt.

He tucks into his sausage roll – and makes an alternative face of disgruntlement.  The baking is not a patch on a Haighs.  He sighs wistfully.  He could do with an excuse to get over west, to Workington or Whitehaven.

While his boss ruminates, exploding crumbs of flaky pastry, DS Leyton outlines a more general perspective.  He inclines his head towards the window.

‘Thing is, Guv – I get it – if you go into a Chinese or Thai or Indian restaurant, you like to see that the staff are of the same ethnicity – it makes you think you’ll get authentic grub.  Not chicken-fried-rice cooked up by some hairy-armed ex-mechanic from Manchester.  But a nail bar – why does that need a bunch of Vietnamese girls?  Since when did they corner the market?’

Skelgill washes down his cloying mouthful with coffee.

‘You know as well as I do, Leyton.’

DS Leyton retracts his head such that his jowls ruck around the too-tight collar of his white shirt.

They each stare out at the garishly decorated shopfront, across its fascia the name ARDAS NAILS emblazoned in the obligatory fluorescent pink, and the lower part of the main window covered by an equally kitschy decal advertising treatments, with accompanying close-up photographs of extravagantly engineered and painted false nails.

On the face of it, the shop must seem alien to the indigenous citizens of the landlocked northern town.  And in its strident appearance it strikes a discordant note along the ancient high street.  Yet most provincial thoroughfares now count one such outlet among their retail portfolio, together with other incomprehensible offerings such as tanning salons, tattoo parlours and vaping shops.

Both officers have stepped back from further speculation, perhaps sensing each other’s reluctance to make unfounded assertions, to deduce from the general about the specific.  But DS Leyton now draws the creased photograph closer and examines the girl whom “Anna” has identified as “Maria”.

It is a poor reproduction, a computer printout of a still from video footage.  It is reasonably close up and shows the girl with long, dark hair and Asian features and complexion.  She has full lips and desirable almond eyes that look almost black.  There is a sense of desolation in her checked expression.

‘What made you cut round it, Guv?’

‘Look at the scrap.’

Skelgill rather snaps at his colleague; but DS Leyton is used to irascibility as the cost of being deemed slow on the uptake.  He produces the missing section from his jacket pocket and straightens it out.  He sees immediately.

‘Ah – I get you, Guv.  That’s why you didn’t want to bin it – in case someone –’

‘Leyton, if it’s obvious to me it’s the foyer of a copshop –’

DS Leyton nods obediently; sketchily briefed, he is feeling his way.

‘Remind me, Guv – the back story?’

Skelgill is now scowling at his half-eaten sausage roll and indeed consigns it to his plate in a manner that suggests he is done with it.

‘She turned up at Kendal police station – wanted to see a WPC.  All she would say is, “I am in danger.”’

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and indicates the cut-off section of the page.  In the background there is a police information board and a wall clock.

‘Prowled about like a cat on a hot tin roof.  Kept checking the time.  Before the WPC could be found – she legged it.  The desk officer remembers her fancy nails – same as his girlfriend’s.’

DS Leyton nods reflectively.

‘So, you were right, Guv.’

‘Come again?’

‘You said – we could walk right into a new case this week.’

Skelgill grimaces.

‘More like the Chief had second thoughts about us swinging the lead.  The Kendal cops could be doing this.’

DS Leyton gazes out across the busy thoroughfare.

‘Still – at least it ain’t a murder.’

He looks back at Skelgill in time to see him widen his eyes, like a captive bird of prey that has just had its leather hood removed and its first instinct is to assess threat and opportunity.

‘What about that Anna girl – do you reckon she’ll be okay?’

Skelgill casts a hand at the photograph.

‘We need to get the local plod to tout this around.  Cafés.  Bars.  Hotels.  There’s half a hundred places she might have worked – serving, cleaning, washing up.’

DS Leyton nods and is about to reply when, almost simultaneously, their mobile phones bleep.  Skelgill does not react.  DS Leyton pulls out his handset from his jacket.

‘Wise Council WhatsApp group.’  He grins amiably at his boss.  ‘That’s Emma – they’ve arrived – she’s asking who wants bacon rolls brought into the meeting.’

9. COUNCIL II

Carnegie Library, Kendal – 10.15 a.m.

‘AH, INSPECTOR, SERGEANT – perfect timing.  Hot drinks are en route from the staff kitchen.’

Jen of Turnpike Media rises and smiles broadly at the final two arrivals; DS Leyton reciprocates and apologises for their lateness, but it is immediately apparent that Skelgill is irked by a minor change to the seating arrangement.  DS Jones is beside her travelling companion, Kendall Minto.

There is a small irony, in that Skelgill would surely baulk at the curious habit which sees communal seating become set in stone for no good reason (such as that which finds cruise passengers reluctantly spending an entire voyage of dinners in identical company, unable to break free of the first night’s settlement).

Professor Jim Hartley, however, is oblivious of any such nuances and pleased as ever to see his protégé.

‘The call of duty, we hear – according to young Emma, here.’

Skelgill glances sharply at DS Jones – but she gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head, just a tremor that ripples through her shoulder-length bronzed blonde hair, and he knows she will have said no more than that.

‘Aye, we got sidetracked, you might say.’

He takes his seat and tries unobtrusively to brush flaky crumbs from the front of his jacket.

Jen inhales sufficiently to signal that she will speak.

‘Wise Council, we reconvene – I should perhaps recap.  Firstly, thank you for your responses to the proposed agenda.  I trust you all received the final version, before you.  As you can see, I settled on The Life and Times of 1852.’

The professor clears his throat.

‘Of course, you realise that Dickens published Bleak House in 1852 – now there’s a peg in the ground.’

He looks about the table.  DS Jones, graduate of English Literature, nods earnestly.  Skelgill and DS Leyton, graduates of fell and backstreet respectively, not so much.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham waves a dismissive hand.

‘He might better have titled it A Pox on the Legal Profession.  An advert for eschewing the courts, if ever there were one.  Let us hope that Mr Jarndyce’s east wind shall not blow in our case.’

Jim Hartley rises to the challenge.

‘Glass half full, Alice – we must visualise our success – Great Expectations – pip-pip!’

Jen is plainly keen to keep the meeting on track and interjects before it can drift further.

She turns pointedly to Skelgill.

‘Inspector, we have you first on the agenda – but I wonder if you are able to clarify your availability this morning.  I fully appreciate that we must make the very best of your precious resources.’

Like a man beneath a bivvy by a lake, Skelgill has been making inroads into his bacon roll, content for the literary chit-chat to fly about over his head.  Now he lowers the sandwich portentously.

‘There’s good news and bad –’

He ceases speaking.  There is a knock upon the door and a middle-aged man leans in to hold it against its mechanical closer so that a younger woman bearing a tray two-handed may enter.

Skelgill’s motto is never to compete with the tea lady.

The man, distinctly bald with an official ID lanyard round the collar of his tieless shirt, peers about through thick-rimmed spectacles – but seems to realise he should withdraw and does so.

The woman is of an age that is hard to determine, certainly younger than her tweed suit might befit, an impression fortified by neatly trimmed schoolgirl bangs.

Jim Hartley jumps to his feet.

‘Geraldine!’

He rounds the table to relieve the woman of her burden.  The tray is laden with eight branded Carnegie Library mugs, plus the means for refills of tea and coffee, along with milk and sugar.

The professor explains his reaction.

‘It’s thanks to Geraldine’s good offices that we have the use of these wonderful facilities.  Geraldine is the Head Archivist of whom I spoke – Dr Geraldine Gibson, author of Kendal Folk and Folklore – there’s nobody knows more about the records here than her – and none that ever will.’

She protests the professor’s lauding.

‘Jim – I think they just like the way I mash tea.’  She holds up two mugs illustratively.  ‘However, I do know a little bit about your local history project – so please feel free to find me in person if there’s something you want.  While we have a good deal of information here at the library, many of the older records are stored at the Town Hall – it’s just down on the corner of Lowther Street – but sometimes it can take a day or two to get an original document sent up.’

The over-qualified servers work their way around the table.  Skelgill is the last to receive his drink.  He leans aside as Dr Gibson places a mug before him, and now he notices that DS Jones is staring intently at the woman.

His colleague senses his gaze – and her eyes fall briefly upon his – though she gives no clue in her expression as to the cause of her interest.

Dr Gibson makes her apologies and departs.

Skelgill returns to his unfinished pronouncement.

‘We’ve been detailed to look into a missing person –’

He notices Kendall Minto’s ears prick up, despite that the young reporter tries to act cool.

‘Naturally, I can’t say anything about the official investigation – but it’s centred here in Kendal.  So, with a fair wind, we’ll be able to double up on shoe leather.’

Jen claps her hands together,

‘Oh, excellent – that sounds ideal.’

There is a questioning note in her exclamation, but Skelgill is distracted.

He cranes about – the door is not fully fastened – and has perhaps been moved by an internal draught.  Holding his half-eaten roll, he stalks across the carpeted floor – but rather than push the door to, he jerks it open just enough to poke out his head.  He remains stationary for a moment or two, before returning.

He offers no explanation, and merely grins to account for such eccentricity, and stirs more sugar into his tea.  A silence develops.  Eventually he reaches for the agenda and squints as though it is the first he has seen of it.

DS Jones taps her biro decisively on the table.

Eyes shift to her, though she addresses Skelgill directly.

‘Guv, in view of the incident this morning, I didn’t get chance to type up the report you dictated.’

She looks unblinkingly at Skelgill, challenging him not to say he has no idea what she is talking about.  A keen ear might have detected a special emphasis upon the last few words of her sentence.

Skelgill needs no encouragement to pass the baton.  He glances at Alice Wright-Fotheringham to see she is regarding him with just the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

DS Jones raises her reporter’s pad.

‘If you don’t object, I’ll paraphrase from my notes – there’s no point making a copy as they’re in Pitman shorthand.’

‘Such hidden talents!’

It is the professor who interjects, and there are murmurs of admiration – though Kendall Minto, an exponent himself, is clearly eager to get a look – and is patently disappointed when DS Jones begins to recite from memory.

‘We spent time getting our bearings.  Blind Beck crosses beneath the high street, where Kirkland becomes Highgate.  It runs for perhaps a quarter of a mile in a straight stone-lined channel that separates a recreation ground from a public car park and the parking for the gallery, whereupon it has its outfall into the River Kent.  In dry weather it’s little more than a trickle, but it can rise very quickly.  But perhaps the most striking aspect is that Blind Beck passes within a few yards of Abbot Hall.  Literally a few yards.’

In taking a breath, DS Jones perhaps unintentionally creates a dramatic hiatus.

‘So-oo …’  It is Jim Hartley who lows speculatively, causing eyes to turn upon him in anticipation.  ‘Flora Mary Graham did not have far to go – to carry the child?  She would be away for just a minute or two.  It seems a surprise that she was apprehended in the act.  Especially at midnight in the teeth of a gale.’

DS Jones glances at Skelgill; he is chewing ruminatively, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular but the bright windows and an amorphous sky beyond; plainly he is leaving it to her to deal with premature conjecture.  How should she slap down the well-meaning retired academic, so many decades and grades her senior?

In a quick movement she rests her elbows on the table and intertwines her fingers and leans forwards, bracing her chin as she turns to the professor.

‘We think it could be a very significant fact.’

The elderly man smiles benignly; perhaps he detects something of her wish not to digress, for he merely nods.

Kendall Minto shifts in his seat; he begins to raise a hand.  In his case, DS Jones suffers no qualms and shoots him a silencing glare.  She sits upright and addresses the group.

‘We were also struck by the indelible legacy left by the Seventh Earl of Fellside, beginning with his portrait hung at Abbot Hall – his former home.  Then there’s the private Fellside chapel in the church, where his remains are interred.  He made a substantial endowment to the poor, built Fellside Workhouse on Allhallows Lane, funded the Fellside paupers’ hospital and almshouses on Highgate, and employed hundreds of local people in the wool trade, at Fellside Mill beside the River Kent.’

Now she does pause intentionally, to allow her listeners to absorb the extent of the detail.

Again, the professor is first to respond.

‘And he died preserving a life.  A philanthropist to the last.  Small wonder it’s his statue that stands in the market square, when there’s thirteen earls to choose from.’

Kendall Minto splutters on a mouthful of coffee.

Eyes turn to him for an explanation.

He holds up his hands in apology.

‘Honestly – I should stay stick to a round dozen.  I doubt the present earl would be in the running.  His is the reputation of being something of a playboy.’

DS Jones waits to see if there is any reaction, but there is none, and she has meanwhile extracted a clear wallet file from her shoulder bag and is poised to distribute its contents.

‘These are enlargements of some of the photographs we took – including of Blind Beck, Abbot Hall, and various features from inside the church.’

She begins to pass them one at a time to Kendall Minto, who hands them on to the professor, and so forth in turn.  Each shot is captioned, and there is no need for her to provide a commentary.  She makes a general observation, however.

‘In most respects, the district of Kirkland is unchanged since the mid-1800s – perhaps the addition of a car park where there were once more extensive grounds to Abbot Hall – but that is all.’

‘This contraption looks like a medieval torture device.’

It is Kendall Minto’s quip; he refers to the log trap just before the mouth of Blind Beck.

The professor is scrutinising an image of the Fellside paupers’ hospital.

‘The welfare state has come a good distance since the nineteenth century.  We don’t know how lucky we are, being able to walk into an NHS hospital and not a penny to pay.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham is next to remark, and she does so with some force.

‘“UT OPERARETUR ET CUSTODIRET”’

She holds a page two-handed, at arms’ length – as though it offends her sensitivities.

She turns it for the group to see.  The image is of a stained-glass window.

DS Jones explains.

‘It’s from the Fellside family chapel, in the church, just beside the apse.’

The retired judge has a wild look in her eye.  She shakes her head.

‘My dear, it is from Genesis, chapter two, verse fifteen.’

The professor chuckles, and he pats his old friend fondly on the forearm.

‘Just as well we have a lawyer in our midst – else we’d never get past first base with Latin, would we?’

But Alice Wright-Fotheringham merely glowers, as though he is missing the point.

Helpfully, DS Leyton pipes up.

‘So, what does it mean?’

She bestows a smile upon the sergeant, grateful for his question – and the recognition of her find’s salience.

‘In the Bible, it is a reference to man’s duty to God’s gift of the Garden of Eden.  It means “to work and keep”’.

She lowers the photograph and reaches to peruse her copy of the agenda.  She nods introspectively and then looks up at Jen.

‘Young lady, I have something to add in this regard – but I see I am listed at point three, so I shall not speak out of turn.  Besides, I sense my colleague at my side is champing at the bit.’

10. THE PROFESSOR’S TALE

Carnegie Library, Kendal – 10.45 a.m.

‘OHO! – THE RING O’ BELLS.  It has quite a reputation.  They say the say the Green Lady stalks the homeward-bounder, worse for wear, taking a shortcut through the churchyard.’

Professor Jim Hartley is looking at a photograph of the inn.  He digs the fingers of both hands into his thick white shock, lifting as if he is mimicking the phenomenon of his hair standing on end.

His flanks thus unguarded, he receives the jab of an elbow from Alice Wright-Fotheringham.

‘Go on with you, Jim.  I think you will find the operative words are worse for wear.’

There is a murmur of amusement, and DS Leyton pipes up.

‘Sounds like the sort of scary bedtime story my nippers would like.  The Green Lady?’

The professor takes the inquiry seriously.

‘Actually, that is a question for Dr Gibson.  If I recall correctly, in her book she has a chapter entitled Spooks and Spectres – most entertaining, honestly.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham is shaking her head, but the professor is undaunted.

‘And, let me tell you, a fascinating section on the Kendal Witches – magic or not, there is no disputing that they existed.  They were tried in 1612 – put to the swimming test in the Kent, just above the weir.  To this day the famous salmon beat is called the Witches’ Pool.’

The professor turns to Skelgill, who is staring at him – seemingly with such alarm that the elder man feels compelled to elaborate.

‘You knew that of course, Daniel?  The Witches’ Pool frequently wins a mention in Trout & Salmon.’

Skelgill starts, and looks about, blinking.

‘Aye – aye.  I mind that, aye.’

DS Leyton is more interested in the horrible history.

‘And what became of them – after the swimming test?’

Jim Hartley raises an index finger.

‘A very good question, Sergeant Leyton – and indeed one that bears a link to our story.’

He bows to Alice Wright-Fotheringham; plainly, there is friendly competition afoot between the two experts.

‘The Kendal witchfinder was a local magistrate by the name of Starbuck.  His victims were burnt at the stake amidst the ruins of the castle.  It had been confiscated by the Crown in 1566 and had fallen into disrepair.  As an aside, you should know that in 1597 the future King James I had published his own treatise on the matter, entitled Daemonologie.  Such was His Majesty’s pleasure that the notorious coven, the Kendal Witches, were destroyed that Starbuck was granted the surrounding lands and title – and thus became none other than … the First Earl of Fellside!’

The professor makes an expansive gesture, a flourish with both hands that suggests the conjuring of an invisible rabbit from an equally invisible hat.  From frivolous rambling to a killer fact.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham utters a grudging if respectful rejoinder.

‘Touché.’

The professor chuckles.

‘And that, Alice, was not even in my script!’

He does not, however, dwell upon his success and instead carefully opens a time-served leather-bound notebook.

Jen, meanwhile, is looking pleased – she glances inquiringly at the earphoned Mel who gives a thumbs up.  She has it in the can.  Drama.  Intrigue.  Colour.

‘Are we sitting comfortably?’  The professor resumes.  He has put on reading glasses, and now looks about earnestly, as though he intends there to be a change of tone.  ‘At the very heart of our tale is a maidservant, Flora Mary Graham, a poor deaf-mute who became embroiled in events that would go down in history.’

He pauses for effect; his audience may detect a sense of pathos in his choice of words, when accusation could be expected.

‘Until we learn – if indeed we shall –’ (he glances quickly about) ‘more of her particular circumstances, it is important to understand the social context in which she existed.  We do not yet know Flora’s exact provenance, but Cumbria in the mid-1800s was a cruel, cold place for all but a small and wealthy minority.  If I were to identify three pervasive themes that describe these times they would be grinding poverty, chronic drunkenness and savage exploitation.  Literally savage.  The archaic Poor Law of 1834 was draconian, so deliberately harsh that few sought refuge under its aegis – the workhouse was the very last resort.  Young girls were forced from their families into domestic service at an age that today we would consider intolerable – often far from home, often in isolated hamlets or farmsteads.  As such, they were vulnerable, at the mercy of their fellow servants – if not their masters.  A statistic: in 1852 illegitimate births in Cumbria were twice the national average – at ten percent of all births registered.  And I stress the word registered.’

He breaks off to take a small sip of tea from his mug.

‘When we hear of Flora, we are shocked – we judge by today’s standards.  We ask ourselves, surely hers was a one-off tragedy?’

He looks about to see silent, serious faces.  DS Jones has one hand over her mouth.

‘And how wrong we would be, my dears.  The annals brim with such calamities – the pathetic young girl sent to trial when a tiny, swaddled infant’s corpse is discovered hidden in a barn roof or beneath a hedge.’

‘Why – Professor?’

It is DS Leyton who poses the question that is perhaps on most lips.

The historian gives a forlorn shake of his head.

‘What use is a servant girl with a child?  A distraction from work.  Another mouth to feed.  Only dismissal and ignominy could ensue.  The poor lass would know this – and be left with little choice.’

Now he looks about, momentary conflict in his pale blue eyes.  His gaze comes to rest on Alice Wright-Fotheringham.

‘I bow to the superior knowledge of my partner in crime – but what I have gleaned is that, in many cases, there is a mere sliver of a silver lining.’

The retired judge frowns and leans back a little and crosses her tanned, veined hands upon the table.

‘Jim, it was not until the Infanticide Act of 1922 that the killing of a child during its early months by its mother was treated as a lesser crime than murder.’

The professor nods.

‘Quite, quite.  For Flora to be found guilty of infanticide – thus of murder – would attract to herself a sentence of death.’

The room is silent.  Even the ebb and flow of traffic noise from the high street seems stilled.  Jim Hartley raises his eyes to the sky beyond the windows, as if to glimpse the elusive silver lining.

‘However, a wretched girl who gave birth alone, hardly more than a child herself – just imagine – she may protest that the child was stillborn.  To hide the corpse might be an understandable act in a state of mind of distress, panic and ignorance.

‘And, so – the mitigation.  Paradoxical at first sight, and ironic, too – but less so on reflection.  Twelve good men and true.  Twelve men.  Men, I say.  Juries were drawn from the very echelon of employers and masters of such maidservants.  I say there was a social context.  What about a social conscience?  Well, perhaps there was.’

He returns his gaze to those in the room; his skill as a lecturer has not deserted him, and his latter-day students are agog.  He produces his second revelation of the morning.

‘And thus – in most cases – the girl would be acquitted of murder – and declared guilty of the lesser charge of concealment of a birth.’

Breaths held back are collectively exhaled; a visible wave of relief, of tension released from hunched shoulders and clenched fists ripples around the table.

But now the professor comes back with sudden force.  He slaps a hand down on the oak surface.  His voice, always a little throaty, seems to rise by an octave.

‘But – double jeopardy!’

He extends his arms, palms upward, his long, thin fingers suggesting there is a vision before their very eyes – stark and striking – a reality that they have overlooked.

‘Flora, of course – could offer no such defence.  Not least that her disability prevented her making her case – but remember, the charge was not concealment, nor even infanticide – but the murder of the Seventh Lord Fellside.’

11. THE JUDGE’S TALE

Carnegie Library, Kendal – 11.00 a.m.

‘PARTNER IN CRIME, indeed.  Very droll, Professor Hartley.  Though I should point out that we have indeed conspired.  Since the law and history intermingle, we have split our task by topic rather than discipline, in order not to tread on one another’s toes.  Unlike at the last DAA annual dinner.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham flashes a roguish smile, a reminder that allure cannot be defeated by age.

The professor emits a strangled protest.

‘Some wag did suggest that I had invented a new dance – the Dashing White Elephant, I believe he called it.’  He turns to Skelgill.  ‘In fact, wasn’t that you, Daniel?’

‘I think I was keeping Alice’s place warm, at the time, Jim – practising at the bar.’

Skelgill’s quick denial raises a laugh, but Alice Wright-Fotheringham opts to bring the diversion back on track.

‘Through my connections, I have requested records from the National Archives – for the case of Victoria Regina vs Flora Mary Graham.  The assizes took place every six months, when judges from the higher courts in London visited Carlisle to preside over serious criminal cases.  Assize, as I am sure you know, is simply a word of Old French origin that means sitting.’

She looks about.

‘From the thirteenth century the assizes dealt with cases of homicide, of thefts of over a shilling value – and hence a capital offence – aye, a hanging matter – of highway robbery, of rape, assault, coining, and of forgery and witchcraft.’

‘More witches.’

It is DS Leyton’s interjection.

‘Yes, Sergeant, indeed – although the Witchcraft Act of 1735 ended witch hunts and replaced hanging with a maximum one-year sentence on offenders who claimed to be able to use magical powers.  Of course, no such statute exists today – would-be witches may chant and spell to their heart’s content.  Laws of consumer fraud are more likely to apply.’

She glances inquiringly about the table, but there are no questions.

‘So, we must wait for the court reports before I can give you my opinion on the trial of Flora Mary Graham.  In the interim, therefore, I have focused upon the legal framework of the time.  As we know, Flora Mary Graham was sentenced to transportation with her child to Van Diemen’s Land, the island we now call Tasmania.

‘Let Dickens once more be our guide.  We all remember Magwitch, the mud-caked convict who terrorised poor Pip on the bleak Kent marshes.  Exile in lieu of the gallows was a peculiarly British punishment.  To say Flora Mary Graham was spared is questionable.  One might say she was lucky – for transportation ended with the Penal Servitude Act one year later.  Whether she understood the horrors that lay ahead and considered it the better alternative, who knows.

‘Many condemned to transportation never survived the four-month-long passage.  Men were kept in leg irons below deck in conditions that were cramped, insanitary, airless and rife with diseases such as dysentery and smallpox.  Women and children fared little better – though they were held in separate quarters, and sometimes above deck, they were vulnerable to sexual abuse by the crew.

‘Survival led to penal servitude.  And be in no doubt – not only were the vessels of conveyance akin to the abominable Guineamen – this was slavery by another name.’

The listeners are stilled; the former judge might have donned the black cap of death.  For her part, however, Alice Wright-Fotheringham looks a little alarmed that her pronouncement has so shaken such a worldly audience.

She reaches down to her side and lifts upon the table a round cake tin with a 1970s flower motif that catches Skelgill’s eye.  It last made an appearance aboard his boat, on Bassenthwaite Lake.  He is first to lean forwards for a better view as she removes the lid.

‘Here in Cumbria, we celebrate our unique culinary heritage.  Rum butter.  Cumberland sausage.  Kendal mint cake.  Rum nickies.  And, not least, gingerbread.’

She gives the tin an illustrative shake.

‘But from where did the rum and molasses and sugar and spices come?  Nutmeg, pepper, cloves, cinnamon.  Without these ingredients, our so-called “local” delicacies could not have been conceived.  The answer is that for several hundred years the ports of Workington, Whitehaven and Maryport received exotic goods from the American Colonies and the West Indies.  It was the sanitised expression of the contemptible Triangular Trade.  A trade that turned a blind eye to the Middle Passage that dealt in human cargo.  A trade that produced such great profits that few wealthy families failed to invest.’

She replaces the lid on the tin.

When a snack break might just have been in the offing, it seems instead to be an act of symbolism.

There are no objections; even Skelgill is inscrutable.

‘It was not until the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 that the despicable practice was ended in the British Overseas Territories.  Then came the Slave Compensation Act of 1837, which sought to repay some forty thousand slave owners for their loss.  Forty thousand – half of whom resided in the United Kingdom.  These included ministers of the clergy, aristocrats, members of parliament, bankers and –’ (she glances at Professor Jim Hartley) ‘yes – scholars and members of the judiciary.  Even the man-in-the-street might have his modest savings invested in a slave or two on a far-flung plantation.  Your respectable next-door neighbour, the absentee landlord.

‘And one such absentee landlord … was the Seventh Earl of Fellside.’

She bends a little over her notes.

‘I quote verbatim from the records of the Slave Compensation Commission.  “Lord Edward William Fellside, Seventh Earl of the same.  Compensation in the sum of £18,456 15s 3d for the emancipation of nine hundred and fifty-nine enslaved people from the Fellside plantation in St Philip-in-the-West, Jamaica.”  We are talking roughly two-and-a-half million sterling in today’s terms … or just under three thousand pounds per person freed.’

She looks up to a circle of silent faces.  When she has spoken as a judge, now it is the advocate that draws together the strands of her case.

‘So, we have a situation, around the time of Flora Mary Graham’s birth, when a source of great profit was removed.  The slave trade was ended.  But not by moral rectitude, or out of guilt or compassion.  It was achieved by means of a compensatory financial transaction.  A bribe.  It is reasonable to deduce, therefore, that while practices changed, attitudes had yet to follow.

‘Accordingly, the capitalists turned their attention to domestic affairs as Britain’s great Industrial Revolution picked up pace.  As Lawrence records in Lady Chatterley, there took place a great shift from the farm to the factory.  Whence evolved what one might describe as an economy based upon urban serfdom.’

She turns to DS Jones.

‘And, as you pointed out, Sergeant Jones – the Fellside shadow was cast long over Kendal and its poor inhabitants – the almshouses and hospital, the workhouse, and the woollen mill.  I wonder, now – was the Seventh Earl of Fellside a benefactor and a philanthropist?  Or an astute manipulator of the vulnerable and desperate?’

She closes her file and presses a palm upon it.  No one who ever witnessed her run her court would have accused her of being an indecisive judge.  She glances about, taking in each member of the Wise Council in turn.

‘It casts a somewhat different slant upon the family motto, don’t you think?  UT OPERARETUR ET CUSTODIRET.  To work and keep.  You might say it is a worthy axiom, innocuous even – but that is to underplay the social context of the era.  A pervasive belief in the natural order, of mankind over beast … and … of man over fellow man.’

And now she re-opens the tin.

12. THE NEWSMAN’S TALE

Carnegie Library, Kendal –11.25 a.m.

‘YOUR USUAL HIGH standard of work, Alice.’  When a listener entering the room might misconstrue Jim Hartley’s meaning, the professor raises a half-eaten square of biscuit to illustrate his point.  ‘Hard to tell apart from the real McCoy.’

Nods and appreciative murmurs pass round the table, although the home baker demurs.

‘I should say mine is rather deeper and softer.  Perhaps less moreish, but a little more suitable for dunking.’

Several sets of eyes fall simultaneously upon Skelgill, who is putting this principle into practice; he pretends to be reading the notes that Alice Wright-Fotheringham has distributed at the completion of her discourse, but it is a transparent smokescreen.

By common consensus a refill of hot drinks has been deemed in order – the tales of the last two speakers, the academic and the lawyer, have been progressively harrowing – and a sugar boost from the latter’s homemade gingerbread makes the combination a welcome reviver.

Kendall Minto, however, is straining at the leash.  He drains his coffee and dots down his mug.

‘I’m done – shall I begin?  I’m sure we all have things to do.’

He glances at Jen, who spies no objections and indicates with an open palm that he has the floor.

He flicks back his hair in a manner that emphasises his boyish good looks – and yet emits a battle-weary sigh that is decidedly out of keeping with his twenty-six years.

‘As I feared, our records at the Gazette are entirely analogue, and for much of the period in question copies of the original printed newspaper.’

He has on his lap a soft leather attaché case and he extracts a sheaf of papers which he spreads before him.  He selects two photocopies of old-fashioned newsprint.

‘Now, I did locate a couple of articles on the trial – and I am quite happy to submit these for expert vetting.’

He offers them to Alice Wright-Fotheringham – but she merely plies him with a reproachful stare, of the order of a schoolmistress dealing with a wayward but pitied pupil.

‘Young man – rather like a book, why should I read a review today when I can read the original tomorrow?’

He quickly retracts the papers.

‘Quite – quite – you wouldn’t want to be influenced by a tainted opinion.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham frowns.  It is apparent that the last thing to influence her would be a tainted opinion.  But she is magnanimous.

‘Kendall, I shall come around to your diligent work in good time, thank you.’

A little chastened, he moves on with caution.

‘Rather as Emma has highlighted, one cannot peruse the news pages of the Gazette of the late 1840s and early 1850s without constantly encountering the name of Lord Fellside.’

He glances about but avoids Skelgill’s steely glare.

‘And, I have to say, the Seventh Earl received a remarkably good press.  I rather suspect he was on back-slapping terms with our then-proprietor.  The local circle of the great and the good, the chamber of commerce, would have been closely knit.  And these were turbulent times for industrial relations.  There had been the Luddites and their beef with automated machinery – and the Tolpuddle Martyrs who fought against starvation wages.  Draconian labour laws and severe punishments put an end to workers’ uprisings.  But not before Fellside Mill had experienced its own insurgency.’

He shuffles his findings and hesitates over a new page.

‘Trendy waterfront apartments today, the old mill is of course set beside the River Kent.  Its looms and spinning jennies were driven by water wheels.  But steam power was introduced in the late 1840s – and it was perceived that livelihoods were threatened.

‘Lord Fellside’s spinning-and-weaving sheds and connected sites employed over a thousand people – at a time when the Kendal population was a mere twelve thousand souls.  Fellside Mill accounted for something like every fifth job in the town.’

He takes a breath, sensing the growing interest of his audience.

‘And so, the Gazette of December 1848 reports arson.  A steam engine was destroyed.  Two deaths occurred – and though it seems the workers had fought the blaze, an entire shift of one hundred men was subsequently dismissed.  And while the official line – echoed by the editorial – was that this was an act of sabotage, of self-harm, I found an annotation that implied the fire was a put-up job, a ruse to sack workers and re-employ only half of them at reduced rates.’

Kendall Minto glances at Alice Wright-Fotheringham.

‘Ma’am, you alluded to the underlying meaning of the Fellside family motto.  They might have been a great provider of employment – but they sure had a stranglehold on the local community.  They owned thousands of acres of land.  They owned the sheep that supplied the raw material to their mills, and the plants that produced the dyes.  They owned the stretches of river that provided the power.  You might even say they owned the workforce – and sold them their coarse clothes made from Kendal green cloth.’

‘Aha!’

It is the professor who cannot contain himself.

‘But also proudly sported by Kendalian archers at the Battle of Agincourt!  And Shakespeare had Falstaff speak of the illustrious garb.’  He raises a hand theatrically before his face.  ‘“But as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me …”’

‘“… for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.”’

Startled faces turn upon DS Jones.

The professor chortles and breaks into a one-man round of applause.

‘Excellent, my dear – I recall there is more to your talents than merely copping miscreants!’

DS Jones smiles briefly but lowers her gaze; she has blurted out the words as if by rote, like a child will finish a nursery rhyme.  Her high cheekbones colour.

‘Oh – it was just the play we did for GCSE.  Henry VI, Part I.  You had to learn quotes off by heart.’

‘Ah, Prince Hal’s magnificent soliloquy.’

The professor looks ready to wax lyrical – and that he finds pleasure in this literary diversion leaves the group waiting respectfully for him to continue – but when no more verse is forthcoming there is an opportunity for Jen to restore their course.

She turns inquiringly to Kendall Minto, who seems a little dejected that his flow has been interrupted.

‘Kendall, when we were chatting before the meeting – you mentioned a plan?’

The journalist brightens.

‘A cunning plan.’

His phrase raises some smiles.

‘Yes – you see – up until now, we have very little on Flora herself.  And – to cut to the chase – I think the best place to discover more about her is the private Fellside Estate library and family archive.  I imagine they have logs of staff employed, letters of recommendation and engagement, job descriptions, ledgers of wages and costs – perhaps even personal diaries and journals.  And, given that Fellside Estate owned the workhouse and the paupers’ hospital and almshouses, who knows what records might be kept.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham makes the faintest inhalation of breath – but it is sufficient to bring attention to her.  She displays one of the photocopied pages that is stapled to the agenda.

‘As I stated at our last meeting, all we have at present is Flora’s note.  We are not even one hundred percent sure it is hers.  Something in her hand that would stand up to forensic comparison would serve us well.’

‘That sounds like a champion idea.’

It is Jim Hartley who approves of the notion, his soft Cumbrian brogue coming to the fore.

Jen is nodding but frowning.  She airs her doubts.

‘But how will we gain access?  You’ll recall that Fellside Estate didn’t exactly respond with enthusiasm to our request for an interview.’

Kendall Minto leans forwards to rest his elbows on the table and press his neatly manicured fingers together in an attitude of prayer.

‘That’s as may be – but I have been thinking about this.  I mentioned previously the idea of favourable advertising rates.  But there is more.  The fact is, that the Fellside name is a little tarnished these days – and that, I believe, will be their Achilles heel.  With the full might of the Gazette behind us – the print edition, our website, our socials, and our nationwide affiliate links, plus the global reach of this podcast – we have up our sleeve an ace.  If in days of yore the Seventh Earl used his connections, why shouldn’t the Thirteenth Earl be susceptible to the temptation of positive spin?’

DS Leyton clears his throat.

‘So, what’s Lord Fellside done to get himself a black mark?’

Kendall Minto seems unprepared for the direct question.

‘Oh, well – let’s just say there are rumours that he is rather profligate with his inheritance.  You know – the wrong sort of company – financial indiscretions.’

DS Leyton pulls no punches.

‘What is it, gambling?  Wine, women, and song?’

Kendall Minto clasps his hands together and leans over his notes, avoiding eye contact.

‘Oh – I couldn’t say for sure.  I mean – yes – in that I believe he’s a regular at Cartmel races – and his Jaguar is a fixture outside that Michelin-starred restaurant in the town … but, after all, he is the incumbent of a great estate.’

The young reporter is plainly uncomfortable, finding himself interrogated.  He looks up and appeals entreatingly to the Chair.  His words come out in a disjointed rush.

‘Jen, I have secured a meeting – with the Crabstaff fellow – for one o’clock this afternoon.  He is old school – gentleman class.  So – I have taken the liberty of nominating … well, Emma to accompany me.  That her presence would be conducive to a fair hearing.’

DS Jones glances casually at her superior and then turns to Kendall Minto.

‘Did you mention my job title?’

His complexion has paled.

‘Er – ahem – not exactly.  I – er – just referred to you as a colleague – since that is what we all are, right?’

‘Fine.’

There is perhaps collective surprise at DS Jones’s decisive consent – followed by murmurs of approval.

Skelgill’s reaction is of a less benign nature.  He sits back and folds his arms, his brows furrowed.  A cunning plan, indeed.

13. FINDERS KEEPERS

Around Kendal –12.15 p.m.

‘WAS THAT A FISH, GUV?

‘Eh?’

‘I thought I saw something kind of bob up, like it was gasping for air.’

‘Leyton, fish don’t breathe air.’

‘Hmm.  Fair point, Guv.’

They are standing on the footbridge over the River Kent, close to the outfall of Blind Beck and within sight of Abbot Hall and Kendal Parish Church.  The river has settled since they paused here on Sunday.  The water is even and clear, and the steady flow would be hard to detect were it not for the occasional autumn leaf borne by the current.

Skelgill sniffs; it might be the cold air, or it might be that he is a tad peeved that he missed the sighting.  However, he relents to a degree.

‘Happen it were a rise – summat taking a caddis off the surface.’

‘Could it have been a salmon?’

Skelgill’s features contract.

‘In theory – but Atlantic salmon don’t feed once they re-enter fresh water.’

DS Leyton takes a moment while he ponders the conundrum.

‘How do you catch them, then?’

Skelgill gives a little ironic laugh.

‘Same way as we catch crooks, Leyton – appeal to their basic instincts.’

DS Leyton can think of plenty of instincts common to the criminal fraternity, though when it is left to him to speak again, he shifts the subject.

‘So this is what the Prof called the Witches’ Pool.’  When Skelgill does not answer he moves to provoke a response.  ‘It don’t actually look like a pool.’

‘It’s what you call any patch of slack water – in this case upstream of the weir, see.’

More silence ensues.  DS Leyton knows Skelgill will watch a river like most people peruse their phones – whether he is actually seeing content or just meditating, it is impossible to know.

‘Fancy them doing that swimming test here.  And how does that work?  If they float, they’re a witch!’

He scoffs to emphasise his disdain for the barbaric notion.

Skelgill continues to lean upon the rail and stare fixedly.

DS Leyton has been conscious of his superior’s introspection since they left the meeting.  Perhaps accordingly, he launches into a monologue.

‘I mean – it’s interesting stuff – it’ll make a fine podcast series, I’m sure – squalor, scurvy, slavery.  Folk are lapping it up, ain’t they?  You can’t turn on the telly without it being some celeb who’s tracing their ancestry, or one of these trendy professors digging up ancient ruins.  I suppose that’s the sort of thing we’re doing with Turnpike Media.’

No response.

‘I still reckon it’s a wild goose chase as far as we’re concerned, Guv.  Like I said before, I can’t see what we can do, crime-wise, I mean.  There’s plenty to know about history and the law – but that’s for the experts, ain’t it?’

Skelgill’s response is to produce from his jacket the only item he has retained from the meeting – a folded strip torn from the papers attached to the agenda.  It is the photocopy of Flora Mary Graham’s note.

Save there souls My Lord

as dround bairns an all

He glowers at its content – and slowly refolds and replaces it.

Then, abruptly, he pushes back off the railing and turns away.

‘Howay, Leyton – now you get to see your castle.’

‘Hah – I knew it couldn’t keep for long, Guv.’

That DS Leyton has recycled his joke merely has Skelgill giving a resigned shake of the head.  He leads the way briskly for a short distance beside the river before taking a left into Parr Street, a clue in its name that they must be headed in the right direction.  They cross a bridge over what seems to Skelgill an abandoned branch line of the railway – now a grassy thoroughfare bordered by allotments that have run to autumn seed – and begin to ascend past a terrace of some dozen houses on their left, a date stone on the first property, “Sunnyside 1892”.  Over the road to their right is an unfenced public park and ahead a rising landform obscured by trees, largely oaks that are still in leaf.

‘Hey – look at that, Guv.’

DS Leyton puts a hand on Skelgill’s arm; Skelgill has been scanning the park, though it is empty of visitors.  The terrace fronts onto the pavement; the immediate property has just a low wall and five steps up to its front door and more steps angled down into a compact area.  Since there is a basement the main bay window is lower than the norm, affording a full-length view into the sitting room.  The window is ornamented like an antique shop display – albeit these items must be the owner’s personal possessions variously positioned on the broad inner sill and upon stacked furniture.

Skelgill’s eye is drawn to a collection of stuffed native animals; he identifies otter, pine marten and wildcat, along with birds including raven and long-eared owl.  There are several candle holders and lanterns; and set before a Ouija board there is a horned ram’s skull. The window is partially steamed up – and Skelgill takes two of the steps to get a better look.

‘Nah, Guv – I meant this.’

DS Leyton stoops in front of what at first glance is the kind of plant incubator typically found in a greenhouse, a timber-and-Perspex cabinet about three feet in height with internal shelves for trays of seedlings.  It is squeezed in next to the gatepost.  A small sign, nailed on, states: “Little Library – Take a Book, Leave a Book.”

DS Leyton opens the front.  The books are arranged by genre.  ‘They’ve got horror, occult, crime and classics.  Ah – look at that – now, there’s a coincidence.’

He pulls free a well-worn paperback and groans as he straightens to his feet.

He displays its cover to Skelgill who has retreated from the steps.

‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.  Supposed to be a bit blue, ain’t it, Guv?’

Skelgill reacts with a scowl.

‘I reckon that’s a question for Jones.’

DS Leyton detects a note of chagrin in his superior’s tone.  He attempts mollification.

‘She knows her stuff, don’t she?  All those literary references were flying over my head like flippin’ bats in the belfry.  Dickens.  Shakespeare.  D.H. Lawrence.’  He flaps the book absently.  ‘You know, I used to tell a joke with the punchline D.H. Lawrence – it made people laugh, though I never really got it.  It was blue, an’ all.’

Skelgill does not seem to be paying attention.  He has crouched to remove a detective novel and is glaring at the cover image of a young woman submerged in water.  He might be about to speak when a Jack Russell terrier appears in the window and begins to bark.

Skelgill looks up just in time to see the wildcat rise and slink haughtily from sight.

Though there is no rational reason, the yapping of the dog prompts them to return their respective paperbacks and sends them on their way.

DS Leyton adds a rueful parting remark.

‘Pity they ain’t got any kids’ books – I’m running short of bedtime reading.  Preferably Halloween-themed.’

They proceed on up past the last house in the terrace and continue to ascend to a point where the road bends to the left, finding an easier contour.  Here they cross to wrought-iron gates behind which is a public information sign for Kendal Castle.

Skelgill enters first and being diligent with gates he waits for his colleague.  Facing back down the hill, he sees a woman with long dark hair in a red outdoor jacket emerge onto the pavement with a dog on a lead.  It resembles the terrier of the window display, and the house is at about the right distance.  She crosses and disappears from view into the park opposite.

DS Leyton, meanwhile, is examining the signboard – and indeed he takes a photograph of the stylised map.  It suggests extensive grounds bordered by a circle of woodland that adjoins the park and countryside more generally.  Beside the map is an illustrated image of the castle.

‘I thought you said it was a ruin, Guv?’

Skelgill turns and grimaces.

‘That’s just what it used to look like.  Artist’s impression.’

‘Must have been impressive.’

But Skelgill does not wait.  He strides away, following a rising track that is squelchy underfoot with the black mud of crushed leaf litter.  As the signboard indicates, the perimeter is wooded and a blackbird foraging in the undergrowth draws his eye as it hops away.

The path is a cart’s width; it might have been the original approach, first directly up the hillside and then meeting and curving around an immense earthwork, a steep-sided motte of some fifty feet, a small hill in its own right, part shorn grass, part untamed shrub, topped by ruins of great stone walls and towers.

They are brought to the entrance, what would have been a gatehouse, now just an opening into the inner bailey; it is a good size, like a small cricket oval with the walls substantially in place and the ruined keep to their left standing like a great doll’s house with its inner side torn open and its floors gone.

‘It’s better than I expected, Guv – I’m surprised they don’t make more of this as an attraction.  When you think Henry VIII’s missis must have run about in here as a young girl.’

Skelgill shakes his head.  It is true that they are the sole sightseers, but he considers there to be mitigating factors.

‘It’s a Tuesday in October, Leyton.  Folk are at work.  Kids are at school.  Nights are drawing in.’

They pass beneath the dark stones of the keep and follow the curtain wall in a clockwise direction to a watchtower that commands a view westward over Kendal.

As Skelgill has intimated, with autumn shifting into winter, dusk seems to begin once the sun has passed its modest zenith; now it lingers pallid behind a scalloped veil of fine cloud; in the still air hung with woodsmoke the grey slate rooftops of the town lie lake-like in the dale, Kendal Fell, tree-capped, rising behind.

Subdued by the atmospherics, they move on in unspoken agreement and reach a second tower, this one more imposing.  There is a low entrance; Skelgill ducks inside.  DS Leyton follows, switching on the torch of his phone.  A narrow passage of a good six feet leads into a windowless chamber, ten feet in diameter and seven in height.  The ground is uneven and muddy, and the damp rock walls and ceiling are reminiscent of a hewn cave.

‘Reckon this was a dungeon, Guv?’

Skelgill does not answer and decides there is nothing to see and plenty not to smell.  He leads them swiftly out.

‘Cor blimey.’  DS Leyton takes a gasp of fresh air.  ‘I see what you mean when you said it’s no place to kip rough.’

Skelgill is staring pensively at nothing DS Leyton can see.

‘Aye – but you still need to get the feel of a place.’

His answer might be deemed defensive, to justify the time they have spent – but DS Leyton knows Skelgill well enough to understand there is more going on beneath the surface, if not what it might be.

‘That girl, Anna – she didn’t say any more – about Maria being here?’

Skelgill starts and fleetingly there is a pained look in his grey-green irises as though his colleague has touched a raw nerve.

In lieu of a reply he moves away – DS Leyton cannot tell whether this is to avoid answering or to show him something, but he follows as Skelgill makes a diagonal across the grassy bailey.

Skelgill pulls up a couple of yards short of the midpoint – and now DS Leyton sees a bare patch of earth where a circle of twigs still bearing a few dried leaves and orange berries has been laid.  In the centre is a pool of pale wax where a candle has burnt down.

‘What’s that – kids messing about?’

‘That’s rowan, Leyton.’

‘I’m none the wiser, Guv.’

‘Rowan – quickbeam, wicken-tree.  The clue’s in the name.  You grow it by your door to keep the witches away.’

‘Hah-ha.’  But there is a nervous tremor in DS Leyton’s laugh.  He qualifies his reaction.  ‘Well – didn’t the Prof say this is where they burnt the Kendal Witches?  Maybe someone’s been doing a little re-enactment.’

Skelgill is not tempted to speculate, though he drops to one knee and picks out from the wax a tiny blue bead and allows it to roll into the palm of his hand, considering it for a moment before clenching his fist and rising.  Now he turns and looks northwards, out through the fallen castle gates where the ground drops away to reveal a distant mountain vista, Kentmere Pike and Harter Fell.

As DS Leyton follows his superior’s gaze, a dark-haired woman in a pale jacket who is walking a small dog crosses their line of sight; briefly she glances their way but does not break stride.  To his untrained eye the dog looks a little like the one from the window down the road – but another, more useful idea now strikes him.

‘We could ask dog walkers, Guv.’

‘Come again, Leyton?’

‘About the missing girl – Maria.  If she was up here – there’ll be regular dog walkers who might have noticed her.  She’d stand out – a young Asian woman.’

While Skelgill does not dismiss the suggestion neither does he react with any enthusiasm – and DS Leyton knows full well that, until they have some definitive lead – or, more powerfully, some genuine cause for concern – that to mobilise scarce police resources in a concerted missing-persons hunt is not a realistic prospect.

Skelgill checks his wristwatch.

DS Leyton, well accustomed to his superior’s capriciousness, employs a tried and trusted tactic to elicit some headway.

‘You thinking a bite, Guv?’

Skelgill responds with a wry grin – he is not entirely oblivious to his colleague’s state of being kept in the dark.

‘I’m thinking Whitehaven.’

‘Whitehaven?’

‘You can make a raid on Haighs –’  Skelgill’s reply stalls.  ‘I need a word with someone.’

Skelgill sets off, and in the wet grass and wearing smooth-soled slip-ons, DS Leyton slithers to catch up.

He knows not to be too direct.

‘A man about a dog?’

It is plain that Skelgill is choosing his words carefully.

‘Let’s just say an old family friend.  She knows folk who know folk.’

DS Leyton is confused.

‘Are we back onto Flora Mary Graham?’

Skelgill quickens his stride.

‘Not necessarily, Leyton.’

14. CRABSTAFF

Fellside Grange – 12.55 p.m.

‘READY?  Once more unto the breach, and all that!’

DS Jones frowns – but sympathetically so.  She is tempted to remind Kendall Minto that as a detective sergeant she is well accustomed to inserting herself into challenging situations, often with an uncooperative suspect coiled like a cobra; this feels decidedly tame by comparison.

Instead, she humours him.

‘Henry V.  Act Three, Scene One.’

‘Quite.  Was it?  You always were the straight-A’s student.  Besides – I knew you were underselling yourself with that GCSE nonsense.  I expect you gave Shakespeare a run for his money all the way to your graduation.’

DS Jones gives a casual shrug.

‘It has its uses, you know.  He was a great student of human nature.’

‘Probably the greatest.  But we digress.’

‘We do – and we’d better get on before I tell you which Shakespearean character you remind me of.’

Kendall Minto hesitates for a second – though perhaps he decides the answer will prove unflattering and provides his own response.

‘I feel rather more like Machiavelli at the moment.’

His answer is unintentionally revealing.

‘Are you going to tell me what you’re really up to?’

‘What?  Emma – merely as I outlined in the meeting.’

But his cheeks have coloured and he is no match for his erstwhile schoolmate.

‘And it wasn’t exactly difficult to read between the lines.’

Kendall Minto groans.

‘Am I such an open book?’

‘Yes, actually – that’s why we need to be straight with one another.’

‘Aha – that suggests you have something – touché!’

He might be guileless, but he is sharp.

‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’

‘Emma!  Good heavens!’

But he knows she uses it as a figure of speech – and while there might be a glint in her hazel eyes a stern determination runs much deeper.

He slumps back in the passenger seat.  The engine is idling.  He reaches to adjust the heater control and turns it down a little as if he is getting uncomfortable.  He runs a hand through his hair.

‘I have a – er – a whistleblower who works for the accountancy firm that audits Fellside Estate’s accounts.  As I intimated, they own properties all over Kendal – many of them dating back to the time they were built in the 1800s and earlier.  And where they don’t own the fabric of the buildings, they own the land below.  My contact grew up in the town and has its interests at heart.  She tells me that, ostensibly, Fellside Estate is asset rich but cash poor.  In the last two to three years their ROA has dived – and they have reported a loss.  In round numbers their income has halved.’

DS Jones has her fingers arrayed on the steering wheel; they are unmoving as she listens carefully.

‘Go on.’

‘Well – has it halved?  This is where I come full circle.  As a Kendal-based newspaper we are the eyes and ears of the community.  Through the letters page there has been a growing clamour about the loss of traditional family businesses in the town centre at the expense of questionable trades.’

‘Such as?’

‘Neilson’s ironmongery is now a vape store.  Bryson’s chippy is a chicken shop.  Dobson’s garage is a car wash.  June Wilson’s hair salon is a nail bar.  I hear that the Kendal mint cake shop is struggling to keep its head above water.’

‘So, these are properties of which Fellside Estate is landlord.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And they’re pushing out artisanal tenants and replacing them with low-skill cash businesses.’

Kendall Minto emits a small gasp.

‘Ah – you’re one step ahead!’

She gestures to the contrary.

‘Not exactly – you’ve just told me what’s going on.  The estate’s raking in cash as rent and only reporting half of it.  No profit, no tax bill.’

‘Emma – anyone would think you were a forensic accountant.’

Now she grins.

‘Make the most of it – I’m not usually so fast and loose with conjecture.’

He gives her a knowing look – but opts not to push his luck by expanding upon her point.

‘Well – let me tell you, it doesn’t end there.  Fellside Estate owns the social housing on Allhallows Lane – it was once the Fellside Workhouse – and is landlord for the swanky flats by the river that came out of the conversion of Fellside Mill.  There are mutterings of them hiking rents to drive out residents and replace them with questionable tenants in overcrowded conditions.’

DS Jones nods slowly.

‘So, the Earl is feathering his nest at public expense.’

Kendall Minto nods and regards her earnestly.

‘I believe the estate has finally got wind of the rumblings of discontent.  They own the old paupers’ hospital and the almshouses in the yard behind.  The council had issued a renovation order – the lead pipes, remember?  My Editor at the Gazette wanted us to cover it, to keep them honest.  We positioned it as a positive story, but I guess they were edgy.  Flora’s locket with the message was discovered and since then, as Jen has pointed out, they’ve pulled in their horns.’

DS Jones is regarding Kendall Minto pensively.

He turns to face her.

She gives the faintest inclination of her head and a dart of her eyes.

‘Be ready, then.’

‘Er – what?’

He follows her direction to glance casually out of the side window.  They are parked in an area marked for visitors that is diagonally equidistant from the Estate Office in converted stables and the main residence of Fellside Grange, a sprawling Victorian property in pale sandstone with a visual overload of pitched roofs and great bay windows.  A man has detached himself from the door of the office and is striding across the courtyard towards them.

‘Ah – I see what you mean, Emma.’

‘Is this him?’

‘I haven’t met him, but it’s not the Earl.  Too old.’

There is a certain dress style that marks out the landed upper classes from the yeoman farmer – although their practical garb can overlap and mingle quite seamlessly at the county show.  So it is not so much the outfit but the way of wearing it.  This man has polished tan brogues, plum corduroys and, over a blue check tattersall shirt, an olive tweed shooting coat with its moleskin collar turned up against the cold (or perhaps for vanity).  He is immaculate and might have walked off the page of a country clothing catalogue.

That said, despite his attire, he has the look and air more befitting of a city trader.  Aged around the fifty mark, of trim build and a little above average height, he has greying brown hair swept back and a short, neatly groomed beard à la mode.  His skin bears the uniform tan of Mediterranean holidays – by contrast, the fell farmer weathers unevenly, the brow ridge, the cheekbones, the bridge of the nose.

Though he moves purposefully, he suddenly stops some twenty feet short and pulls a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and answers without hesitation.  Now he turns away – as if to ensure his conversation is inaudible, should they have a window open.

It is just a moment before he resumes his approach – ending the call and turning back towards the car, irritation written across his features.  Though he quickly composes himself and his eyes narrow as they search into the reflective glass of the vehicle.

It seems they ought to get out.

Kendall Minto mutters under his breath.

‘Let me do the talking.  I can give him all the flannel about the Gazette and the free publicity.  Let him see you take notes in shorthand – that way he’ll just assume you’re my assistant from Turnpike Media.’

DS Jones flashes a cutting glare – but by the time she is out and has pressed shut the car door and straightened and turned, the man is close to her.  She detects a hint of expensive cologne.  The pale eyes are fixed on hers and not the hand he extends.

‘James Crabstaff.’

He does not give his title nor suggest it is a good afternoon.

She is conscious of both the unblinking stare and the handshake, which lasts a good three seconds longer than is necessary, and the hint of the smile at the corners of a neat mouth that suggests he will have the satisfaction of appraising her appearance in due course.

‘Hello.  Emma Jones.  This is –’

Kendall Minto has rounded the car, but the man makes him wait before turning to greet him – and before DS Jones can complete her introduction he pre-empts them.

‘We’ll need to talk here.  Something has come up that I must attend to.  I only have two minutes.’  His voiced is clipped and has the neutral accent of a private education.

Kendall Minto clears his throat to buy a moment in which to think.

‘We could wait, sir – it’s no trouble.’

The man gives a brusque shake of the head.

‘I’ll be some time.  I have a full schedule.  What is it you want, exactly?’

The young reporter seems to be floundering.  DS Jones is watching him; she is about to interject on his behalf when he finds his feet.

‘I speak on behalf of the Gazette.  We’re proposing to raise a million by Christmas for Westmorland General Hospital.  It would buy six incubators and a brand new high-dependency unit.  It could save the lives of dozens of premature babies.’

The man licks his upper lip but gives little sign of interest.

Kendall Minto is undaunted.

‘As you’ll be aware, sir, in conjunction with Turnpike Media we are producing the podcast series, “The Earl and the Servant Girl.”  The premise is that the Seventh Lord Fellside gave his life to save that of a tiny child.  With such a noble family legacy, we think the present Earl would make a perfect figurehead for the campaign.’

James Crabstaff remains inscrutable.

The journalist continues to wax lyrical.  He gestures extravagantly, making shapes in the air with both hands.

‘The podcasts would tie in with the charitable appeal, and together with the Gazette’s reach, we believe there will be substantial regional and national coverage.  We feel it would be very powerful for both the Earl and Fellside Estate.  No actual work is needed – he just needs to lend his good name and title.’

There is further silence before James Crabstaff responds.

‘And?’

‘I’m sorry?’

While Kendall Minto has communicated clearly, it is apparent to DS Jones that his improvised spiel has taken him down something of a rabbit hole – one that he struggles to reverse out from.

She takes a step to one side, closer to Kendall Minto so that she moves into the line of conversation.  The man transfers his gaze to her.

‘The most persuasive narrative will be the most authentic.  And –’ she echoes his question with intended emphasis, ‘we’d like, therefore, to gain access to the Fellside library and archive – so that we can’t be accused of not doing our homework.’

She smiles endearingly – and just perceptibly he warms towards her, a twinkle in his eye.

‘Due diligence, eh?’

‘That’s another way of putting it, Mr Crabstaff.’

‘James.  Call me James.’

She smiles again – but she is not about to meet his demand.

‘Hell.’

His phone is set to mute – but it buzzes audibly in his pocket – he pulls it out and kills the call – and at the same time he extracts a business card from one of the slots in the case.

‘Here.  Let us exchange details.  My private number.’

He hands the card to DS Jones.  As she reaches out he notices the bracelet with its blue stones; there is the faintest suggestion that he might remark, but decides against it.

She gives a little cough.

‘I – er – don’t have a calling card with me.’

To her surprise, he passes over his mobile.

‘Simply type in your number.’

‘Sure.’

She complies as the man watches, the tips of her slender fingers tapping lightly; she senses trepidation in Kendall Minto’s body language and now just casually edges away from him.

‘There.’

She returns the phone to its owner; he glances at the screen and seems pleased that she has added her name.

‘Thank you, Emma.’  He stresses the word.  ‘Leave it with me, and I shall revert to you when I have spoken with the Earl.  I’m sure we can accommodate you.  There’s no need for both of you to come back – I should say it’s a one-woman job.’

He smiles now in an exaggerated manner and shoots a perfunctory glance of dismissal at Kendall Minto.  He leaves them in no doubt about what he means.

His phone vibrates again – he suppresses an inarticulate curse.

‘I must go.  Cheerio.’

His pale eyes dwell on DS Jones – then he makes a military turn and begins to march towards a black Range Rover parked in front of the main house.

Settled within DS Jones’s VW, they see he is in the driving seat of the 4X4, though he makes no immediate attempt to leave and seems to be speaking handsfree on the phone.

As DS Jones turns the ignition and selects first gear Kendall Minto makes a noise of exasperation.

‘In the words of your Eastender oppo – cor blimey, Emma!  It took me years to winkle your mobile number out of you – and you go and give it to a total stranger within five minutes of meeting him!’

As they pull away she flashes him a smug glance.

‘You don’t think I actually gave him my personal number?’

‘Oh.’  There is sufficient a note of reproach in DS Jones’s tone that a penny of sorts drops.  ‘What – did you just make something up?’

She shakes her head.  She checks the rear-view mirror – but as yet there is no sign of the Range Rover behind them.

‘It’s a real number.  It will divert to voicemail.’

Kendall Minto processes the information.

‘Is this the kind of thing you have ready – for undercover ops?’

She chuckles.

‘You could say that.’  She gives a little toss of her head.  ‘But never mind me – where did that million-pound charity appeal come from?’

It is Kendall Minto’s turn to laugh.

‘Actually – it’s not a bad call, don’t you think?  I mean – yes, sure – I winged it!  But it would be a jolly good project.  I might suggest it to the Editor.’

DS Jones nods reflectively.

‘Well – it may just have done the trick as far as getting into Fellside Grange is concerned.’  She sinks back into her seat and stretches out her arms.  ‘But it looks like you might have to rely on me.’

‘Hmm.’  He emits a long sigh, as if recognising the futility of fighting the situation that is developing.

When he only makes faces of disapproval, DS Jones moves to correct him.

‘Can I just remind you that it was your idea to bring me – so that I might generate a receptive response from James Crabstaff.’

He huffs.

‘Well, you certainly did that.  Now what will the Inspector say?’

It seems the question is rhetorical – and that he is unwilling to mention Skelgill by name.  When she does not reply he turns to stare at her interrogatively – though she keeps her eyes on the task of steering.

She may be about to answer when she has to call out.

‘Kendall – look!’

Fellside Grange is located amidst farmland – though it is grand enough, there is the suggestion that once it doubled as the home farm of the estate – and they have driven a private metalled track for the best part of a mile to reach it from the public highway.  Now, before them, they see half slewed off the track and apparently stuck in the mud of the ploughed field a large grey van of the transit type, windowless and not in the best condition.  A shortish man in a black winter jacket with its hood raised is bent over examining the offside front wheel and at the same time has a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

Kendall Minto leans forwards.

‘He’s had a blowout.  Do you think that’s the emergency?’

DS Jones frowns.

‘James Crabstaff didn’t strike me as the type to get his hands dirty.’

She checks again behind; there is no sign still of the Range Rover.  Farms of this size often have their own network of roads and tracks; he could have headed off in a different direction.

As they slow to walking pace, the short man, who is well muffled against the cold, only now hears their approach and looks up – but when he realises he does not recognise them he turns away and moves round the side of the van, out of sight.

‘Oh, well – he seems not to want our help, at least.’  Kendall Minto sounds relieved.  ‘I’d have no clue what to do.’

DS Jones watches the receding scene in her wing mirror, but there is nothing more to see.  But from the brief glimpse she had obtained – despite the hood and the heavy garb – she would have judged the driver to be of Asian appearance.

Kendall Minto, however, has other things on his mind – and tentatively returns to the subject from which he was distracted.

‘Are you intending to meet back up with your colleagues in Kendal?’

But DS Jones is peering at the calling card given to her by James Crabstaff, now on the dashboard.

‘What do you know about James Crabstaff?’

‘Oh – er – not a great deal.  I believe he’s ex-army, officer class.  He seems to handle everything – and that he’s been in the job a few years.  I was rather hoping you might interrogate your systems – the national criminal database.’

She takes a moment to answer.

‘His card describes him as a director of Fellside Estate Limited.  Companies House might be your best bet.  I would need grounds – and it might not go down too well if I start a new inquiry on a whim.  We’re not exactly on firm ice with this Turnpike Media project.  It’s only since there’s a missing persons inquiry that we can justify the resources down here.’

Kendall Minto perks up.

‘Oh, yes – that reminds me – you promised to show me yours!’

DS Jones narrows her eyes.

‘I don’t remember promising anything.’

He frowns.

‘Come on, Emma – I’m a newshound with a nose for a story.  This is my home turf.  It would be remiss of me to pass it by.’

She relents.

‘I know no more than you heard in the Wise Council meeting.  We travelled separately, remember – I came with you while the others were briefed.  I expect I’ll find out more later.’

He is silent for a moment.  Then he inhales between his teeth, as if with trepidation.

‘In that case – do you have time for a slap-up lunch?  On the Gazette, of course – in the line of duty – no expense spared.’

DS Jones tightens her grip on the steering wheel; there is the impression that she is seeking the right words to let him down gently.

‘I don’t know about slap-up – but I could probably explain away a steak-and-ale pie in the Ring O’ Bells.’

15. KNOWING FOLK

Whitehaven – 1.30 p.m.

DS LEYTON SCRATCHES his head. Much as his superior will take a wide detour for a favourite meal, it is an excessive drive to Whitehaven just for a sausage roll, no matter how good they taste.

And he has a dilemma – an indeterminate wait for Skelgill and cold lunch unless he eats his now.  It has taken him only ten minutes to return to the spot where he stands beside his car.  It is a street parallel to and overlooking the town cliff, below him a tangle of bushes falling away to the harbour area and the grey sea beyond, the salt smell and the rattle of rigging reaching him on the sharp breeze.  Over his shoulder, houses stand on just one side of the street, the limit of a little perpendicular neighbourhood of back-to-backs, like the terraces so familiar in one of his wife’s favourite northern soap operas, each dwelling impossibly narrow, just a living room window and a door opening directly onto the pavement, the frontages harled and uniform, even in their satellite dishes.  Date stones reveal the 1930s – they must have been built for the coal miners that made Whitehaven in its day a regional industrial powerhouse, the small urban outpost punching well above its bantam weight, and its rumbustious Rugby League team – The Marras – fearsome opponents that held their own in England’s top division.

When he had dropped Skelgill he had watched for as long as he could in his rear-view mirror – but he was obliged to turn before his superior had finished his own perusal across the Solway (no sign of County Down today; a smothering haar is all that is in the offing) – so now he has no idea into which side street Skelgill has slipped, let alone the individual property.  He ponders – was Skelgill not wishing to be seen leaving their car (that was his assumption) – or does he not want his sergeant to know where he has gone?  He has been close and brooding all the way from Kendal (and generally since the weekend) – and while DS Leyton can think of at least one obvious reason why that might be, Skelgill has been no more forthcoming about his intentions other than his vague assertion at the castle concerning the old family friend who “knows folk”.

He checks his watch.  His stomach is rumbling.  There has been only Alice Wright-Fotheringham’s gingerbread as sustenance.  He is just thinking he should eat at least one of his sausage rolls when he feels a presence at his side, and it is Skelgill.

And more that is unexpected.

‘There you go, Leyton – my witch is your command.’

Skelgill is proffering a slim paperback volume, faded and frayed with age and use, its childlike yet striking cover illustration of a small girl in a red dressing gown riding a broomstick over starlit rooftops and a black cat perched behind her.

He reads the title.

‘Carbonel?’

‘You said you were short of topical bedtime reading.’

DS Leyton is speechless.  He opens the cover; the pages are yellowed; it is a first edition, dated 1955, reprinted 1967.

Somewhat disoriented, he strives to haul himself back on track.

‘What did you just say, Guv?  Your witch?’

Skelgill makes a half turn to gaze out towards the misty horizon.

‘I don’t need to remind you about the Langdale case.’

DS Leyton starts – mention of such conjures various emotions.  Then he realises what might be the connection, about which Skelgill is, for whatever reason, being so obtuse.

‘That occult malarkey.’

Skelgill takes a moment to find the words – and it is with some effort that he forces out an explanation.

‘The lady I’ve just been to see – she knows about this kind of thing – you can ask Jones – she came with me, the time before.’

DS Leyton is wrangling with the puzzle.

‘You’re gonna have to fill me in, Guv – there’s a piece missing.  Like I said – is this about our Victorian Flora – or our Vietnamese Maria?’

Skelgill rocks his head gently from side to side as if he is prepared to say it is both.

‘Jim Hartley’s story – 1612 and all that.  It might be right – up to a point.’  He wags an index finger towards where he might have come from, the first side street, George Place.  ‘Seems the Kendal Witches never went away.’

DS Leyton makes a noise that is inarticulate, other than it might indicate his impatience.

‘Okay, Guv – let me try this.  Are we saying there’s some tomfoolery – and it’s got something to do with the missing girl?’

Skelgill looks pained, though he appears to nod.

DS Leyton performs a little circular walk.

‘And – do you believe in this stuff, Guv?’

Skelgill comes back with sudden zest.

‘Leyton – you know me – I believe nowt.  I work on knowing.  But you can’t stop other folk.  Besides – I don’t reckon this is about belief.  It’s a practical matter of what might be going on.’

He pulls from his jacket pocket a small clear zip-lock bag and holds it up.  DS Leyton recognises the little blue bead Skelgill picked out of the candlewax at the centre of the rowan wreath.

‘Lapis lazuli.  I’m reliably informed it’s a favourite gemstone of the Wiccans.’

DS Leyton leans a little closer and widens his eyes extravagantly.

‘I need to pinch myself.  Am I actually having this conversation?  I can see why you might be worried that the Chief would think we’ve taken things a bit far – never mind if DI Smart got wind of it.  He’d have a field day.’

Skelgill swivels away making a curious honking noise – but perhaps his reaction is of relief, that he has crossed the Rubicon of suspended disbelief – with his associate, at least, and that now they can make progress, however fantastic.  He lurches towards DS Leyton’s car.

‘I take it Haighs were open?’

‘On the back seat.  Your relative – Margaret, right? – she recognised me from last time and gave me an insulated bag.’

They climb in and begin eating.

DS Leyton glances to his side.

‘Don’t worry about crumbs, Guv – I’ll have the nippers in later – it’s one of those Dad’s taxi nights – clubs and all that.  McDonald’s to round off.’

Skelgill, who has not been worrying about crumbs, nods silently.

It is another minute before DS Leyton pipes up again.

‘Still – at least we’ve got an actual crime to get our teeth into.’

While DS Leyton seems to take heart from the metaphor (and perhaps no longer having an empty stomach), Skelgill – predictably – now retreats to a more cautious stance.

‘Remember what Alice said – there’s no crime these days in being a witch.’

But DS Leyton shakes his head, simultaneously worrying the end of his second sausage roll.

‘Except – if you heard right – ain’t the suggestion that this missing Maria’s been abducted?’

Skelgill declines to answer.

DS Leyton continues.

‘After all – she was the one who came to us – to report that she was in danger.  What if it is another bad crowd, just like the Langdale lot?’

Skelgill goes on eating, though now he turns his gaze towards the opening of the side street where his interview has taken place.  He gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.

‘Seems like mostly it’s harmless, Leyton.  There’s thousands of folk follow it – some individually – some meet in groups.  Folk that believe they can harness natural energy.  There’s no organisation – no HQ.’

DS Leyton gives an ironic chuckle.

‘Guv, you sound like you’ve been reading Wiccapedia.’

Skelgill forces a grin – and temporarily reprieves the last bite of his sausage roll.

‘Any road – I reckon we’re going to need your Plan B.’

DS Leyton frowns.

‘Remind me of my Plan B, Guv.’

For a moment Skelgill seems reluctant to say it.

‘Send Jones to speak to the girl Anna.’

DS Leyton recognises disquiet in his superior’s manner.

‘I expect she’ll be glad to get onto something tangible, Guv.’

Skelgill merely makes a grunt of disapproval.

DS Leyton can see that Skelgill is mithered, as he would put it; he decides in a roundabout way to point out the benefit in the arrangement.

‘Bit sneaky of Minto, I thought, Guv.  Roping her in like that.  She obviously wasn’t expecting it.’

Skelgill glowers doubtfully but remains tight-lipped.

‘I could see you were a bit chary about her visiting the Crabstaff cove masquerading as a reporter.’

He knows that, on the whole, this is not what is bothering Skelgill – and he continues casually.

‘Minto – he’s a bright lad – but he’s not exactly streetwise.  Emma’ll keep him straight.  And she’s far less likely to be recognised than one of us pair.  You especially, Guv, with all your relatives.’

Skelgill remains unimpressed by the case being made – but now DS Leyton rouses him from his slough of despond.

‘Besides – Minto’s up to something, ain’t he?  She’ll find out.’

There is both the revelation and the assertion for Skelgill to deal with.

He sits purposefully upright and stares ahead through the glass of the windscreen; a lesser black-backed gull, perhaps sensing a picnic lunch is in progress, has landed on a post that supports the rusted clifftop railing.

Skelgill scowls; Minto’s up to something, alright – but he does not voice this particular concern.

Action suits him better – and he pulls out his mobile phone.

He selects DS Jones’s number and taps speaker so DS Leyton can hear.

She picks up.

‘Hi.’

Her clipped greeting tells him that she is likely with Kendall Minto – and that she is intentionally not revealing to her companion the identity of the caller.

He checks, however.

‘You’re not on speaker?’

‘No – everything’s fine.’

Skelgill launches a quickfire salvo.

‘The nail bar on the high street.  There’s a girl called Anna – at least, it’s what’s on her name badge.  Likely Vietnamese.  She tried to tell us summat about the missing girl, Maria.  She’s obviously frit of the manager.  See if you can get owt – incognito, like.  I’ll text you the still photo of Maria from the CCTV.’

‘Okay.’

Skelgill makes a face of grim satisfaction.  It is a quality of DS Jones that she needs only the most cursory of briefing.  And to his ear her “okay” carries a note of inflection that describes both enthusiasm and determination.

‘Meet me and Leyton after – we’ll be in the café opposite by –’ (he leans to glance at the time on the central console of DS Leyton’s car). ‘Half two.  Come roundabout.’

‘Hmm.  Sure.’

Skelgill hesitates.

‘Sounds like you’re in a café.’

His intonation cannot escape just a faint edge of reproach.

She enunciates evenly.

‘Ring O’ Bells.’

Skelgill sees DS Leyton is regarding him closely and he raises his eyebrows to suggest resigned acceptance.

‘Tell Minto there’s trains down to Oxenholme every half hour.’

She chuckles.

‘Will do.’

The call ended, Skelgill surprises his colleague by lowering the window and flicking the last corner of his final sausage roll to the gull, which is so alert and agile that the morsel literally does not touch the ground.  He ducks to watch it ascend to a rooftop, where it dunks its prize in the end of a gutter that must have an adverse run.  He smiles, grimly.  Birds of a feather.

DS Leyton, meanwhile, is perusing his unexpected gift of the paperback book.

‘This is just the ticket, Guv.  Ages eight to eleven – more or less my reading age.’

Skelgill cannot help an amiable laugh.

‘Beats mine, Leyton.’

DS Leyton does not argue – and thus encouraged he recites from the blurb.

‘“This is the story of a cat, a broomstick, and a quite ordinary schoolgirl called Rosemary.  She buys them both in the marketplace – the broom to help her mother clean during the holidays (the cat, Carbonel, comes with the broom).  The seller, unknown to Rosemary, is a retiring witch, cashing in the tools of her trade.  Soon, Rosemary learns she must find the buyers of the witch’s hat and cauldron – and her hidden book of spells – for Carbonel, a Royal Cat, is slave to the bearer of the broom, and it will take a very special magic to set him free.’”

Skelgill does not respond.

DS Leyton looks up – and follows his superior’s gaze.

Ahead of them, a large black feline is slinking pantherlike across the road; it passes beneath the railing and out of sight into the bushes.

DS Leyton inhales to speak – and then checks himself.  After a moment of reflection, he turns suspiciously to Skelgill.  He raises the novel.

‘This lady you just saw – how come she knew to give you this?’

16. FOLLOWING

The high street, Kendal – 2.15 p.m.

KENDALL MINTO WATCHES somewhat dolefully as DS Jones, with the easy stride of a natural athlete, weaves an elegant course along the opposite pavement of the high street.  He will get the train – but in due course – and he tells himself he is only following her to make sure she is safe – though he has no reason to think otherwise – and, if he’s honest, what drives him (above the obvious) is the cryptic phone call, presumably from Inspector Skelgill.  It has evidently set her upon some task they don’t want him to know about – and which, as he candidly pointed out, on his home turf it is therefore his job to do just that.

He sips the coffee she has bought for him.  She insisted on paying for lunch – and delivered the drink from the bar to their table, she said to fill time until his train is due – but he suspects it was to detain him there.  Once she was gone, he charmed the rather alluring landlady into transferring it to a takeaway cup.

His quarry slows every so often to browse a shop window or to peer into a shadowy yard, where there might be chic boutiques and artisan stores.  She looks neither on a mission nor in a particular hurry.  He wonders – if he saw her covet some article of clothing or jewellery, he could buy it as a gift.

Just after DS Jones passes the town hall, Kendall Minto notices a man with whom he is at once familiar, but unsure from where, emerge from the porch and swing after her.  It takes him a few moments to bring to mind that the bald pate and thick-rimmed spectacles belong to the fellow from the library who had held open the door for Dr Geraldine Gibson when she carried in refreshments.  Tucked under one arm he has a bundle of archive files.  He hurries at first but then holds a steady distance of a dozen paces – and slows or even halts when Detective Sergeant Jones does.

She stops completely outside Ardas Nails.  It does not escape Kendall Minto that this is one of the properties they have discussed.  She looks at photos in the window – and then at the nails of her right hand.  And, to his surprise, she enters the salon.

The man now approaches and also stops – and – more surreptitiously, glances in – and then hesitates as if to watch for a couple of seconds.  As he moves on, he produces his mobile phone and initiates a call.

And now one other small curiosity.  Quickening his pace and passing the nail bar on the opposite pavement with his shoulders hunched so that DS Jones is less likely to spot him, Kendall Minto observes that, as the bald man begins to cross diagonally, a uniformed female parking warden makes a dash to catch up with him, as if she might be using him as a convenient shield to navigate the traffic.  But the safety of the pavement gained (both now directly ahead of Kendall Minto), she decidedly shadows the man, sticking unnaturally close and only turning away when he pockets his handset.   She swivels and walks towards Kendall Minto.  He has the distinct feeling of being an extra in a spy movie.  She makes only fleeting eye contact before she pulls out her notebook and heads purposefully back across the road towards a lorry that is unloading on double yellow lines and causing an obstruction.

He hears the town hall clock strike the quarter – it reminds him there is a train in a couple of minutes.  He wavers – but walks on.  He tells himself that his fertile imagination and nose for a story might just get him into trouble.  He might queer their pitch – and run into the inspector and get a bit of a kicking for doing so.  Better to stay in Emma’s good books and hope she feeds him a few more morsels.

Hmm.  Thinking of Emma – her nails looked as perfect as ever – why would she need them done?

But he shrugs and strides on towards Kendal railway station.

*

DS Jones is seated opposite Anna.

It surely must be a name given for marketing purposes, for she evidently has very little English.

‘Just some nail art, please – I thought the Halloween design.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In your window – pumpkins?’  DS Jones shows the girl her phone.  She has entered prepared and has the translation to hand.  ‘Bí ngô – right?’

‘Ah, so.’

The girl nods and admits the hint of a smile, as if she is either amused by DS Jones’s effort or touched by her solicitude.

Three of four girls were free when DS Jones entered – it must have been obvious that she was trying to pick one of them out – otherwise why not simply go to the first, who is nearest the door?  Anna’s is the last workstation, furthest from the entrance.

There has been no sign of a manager – the male to whom Skelgill had referred as commanding an unwelcome ascendency over the female staff.

She is thinking she should act quickly – while the cat is away – so to speak.  Though she cannot be sure of this.  In the end wall is a doorway with a beaded curtain.  Emanating from there she can hear a radio and strains of V-pop and the chatter of two girls speaking in a foreign tongue.

There is a problem, however.  At the adjacent workstation the girl sits motionless, staring into space, her demeanour just on the sad side of expressionless.  It strikes DS Jones that most girls of her age, thus unoccupied, would be glued to a mobile screen.

DS Jones will be overheard if she so much as utters a word.  The risk is too great.

Anna is working on the nails of her right hand.  With her left DS Jones manipulates her mobile phone.

Then she rotates the device and slides it so that Anna may see.

‘I was also thinking of a design something like this.’

The girl starts but just as quickly gathers her wits and perhaps even too severely reins in any further reaction.

DS Jones has shown her the photograph of Maria.

‘Do you know it?’

The girl looks up without raising her head – and now she moves her eyes from side to side.

DS Jones understands the signal; she dare not speak.

But perhaps a small bond is formed.

The girl completes the right hand.

DS Jones switches over, retracting the phone at the same time.

The girl does not move for a moment – and DS Jones realises she has noticed the bracelet – and is staring at it.

Her breathing seems to intensify – and it requires an effort for her to resume the intricate styling.

DS Jones reverts to a casual perusal of her handset – and again, after a minute or so, slides it across closer to the girl.

‘This is another design I liked.’

The girl flashes a glance at the screen.

DS Jones has typed into translate:

“Where is Maria?  We will help you.”

The Vietnamese is displayed:

“Maria ở đâu? Chúng tôi sẽ giúp bạn.”

The girl’s grip tightens briefly on her fingers, and she switches the fine-tipped nail art brush from her working right hand to her left – as if she is preparing to type a response.

DS Jones holds her breath.

Just one word could put them on track.

A breakthrough.

A bang!

From behind the curtain, the slam of an external door – and a sudden commotion – perhaps the invisible girls have jumped to attention, exclaiming in surprise.  A male voice silences them and the beaded strings part as its owner enters.

Anna flips shut the case of DS Jones’s mobile phone and pushes it back and dips her head over her work, the veil of her long dark hair concealing that she has her brush in what must be her weaker hand.

DS Jones does not react – she behaves as a customer might: assuming that the intrusion has nothing to do with her.  She does not look around and instead leans forwards a little, as though better to glimpse what progress Anna is making.

The man barks out what must be an order – for Anna stops and looks up.  She begins to rise.

She says something to the man.

He scoffs impatiently – but it must be in acquiescence – for Anna bends deftly to complete a succession of tiny finishing touches, the little black eyes and mouths of the pumpkin lanterns.

She puts aside her brush and bows to DS Jones.

‘I finish.’  She gestures to the girl at the next workstation.  ‘She dry for you.’

And with that she leaves, passing through the curtain.  The man follows.

The other girl moves across and begins to adjust the LED lamp.

DS Jones hears further the man’s voice – and then again the heavy slam of the external door.

She gets to her feet – the girl looks up in protest – and gestures to the lamp.

‘It’s okay, thanks – I’ll let them dry in the fresh air.’

She shakes her hands illustratively – and carefully extracts a banknote from the case of her mobile phone and lays it on the table.

It is instinct that has made her exit – and so too (taking care not to smudge the wet varnish) that she pulls up the hood of her sweatshirt and her scarf to her nose.

She takes a few steps sideways from the shopfront.

And now, from beneath the archway of the covered yard at the side of the salon, comes the agitated rattle of an engine.

A large grey van noses out none too carefully given the passage of pedestrians and swings into the one-way traffic flow and blasts away, belching black smoke and diesel fumes from its exhaust.

Yet it is the faint waft of acetone, redolent of pear drops, that has DS Jones nodding.

17. REPRISE

Paupers’ Café – 2.45 p.m.

‘YOU BEEN LURKING in the loo or summat?’

That DS Jones catches her colleagues unaware by approaching from an unexpected direction seems mildly to irk Skelgill.

She merely smiles.

‘You said to come roundabout. There’s a back entrance, from the yard.’

Though it is warm in the café, she sits without removing her jacket – and they can tell from the colour in her cheeks and the flashing of her eyes that she has something to say.

‘Okay – there’s a sequence to this.  But the headline you’re wating for, concerning Anna – and Maria – I got no new information – other than there is clearly something amiss.’

DS Leyton slides a mug to his colleague, a cappuccino whose froth has subsided in waiting; she nods her appreciation but continues with her narrative.

‘So, let me backtrack.  First, Fellside Grange.  We received short shrift from James Crabstaff – although he may contact me with permission to see the archive.  He was playing it cool – and there was some problem going on – he used it as an excuse not to admit us.

‘When we left, we passed a transit van with a puncture, stuck in mud on a field track a few hundred yards from the main house.  I got a glimpse of the driver – but he acted like he didn’t want to be seen.’

Now she takes a sip of her coffee and her tongue travels briefly along her upper lip.

She knows that what she has said does not yet constitute newsworthiness.

‘Second, Kendall Minto.’  She pauses, as if mention of the name requires her to give Skelgill a moment to compose himself.  ‘He’s investigating Fellside Estate.’

Skelgill, however, casts a sharp glance at DS Leyton, who contrives an apologetic shrug – it is an “I told you so” – without rubbing it in.  Skelgill looks additionally chagrined – perhaps that his impatience with the young reporter has led him to miss what both of his colleagues have divined.

DS Jones moves swiftly to elaborate.

‘He’s got a mole in their firm of auditors.  She believes the estate is dodging tax by leasing out its commercial properties to cash businesses – in the process, evicting long-standing tenants.  There’s rising public disquiet at the loss from the town centre of traditional family firms.’

She tilts her head towards the window and the high street beyond.

‘One of the premises was a popular hair salon.  Now it’s the Vietnamese nail bar.’

She sips again, as if by way of punctuation.

‘Third – and finally – this just happened.  I went in and four girls were there – including our target, Anna, who was free.  I asked for some nail art – it’s a quick treatment.’  She displays splayed fingers.  ‘Look – I got pumpkin lanterns.’

She drops her hands to her lap to avoid unnecessary distraction and addresses Skelgill directly.

‘The manager you mentioned – at first there was no sign of him.  But I could sense it was nearly impossible for Anna to speak – we would have been overheard and perhaps she didn’t trust me or feel safe in front of the other girls.  So I showed her the photo of Maria on my phone.  And I typed into translate that we could help.’

DS Leyton makes a noise of approval; not exactly words, but the suggestion that he would not have thought of this.

DS Jones nods.

‘She reacted – definitely reacted.  I think she wanted to reveal something.  Then suddenly the manager barged in and ordered her away – through into the back shop.  I heard the external door slam and so I immediately left by the front.’

She looks earnestly at each of her colleagues in turn.

‘You see – I recognised him as the van driver from Fellside Grange.’

Skelgill stiffens.

His response is terse.

‘What about him – did he recognise you?’

She shakes her head and brushes away a strand of blonde hair that falls across her cheek.

‘I don’t think he could have seen easily into my car.  In the nail bar I didn’t look at him – not directly.  I acted like I didn’t even know anything was going on.  But I watched his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind Anna.’

DS Leyton produces supplementary sounds of admiration.

‘Like I say – I left straightaway.  And so did the same van from the farm.  It came out in a hurry from the yard beside the salon.  Same mud.  Same registration.  Same driver.  Again – I don’t think he saw me – by then I had my hood up and my scarf round my face.’

She leans forwards and lays her palms on the table, as though she rests her case.

‘My guess is, Anna was inside.’

Skelgill is staring at her interrogatively – she parts her lips as if to prompt his question.

But it is DS Leyton who exclaims.

‘Emma – you’ve got flippin’ Morse code!’

‘Pardon?’

He points and gently taps the three middle fingers of her left hand – and she sees now the finishing touches on which Anna had insisted.  On three successive pumpkins – for two eyes and a mouth: three dots, three dashes, and three dots.  S-O-S.

They all lean closer and stare at the girl’s handiwork.  There can be little doubt that these markings differ from the angular shapes on DS Jones’s right hand, and on the two remaining nails of her left.

A considered silence ensues – but not even Skelgill raises the objection that the flaw in the design is simply a coincidence, and that confirmation bias is at play.

He pushes back his chair and rises.

‘I’ll get us summat to eat.’

He casts a hand at DS Jones’s still-spread fingers.

‘You’d better take a photo of that.’

He leaves his colleagues to the task and to debate whether he is thinking that DS Jones should remove the design, and for what reason.

When he returns, he is empty handed.

‘The lass’ll bring it over.  They’re just baking fresh Windermere fruitcake.’

DS Jones waits for him to settle.

‘So, how did you chaps get on?’

Skelgill glances at DS Leyton – who turns down his bottom lip and gives a quick shake of the head to indicate he has not spoken out of school.

Skelgill folds his arms and leans back in his seat.

Then he frowns and bends forwards, his voice low.

‘Mind Rhian Roberts?’

‘The – lady – she lives at Whitehaven?’

‘Aye.  That one.  She reckons the Kendal Witches were never wiped out.’

DS Jones merely murmurs – and removes her jacket and tugs at her hoodie to make herself comfortable.  She even appears to nod in time to the muted background beat of piped reggae.

‘I wondered that.’

Her tone is so casual that it prompts DS Leyton to perform a theatrical double take.

But DS Jones seems more intrigued by Skelgill’s lack of reaction to her remark.  She presses eye contact upon him, as though she considers he ought to come clean.

‘You must know what I’m talking about?’

Skelgill produces one of his irregular looks, retracting his upper lip to expose his front teeth.  It is in part inscrutable and yet revealing to those familiar with his ways.  It could convey a range of truths.  At one end of the spectrum, that he knows exactly what she is talking about but is unlikely to reveal his knowledge, and at the other … that he has no idea to what she refers but is unprepared to admit his inadequacy.

She shakes her head and smiles a little archly.

She pulls up her shoulder bag from beside her feet and delves inside.  She produces a folded leaflet and flattens it out on the table surface.  It is the promotional brochure presented to her in the foyer of Holy Trinity Church.

She looks patiently at both colleagues as a precursor to explanation.

‘The lady who spoke to us in the church gave me this.  She caught me reading a copy pinned in the parish notices cabinet.’  She angles the leaflet so that they all have a clear view of the photograph of the team of bellringers.  She points.  ‘This is her – she told me she’s the tower captain.’

That DS Jones has connected her obtuse question to a plain matter of fact is not lost on her colleagues.  They stare determinedly at the image as if it will reveal its hidden meaning, in the way of a magic eye picture.

If something materialises, it comes first to DS Leyton, who can contain himself no longer.

‘Stone the crows!’

He thrusts a sturdy forefinger at the photograph.

‘That’s that traffic warden, ain’t it?’

Several seconds more scrutiny ensue – Skelgill seems unwilling even to move.  DS Jones unhurriedly points to another of the green-cloaked figures.

‘This one – she’s the landlady from the Ring O’ Bells.’

DS Leyton narrows his eyes; he seems uncertain.  Then he jabs again, now indicating a third woman.

‘I’ll tell you what, Guv – ain’t this her, who we saw walking the dog – that little Jack Russell?’

Skelgill now scoops up the page.  He scowls as he finds a focal length that is less close than he would wish.  He glares intently.

That the female ensemble stands in a circle means some face away from the camera and some are at best side on.  But when after half a minute he lays down the leaflet, he has confirmed in his own mind not only DS Leyton’s assertion regarding the dog walker (who must have reversed her jacket on her second pass) but also that a tall young woman hauling elegantly on a bell rope is the girl with the Mona Lisa smile from the café in Abbot Hall Gallery who had followed him into the foyer; and – he thinks quite probably – ringing beside her is the raven-haired clairvoyant from Fortune Antiques.

DS Leyton appears a little intoxicated by the overlap that is emerging between the practical reality of their investigations and what might reasonably be considered the fantastic.  He rotates his shoulders and exclaims cheerily.

‘How about that?  The Dead Ringers – now there’s a name for a coven of witches, if ever I heard one!’

DS Jones knows that such a blatant conclusion will be too much for Skelgill.  She casts a hand over the photograph.

‘Look – there’s definitely a group of women – and we seem to have rubbed up against them.’

But Skelgill objects.

‘I’d put it the other way round.’

He looks away sharply, as though some voice has spoken his name – but his gaze comes to rest on nothing in particular, just the window, where shadowy figures pass along the pavement.  He inhales slowly.

Eventually he speaks.

‘There’s a bit more to it.  That I’ve not told you.  The lass, Anna.  When she accidentally-on-purpose bumped into me.  What she actually said was, “Maria.  Castle witches have her.”’

DS Leyton chokes off an expletive.

‘Hah! That explains our magical mystery tour!’

But when he might be vexed by Skelgill’s elusiveness, instead he takes it in his stride.  He turns to DS Jones.

‘You see, Emma – we climbed up to Kendal Castle while you were babysitting Minto.’  He nods portentously.  ‘There’s signs of rites and rituals – magic twigs, and candles and trinkets.’

DS Jones turns her gaze interrogatively to Skelgill, but he is rescued from an immediate response by the arrival of their waitress bearing a tray with a pot of tea for three and a substantial half round of Windermere fruitcake cut into narrow slices.

Skelgill’s sergeants wait for his lead.  But he simply signals with a piece of cake that either of them is welcome to have the floor, and DS Leyton, under the guise of chivalry, defers to his more articulate colleague.

DS Jones understands she is to reprise their findings.

‘Okay, then.  So – Maria said she was in danger – and disappeared.  Anna suggests she may be held somewhere, referring to “witches”.  Anna is worried about Maria – and I am now worried about Anna.  Maria may be connected to the nail bar.  Anna definitely is.  The nail bar is linked to Fellside Estate.  Fellside Estate may be involved in fraud – and now we have straws in the wind to suggest it is more serious than that.’

DS Leyton hurries to swallow, eager now to contribute.

‘So, we’re saying they’re all mixed up in this together?  These bellringers – who think they’re witches, whatever they’re playing at – and Fellside Estate.  We start investigating the Flora Mary Graham case – and they get the wind up because we’re creeping too close for comfort.  Right, Guv?’

Skelgill shifts in his seat.  His subordinates have had their turn, and they want to know what he thinks.

But he is lost somewhere below the surface of clear thought, where feelings swirl about but decline to breach.  It is an unsatisfactory state of consciousness.  He hears the fortune teller’s words.

“The lass.  With child.  The water.”

More cards that he has kept close to his chest.

He gives a sharp shake of the head and runs a hand through his hair.

‘Let’s focus.  We know there’s Maria.’  He glances at DS Jones.  ‘And Anna.  They’ve got to be our priority.’

DS Leyton makes a growl of agreement.

‘It’s a ruthless business.  They treat people as disposable.  Worse than cattle.’

Skelgill is grim-faced.

‘We have to tread carefully.’

DS Jones looks set to agree when there is an alert from her mobile phone.  She leans to read it.

‘Ah.  That’s the secure voicemail number I gave to James Crabstaff.’

She retrieves the call and puts the handset on speaker.

There comes a refined voice, to DS Jones’s ear more languid and mellow compared to earlier.

“Hello, Emma.  Apologies for my having to dash away.  I have some good news.  You may come round this evening and have the run of the library.  Make it eight o’clock and we can put our heads together.  Goodbye.”

DS Leyton is quick to remark.

‘That’s a result.  Cor blimey, girl – you can’t half get under the radar.  Now you’ve got the Lord of the Manor lined up.’

There are no hard feelings in DS Leyton’s tone, merely that he admires her ability to open doors that he would have to shoulder down and give himself away in the process.

DS Jones lowers her gaze.

‘I doubt I’ll be meeting the Earl.’

Skelgill is scowling.

‘When you say I?’

She makes a face, as if to apologise for misfortune beyond her control.  She indicates the handset.

‘James Crabstaff – I don’t think he took to Kendall.’

Skelgill does not seem entirely disappointed, but he has to set aside his personal feelings.

He jabs a finger towards the window.

‘When me and Leyton went into that nail bar, the manager told Anna to make herself scarce.  That’s because we’d flashed our ID.’  He regards DS Jones didactically.  ‘You were incognito – a customer – and yet he did exactly the same thing.’

Skelgill has no need to state the corollary – for DS Jones reads his logic.

‘Are you saying my cover has been blown?’

Skelgill stares at her but neither nods nor shakes his head.

‘What I’m saying is what happened.  You spotted the nail bar manager at Fellside Grange – next thing he’s spiriting away a person of interest.’

They all three sit in silence.

DS Jones again gestures to her mobile.

‘I’ve got James Crabstaff’s personal number.  I could put him off – until we feel a bit surer of our ground?’

But neither does Skelgill seem content with this.  There is a gift horse – a golden opportunity to penetrate behind the scenes at Fellside Grange.  Moreover, DS Jones has subtly called his bluff.

He does not answer.

DS Leyton detects the impasse.

‘What does your gut feel tell you, Guv?’

Skelgill stretches for the plate.

‘It tells me not to let this fruitcake get cold.’

18. PLAYING WITH FIRE

Fellside Grange – 8.00 p.m.

‘EMMA – how nice to see you.’

He is more generous with his smile than earlier and there is the same expensive cologne, only more pungent, freshly applied.

James Crabstaff has changed into a smart-casual outfit of beige chinos and leather deck shoes without socks, and a pale blue Polo jersey over a navy shirt with its collar tucked in.  His hair has a freshly showered look, casually disarranged but perhaps carefully so, and his short beard further trimmed.

He has lingered over his welcome, using the time to regard her and not moving from the threshold.

He casts an appraising hand, describing the arc between her thighs and her shoulders.

‘You look so … elegant.’  There is the suggestion in his tone that she has taken trouble with her appearance for his benefit.

DS Jones resists the demanded smile of approval and instead responds with a quizzical twinkle: he must be mistaken.

Indeed, she has travelled to Kendal with only a limited wardrobe.  She has applied the most minimal of make-up and wears plain stretch black jeans and a blue denim jacket over a black polo-neck sweater.  True, the shoes she has chosen sport something of a heel, which lift her closer to the man’s height.

‘It’s a cold night.’

She intends the words as an oblique reference to her choice of apparel.

‘Then come in, won’t you?  A roaring fire awaits.’

He steps back to admit her into an oak-panelled hallway with a broad bifurcated staircase directly ahead and a passageway left and right.  The lighting is low but tasteful and he passes her on her right and gently touches her upper arm by way of guidance.

She complies and they turn into the right-hand corridor.  Hunting landscapes range along its walls and picture lights supply patches of illumination.  They move silently on a central runner of Turkish carpet laid over what might be an original parquet floor.

Half a pace ahead of her, he raises his left hand and tilts his palm back over his shoulder.

‘I’ll give you a little tour before you leave.’

She makes a polite cough.

‘Would that not be an intrusion?’

He merely chuckles.

‘Oh, don’t worry – we have the run of the place.  An “empty”, I believe is the popular term employed by those bent on mischief.’

Before DS Jones can respond he leans across her path without warning, brushing against her as he reaches to push open a panelled oak door.

‘Voilà, la bibliothèque.’

She sees immediately that the library has been prepared for her arrival.  It is quite long and narrow, its walls mostly lined with bookcases and at the far end French windows with floor-length maroon velvet curtains not yet drawn against the night.  The room is cosy, however.  The door opens at the left corner and to the right a log fire that has received recent attention crackles in its grate.  Before the deep hearth a Chesterfield sofa and two armchairs sit around a low coffee table.  Over the mantelpiece above a carriage clock hangs a painting of an intact Kendal Castle in oil, an imagining of its past glory.

Much of the further end is taken up by a stretched oval table of antique appearance ringed by ten matching chairs.  In one of the places the chair is pulled out and from the table surface rises a neat stack of what look like archaic document files and ledgers.  As in the hall and corridor the lighting is subdued, and a table lamp has been placed at the spot where it is intended she should examine the archives.

Though a rejoinder in kind – quelle belle chambre – has immediately sprung to mind, and it would likely be her answer had Kendall Minto been her platonic companion, she avoids it for its implied intimacy.  But she cannot entirely suppress her reaction – the old library is instantly captivating for a lover of literature, almost seductively so with its subtle aromas of timeworn leather, pipe tobacco and ancient paper, and the hypnotic tick of the clock and the hiss of fragrant applewood in the grate.

‘What a lovely room.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?  Rather a shame you have to work – hah-ha.’

He moves past her, briskly towards the table, and with an exaggerated bow further pulls out her designated chair, like a dutiful waiter.  DS Jones first ducks under the strap of her satchel, but before she can object he reaches to touch her lightly on the shoulders.

‘Let me help you with your jacket.’

She would prefer to manage herself, but the denim is a tight fit over her sweater and his assistance is effective.

He leans closer than is necessary and she senses that he inhales – but she has not applied fragrance and the omission perhaps successfully forestalls a compliment.  Instead he steps back and lays her jacket carefully over the adjoining chair.

DS Jones sits and half turns to look up at him.  She takes the opportunity of the small hiatus to gain the initiative.

‘Obviously, I only got your brief message.’ She gestures to the documents.  ‘Lord Fellside – what did he think of the charity proposal?’

James Crabstaff’s reaction is curious – perhaps that he is unprepared for the inquiry – he turns his head away to frown perplexedly, as if she might have asked him about some feature of the room.  But he gathers his wits.  He reprises his smile of greeting.

‘Yes – erm – we think it’s a jolly good cause – only too delighted to help.  The noble act of saving babies and all that.’  He speaks quickly, in his clipped military fashion of earlier, and now reaches to pat the top of the pile of documents.  ‘For starters, what we have here are household records and domestic ledgers from the mid-1800s.  You mentioned you wanted to piece together an authentic picture of life below stairs – and these would seem to be the first port of call.’

DS Jones hesitates – just for a moment, as she processes his explanation.  While there is something superficial about the consideration he conveys, equally he seems to have a clear idea of what she needs in this regard.

She nods willingly.

‘That sounds ideal.  Kendal library has all there is to know about the Earls of Fellside – but very little was ever written about the servant classes – and they were rarely literate themselves.  While the Seventh Earl’s heroics will command respect, we think what will grip the public’s imagination is what drove an eighteen-year-old maid to attempt infanticide.’

He is looking at her now – and she detects that he checks a response, as though he might have some reflex political opinion – but also his pale eyes are unblinking, as if his thoughts have shifted elsewhere.  He takes a step back and clasps together his hands.

‘Now, Emma – what can I get you to drink?  Tea, coffee, cocoa – or perhaps something stronger?  Name your poison.’

But she pulls up her bag onto her lap and takes out a reporter’s notepad and pen and a small bottle of mineral water.

‘It’s okay, thank you – this is all I need – just now.’

She did not intend the “just now” – but her intuition has added it for her.

‘Of course … well, perhaps I’ll bring us a little refreshment later.’

He stares at her – a gaze that she finds increasingly unnerving – when he starts.  He glances at his wristwatch.

‘Right.  I have a couple of things to attend to.  How about if I look in on you at nine?’

She frowns amiably.

‘If that’s okay with you – I don’t want to overstay my welcome.’

Now he grins.

‘Like I say – we have the run of the place.  Stay as long as you like.’

‘Thank you, Mr Crabstaff.’

‘No – no – Emma.  It is James, remember – I insist.’

She realises that this time she must find an accommodation.  She keeps it simple.

‘Sorry – James.’

She smiles and it is sufficient to please him.  He raises both hands in a gesture that affects surprise, and without further ado he acts out a tiptoeing exit, closing the door noiselessly.

DS Jones opens her pad and pulls down the top file from the heap and turns the cover and immediately begins to write in shorthand.  She has filled a page before she stops.  She holds up the pad and considers her work.  She smiles to herself.  She has transcribed from memory the opening verse of Prince Hal’s soliloquy, much beloved of Professor Jim Hartley.

“I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill.”

She smiles to herself as she mouths the penultimate line.

She needs time to think but she does not want to give herself away.

She has dressed conservatively and behaved demurely.  She is essentially unembellished by cosmetics or jewellery, and has removed the nail art, to her small regret.

He has trespassed upon her personal space three times; she has not moved to him; but neither has she flinched.

She deems that in testing boundaries he has demonstrated a degree of maturity, flirtation disguised as courtesy.  Otherwise – she sighs – par for the course; she should guard against over-thinking his advances.

She ponders events hitherto.

She has not detected suspicion.

But is she being watched?

She spreads out several of the files and then appears to think of something and gets up with her reporter’s pad and crosses to inspect the bookcases to the left of the door.  Gradually, she works her way clockwise, making occasional notes.  It is as if she is cataloguing the available material.  She reaches the corner of the long wall and its angle where the shelves end at the French windows.

She murmurs in conclusion of her mission.  She has satisfied herself that there is no CCTV (or if there is, it is very well concealed, which seems unlikely) and only a standard Wi-Fi linked smoke alarm above the door to the corridor, blinking green to indicate it is wired to the internal network.

She catches her reflection in a pane of the first French door – and – fleetingly – a ghostly face beyond – surely?

She freezes, fighting to retain her composure.

Was it her imagination?  Just a second reflection in the sealed unit with its double-glazed panes?

She shivers with exaggerated effect, as if it is the cold that has made her do so – and thus she draws the heavy curtains closed.

She returns unhurriedly to the table.

But she is shaken.

And she is troubled.

In truth, Flora Mary Graham is the least of her priorities.  And she will make no progress by staying in this room.  To begin with, there is the house to be explored.  James Crabstaff has intimated a tour.  She grimaces.  But she could ask to use the conveniences.  She could just go and find a bathroom.  As a precaution, she drinks from her bottle of water.

But there is a fly in the ointment.  James Crabstaff will return in three-quarters of an hour.  When he does, she must have something to say about Flora Mary Graham to justify her access; she must sound convincing.

So, first she must put her nose to the grindstone.

She begins to read, slowly turning pages, gradually being drawn in by the unintended narrative that is coded into a piecemeal record of wages, orders for provisions and tradesmen’s bills of sale.

She makes diligent notes and takes occasional photographs of whole excerpts.

The clock with its somnambulant tick has no chime to mark the passage of time; the fire steadfast and the curtains now drawn, the library becomes warmer still, its walls of papyrus an ever-more cossetting cocoon.

‘Hello, Emma.’

DS Jones jolts.

Was she asleep?

James Crabstaff stands before the doorway, the door closed behind him.  He has a round tray balanced in one upturned hand and something else in the other at his side, a piece of card, perhaps.

‘Ah – you have closed the curtains.’

His tone is approving and – unless she imagines it – his words are just a little slurred.  There are two cocktail glasses on the tray.

She is twisted towards him.  At some point she has taken off her sweater and now her tight t-shirt reveals more of her figure.  He is looking at her.

She indicates towards the French windows.

‘There was a draught at my feet – I hope you don’t mind?’

He moves, but not towards her; instead he walks across to place the tray on the low table before the hearth.  He takes up a poker and stabs at the logs, releasing sparks like fleeing fireflies.

‘Why should I?’

She brushes strands of hair from her face, uncertain of what to say.

‘Come over, I have something to intrigue you.’

She realises he has set the two glasses side by side opposite the centre of the sofa.  There is a space intended for her on his right.  At the left-hand end of the table he has laid the card, face down.  It is something of antiquity, with a block of handwritten text in italic quill style.

How close should she sit?

‘What is it?’

‘Aha – it merits a great reveal – but first, a toast.’

He hands her a glass while she is still standing, but he hangs onto the stem and draws her to sit.  The distance is somewhere between business class and economy.

He lets go and raises his own glass.

She obliges and reaches carefully so as not to spill as they barely touch – the rims are heavily salted and she sees the watery crystals merge.

‘My special margarita – in place of tequila, Fellside rum from Jamaica – don’t ask too many questions, hah.’

He drinks copiously, taking about half of the contents of his glass.

‘Go on – it won’t bite.’

She takes a sip, but all she can taste is salt.

‘It’s strong.’

‘Have a proper drink.’

‘But – I have to drive.’

He touches her arm.

‘No – no – you don’t have to drive.’

She stalls.

‘But what’s the cause of celebration?’  She moves her glass in the direction of the card at his other side.

He glances at it indifferently.

She notices now that he has sprayed on more aftershave.  And he has removed his sweater and pulled out his shirt, another notch down the casual scale.  He is twice her age.  She puts down her glass so that she can adjust her jeans where they cling above the knee.

‘Drink first, Emma – then I shall explain.’

He turns and leans a little towards her, his pale eyes insistent.

She holds his gaze and reaches sideways for her glass.

‘Oh!’  She gasps.  ‘Oh – no!  I’m sorry!  I’m so clumsy.’

In not looking she has tipped over the glass.

She instinctively makes a grab to grasp it two-handed, splashing dregs across her wrist.

‘Aargh.’

James Crabstaff’s first reaction is one of quickly suppressed annoyance – but his ingrained public school courtliness kicks in and he darts a hand beneath the table to produce a box of tissues.

He dumps a handful onto the table to absorb the spilled liquid and plucks more and takes hold of her left forearm.

‘Here – let me.’

She has to comply as he dabs at the back of her hand.

‘There –’

He hesitates – he seems to be looking at the little bracelet with its blue stones.

She inhales to speak.  Again, he pre-empts her.

‘Emma – I can hardly believe – that you are not spoken for.’

She realises he refers to the ringless fingers – though she does not know why, she blushes, and the sudden unexpected rush of heat to her cheeks causes her to lower her gaze and shrink in some instinctual action.  Whatever it is, it produces a commensurate response.  James Crabstaff lowers her hand onto her thigh and swoops up her glass.  He rises.

‘Don’t worry – there’s plenty left in the shaker.  Just give me two ticks.’

He steps past her and then turns briefly to gesture to the orange-stained tissues.

‘Throw those on the fire, will you?’

He exits and DS Jones finds herself needing to take a few deep breaths.  Her impulse is to leave – she could just walk out while he is gone.  But that would be the end of it.

Then she remembers the item, the mysterious card.

She picks it up – and within seconds has photographed it, front and rear – and replaced it, face down – and just in time – he is back so quickly.  He has a new, filled glass for her, and the sterling silver cocktail shaker in his other hand.  He glances at the table where she has wiped it, and the fire, where black paper pulp smoulders, still damp.

‘Emma – now – where were we?’

She stands to receive the glass.  He stoops momentarily to top up his own from the shaker.

She sees the tremor in her hand – the liquid threatens to overflow.

Then it seems like the glass must shatter.

‘What the – hell?!’

James Crabstaff, infuriated, has to yell to make himself heard.

DS Jones raises her free hand to the side of her head.

They both turn towards the door.

Activated without warning, the fire alarm is ear-splitting.

James Crabstaff casts about – at the hearth – as if for a moment he thinks of taking up a fire iron to silence the relentless intrusion.  But then his military training kicks in.

‘It must be a false alarm.  They are all connected.  One sets off the entire property.  Wait here, Emma.’

He departs quickly, though taking care to close the door behind him.

DS Jones automatically moves away from the source of the noise – Skelgill has a saying about pesky ducks, when afloat: double the distance, quarter the quack.  But even at the French windows it is hard to bear.  She pulls aside the curtain – why not step outside?

Why not?  The door is locked.  There is no key.

She assesses the doors.  They are traditional in style, but modern replacements made to high standards of security.  Break-in proof.  And out.

Her nostrils flare.

There could actually be a fire.

Swiftly she returns to the table and pulls on her sweater and jacket and gathers her pen and pad into her bag.

Following sounds, she finds James Crabstaff at a back door to a yard with stables opposite.  He stands on the threshold facing out.  Beyond him in the darkness there are signs of lights and faint voices, some distance off, it seems.  There are no obvious flames.

The passage is tiled and he hears her approach.

He turns and pulls the door until it is just ajar.

‘What are you doing here?’

She notes the omission of her name.

‘I felt I should get to a safe exit.  There’s no key in the library French windows.’

‘What?’

He seems more perplexed by her disobeying of his orders than her sensible reasons for doing so.

He pulls the door completely shut – though its upper half is glazed with frosted glass and some light is admitted.

And now there comes the lightning flicker of emergency services violet.

‘How did they get here so fast?’

His tone is irate – and his question directed it seems at DS Jones – though it can only be rhetorical.

But she responds.

‘You’ve got 24-hour monitoring.  That’s good, isn’t it?’

He seems to take a second to absorb her logic.  Voices – unintelligible – but perhaps increasingly agitated – are rising beyond the door.

She realises what she should do.

‘My car might be causing an obstruction – and the fire brigade won’t want me in their hair.’

She senses she must take care not to sound too professional.

She steps closer and takes hold of his forearm.

‘James – I’ll call you, right?  To come back.  Margarita – it’s my favourite cocktail.’

Her touch and her choice of words do their job.

She breaks away and he does nothing to object – he merely watches for a second or two and then perhaps nods but in the same movement turns and quickly exits, leaving her to depart to the opposite pole.

In the front courtyard blue light flickers from the back of the main house, reflecting off stables and outbuildings and the surrounding trees, which seem to lean in like a curious host of silent skeletal onlookers, Tolkienesque characters come up from the woods.

It crosses her mind that everyone present is distracted and right before her is the Estate Office, with its filing cabinets and computers.

She lingers for ten or fifteen seconds.

But there are times when discretion is the better part of valour.

She activates the central locking of her VW.  It is a reassuring moment.  She has done enough.

The farm track is more uneven than she remembers – perhaps because the ruts and potholes are barely visible by night, and the beam of her headlamps seems to bounce uselessly into the misty middle distance – until it picks out a gangly figure – what looks like a scarecrow that has broken free of its stake and is loping across the ploughed field to intercept her.

Skelgill.

Her car slides and he flaps across the windscreen as if he is trying bodily to arrest its momentum, his face close to the glass, his features strained and – she sees now – streaked with the improvised camouflage of mud.

Skelgill scrabbles around the VW and bundles himself into the passenger seat.

He forestalls questions.

‘Just drive, lass.  Get us clear.’

He means to recover his breath – but DS Jones is not about to wait.

‘Was that you?  Looking into the library?’

Skelgill clucks in frustration.

‘You didn’t do yourself any favours, drawing the curtains.’

DS Jones is about to object when she is struck by a second revelation.

‘Wait – did you do that – I mean – set off the fire alarm?’

Skelgill stretches out his legs in the cramped space, pushing back the seat, and folds his arms and scowls into the night.

‘You can’t smoke a quiet fag these days without upsetting folk.’

She shoots him a sideways look – it is all she can spare in needing to keep her eyes on the track – but it is enough to register her qualified disapproval.

But when she does not back up her action with words, Skelgill provides a rejoinder.

‘What exactly was your exit strategy?’

She compresses her lips, and her grip tightens on the steering wheel.

‘I wouldn’t have needed an exit strategy.’

Skelgill vocalises disdain with a rolling growl.

‘Lass – what if he spiked your drink?  I saw him through the window of the butler’s pantry.’

Now DS Jones is shaking her head.

‘They were just cocktails – besides, there was no way I was ever going to drink more than a sip.’

But she cannot help a glance into the rear-view mirror, to the back seat where in her satchel is a damp tissue sealed into a small plastic evidence bag.

She exhales, gritting her teeth.  Despite the premature termination of her fact-finding, Skelgill’s intervention came as she faced a hurdle that would have been awkward to refuse.  There are only so many times a girl can spill a drink.  Events might have not run smoothly had she been obliged to dig in her heels.

Skelgill takes what proves to be a last deep lungful of air and exhales, and settles, and now it seems his oxygen debt is replenished.  There is a silence, punctuated just by the crunch of tyres and the creak of the car’s suspension.

He clears his throat.

‘Any road – how did you get on?’

DS Jones makes something of a purring murmur.

‘Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.’  She grins and gestures briefly with her left hand.  ‘There’s a pack of face-cleansing wipes in the glove box.’

19. PLAIN SIGHT

Ring O’ Bells, Kirkland – 9.30 p.m.

‘ONE UNSPIKED PINT OF IPA.’

‘Pint?’

Skelgill grins wryly.

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

He puts down both glasses carefully in the centre of the small Formica-topped table and leans to watch them at close quarters for a few seconds.  He glances up at the CCTV camera that captured the claimed supernatural event and makes an ironic face.  Then he returns to the bar and comes back with two beermats.

‘Belt and braces, eh?’

DS Jones is about to remark on spilled drinks, but she checks herself and glances at the counter, where the landlady is busying herself polishing glasses with a black cloth.  She lowers her voice.

‘This feels a little like out of the fire and into the frying pan.’

Skelgill seems ready to correct her wordplay – but her sentiment satisfies him.

‘Move in plain sight.’

She nods pensively – he means that if there were a conspiracy, and they were unpicking it, they most likely would not come here at this juncture.  However, she holds on to the literal theme of the idiom.

‘How did the fire brigade get there so fast?’

Her inflection invites admission on Skelgill’s part.

He shrugs.

‘They don’t mind false alarms.  They set them up sometimes, training exercises – keep the crew on their toes.  Plus, they get paid time-and-a-half.’

DS Jones makes a face that suggests suspicion-and-a-half.

‘You mean they were – what – on standby?  Close by?  You know someone?’

It is a little salvo of questions which does not really require answers.

Skelgill dunks his nose into his beer.  Does he know someone?  Is the Pope a Catholic?

She shakes her head – resigned to the incorrigible.  She will deal with his eccentric guardian-angelship another time.

Besides, while she was tiptoeing about, Skelgill’s size twelves raised dust.

She tries her drink; the bitter hops catch the sides of her tongue in a not unpleasant way and delay her next point as she takes a second less experimental mouthful.  She is thirsty; and she can still taste the salty margarita.

‘Those outbuildings at the back – converted barns or stables or whatever they are – there were people inside.’

Skelgill is nodding before she is finished, as if he knows this.

She continues.

‘You know – I only caught a glimpse – heard a snippet – but I would say they were locked in – and were starting to panic.’

Now Skelgill takes a sizeable draught of ale.  It seems to be by way of encouragement – and so she elaborates.

‘It could be exactly what we’re looking for.  What if it’s more than Kendall Minto thinks?  Not just the properties – but the staffing of the businesses, exploiting illegal labour.  We know that the standard MO is to keep them cooped up and deprived of external contact.  According to the latest government report on small boats, Vietnamese are four times more likely to be consigned to the National Referral Mechanism.  One in three are suspected of being trafficked for the purposes of human slavery.’

Skelgill, however, is not committing to this extent.

She prods a little harder.

‘James Crabstaff – he was torn – when I offered to leave.’

‘Sorry to disappoint him.’

Skelgill’s terse rejoinder tells her she has both found the target but also touched a raw nerve.

She raises her pint; the tall straight glass looks oversized wrapped in her more delicate fingers and there is something symbolic in her action: that she has not been playing the strongest of hands.

‘The alarms were deafening – people were calling out – the fire brigade turned up all guns blazing – and I was nagging at his coattails.  There was no sign of the Earl and so he was left in charge.  Getting shot of me was one fewer plate to spin.’

Skelgill still frowns at her description.  But she has sufficiently lowered her rank in the pecking order.  She senses his assent and presses on.

‘I said I’d call him about a new date – and he agreed.  Look – I can’t swear he wasn’t suspicious, but there was nothing obvious.  That said, I think he’s well trained – ex-forces, would be my guess.  I can’t say I liked him.’

Skelgill lifts his glass and inhales, as is his habit before he drinks, but he stalls an inch short and exhales slowly; they are seated side by side and he stares pointedly towards the door.  He seems to be expecting company, as if he has seen someone pass a window and is counting down to their entry.  But no one comes.  He drinks and then puts down his glass.

DS Jones comprehends something of his reticence.  Outwardly, to less well-informed colleagues, Skelgill is regarded as a pessimist, and a recalcitrant one at that – but she knows differently.  His spectrum of hope stretches from blind optimism (how else could he sit through the night on a cold lake dangling a worm at the end of a pole?) to practical realism.  He is a glass half-full person.

Albeit he has drunk two-thirds of his India Pale Ale.

And she also understands his concern.  Right now, it is realistic to consider that, if Fellside Estate are up to no good, their cage may have been rattled sufficiently for them to act to cover their tracks while the absence of culpability prevails.  They may take drastic measures. Will they read anything into the fire alarm?  Do they know actually who she is?

Tonight was a risk – and it is hard to know whether they have courted success or invited disaster.  She racks her memory for clues, for the tiniest sign.  But James Crabstaff had shown none of his cards by subtle questioning of her purpose.  If it were not for her own suspicions – and that she was there under false pretences – she would have judged that his mind was on a single predictable track.

‘As it stands, I can get back in.  As soon as we want.  I’d like to look beyond the library.  The Estate Office and the outbuildings.  I can’t see that being easy – but he did offer to give me a tour.  I could ask to see what used to be the servants’ quarters.’

She sees that Skelgill scowls with proprietorial unease.

But he drinks and looks about.  The painting above the hearth catches his eye, the Holy Trinity Church and the ancient spreading yew.  A spotlight has been turned on, or a bulb replaced since their last visit, and the artwork seems more prominent.  In a rather curious action, overtly contemplative, he puts his palms together and fits his craggy profile of jaw and nose inharmoniously into the right-angle between his thumbs and long forefingers.

Perhaps there is a residual odour – for suddenly he inspects his hands.  They are not entirely clean – there is mud under his nails – and his face is not free of smears.

‘Better wash up.  If we’re getting chips, after.  Unless you fancy the Chinese?  If we’re sharp, they’ll still be open.  We can sit in.’

DS Jones chuckles.

‘You haven’t asked me about Flora, yet.’

Skelgill grins and drains his glass and rises.

He stops briefly, however, to scrutinise a corner of the painting, as if there were some flaw now cast into sharp contrast.

When he returns, rubbing his palms against his thighs, DS Jones has her phone face down on her lap.

‘I’ve got a heap of shorthand notes – and some pages I photographed that I’ll need to read properly.  I’ll type up a report for tomorrow’s meeting.  But this is my prize find.’

She produces the handset with a flourish.  Her voice is lowered to a whisper.

‘Flora Mary Graham.’

Skelgill merely moves his eyes.

‘It’s a staged photograph of the domestic staff in their Sunday best.  If the caption on the back is correct this one is Flora.’  Adeptly she makes a pinch-to-zoom movement.  ‘It says “Abbot Hall, Easter 1851”, so she would have been seventeen.  James Crabstaff had just brought it to show me, when the alarm went off.  He doesn’t know I looked at it.’

Skelgill makes no comment.

But he is transfixed.

She is stunning.

A rose among thorns would not remotely approach the metaphor, even when images dating from the dawn of photography reveal the servant classes to have been singularly unprepossessing, and a modest beauty would stand out.

The girl is a classic Celt – fair-skinned, long, dark hair frames high cheekbones, a proud, straight nose and full lips.  But for Skelgill, it is the eyes, soulful pools, still and deep, and so pale, almost preternaturally so.  Though the print is in sepia, he knows the irises to be green like lake water.

He lets go of the breath he has been holding and inhales again to speak – when the outer door opens and three women, heavily muffled against the cold, bundle themselves in, mid-conversation and form a small crowd, close by at the bar.

He stretches to swipe clear the photos app – to reveal beneath DS Jones’s Instagram, which she must have checked while he was in the washroom.  He is irked to see that DI Alec Smart, preposterously aka Tarzan, has liked a post.

He glares darkly – and is caught unawares when a shadow looms over them and DS Jones speaks.

‘Mrs Pendle.’

Skelgill looks up to see the bespectacled knitter whom he had taken for a churchwarden and whom his colleague has subsequently identified as the tower captain.

‘Liza, please.’  She smiles benevolently to Skelgill before turning to DS Jones.  ‘And, young lady, I hope we shall see you tomorrow evening?’

DS Jones reacts with unruffled calm, though beneath the table she presses her sole on Skelgill’s nearest boot.  Skelgill, to his credit, remains inscrutable.

‘I’m planning to come.’

The woman holds out her palms, almost joyfully.

‘Champion.  Would you care to join us in a drink?’

But Skelgill intervenes. He jerks a thumb towards the door.

‘Er – sorry, love – we’ve got a table booked.  We’re running late, as it is.’

He reaches past DS Jones for her glass and summarily drains its contents, crossing the aforementioned bridge.  He rises a little stiffly, groaning as if it is a chore and making a face of resignation.

‘Well – next time, perhaps.’  The woman brings her palms together.  ‘We normally pop in for a nightcap after practice.  It’s thirsty work.  And Belinda stays open late.’  She winks at DS Jones.  ‘Just don’t tell the local bobbies!’

Somewhat self-consciously, the plain-clothes detectives gather their belongings and don their jackets and make a diplomatic exit.  Skelgill, in holding the door for DS Jones, turns to look casually at the group at the bar.  The room is no bigger than a sitting-room, and they are just feet away.  They huddle over a mobile phone held by the landlady.  She flashes her mascaraed eyes at him.

As he backs out, he gets a glimpse of the screen.  If he is not mistaken, they are watching a silent replay from the pub’s internal CCTV.  The camera is trained on a small round table, where two familiar heads – one unkempt, one bronzed blonde – themselves pore over a mobile phone.

Wednesday

31st October

Halloween

20. COUNCIL III

Carnegie Library, Kendal – 9.30 a.m.

‘WE HAVE REFRESHMENTS on order – but perhaps we should just begin.’  Turnpike Media producer Jen glances about the table and seeing no dissent her gaze settles upon Kendall Minto.  ‘Kendall, I believe you have some interesting news from your visit to Fellside Grange?’

‘Delighted.’

As if primed for this, he jumps to his feet and strides to one corner from where he hauls an easel and flipchart and positions it so the group seated at the round table may get an optimum view.

DS Jones sees that Skelgill is glowering at the young reporter, an expression that he transfers to her.  She reads that he is miffed on her behalf – that Kendall Minto is stealing her thunder – but she plies him with a look that conveys this is her plan.

Skelgill appears a little mollified, but unready to look entirely satisfied.

Certainly, Kendall Minto is content to take some share of the glory.  He lifts the cover of the pad to reveal a dummy edition of the front page of his newspaper.

However, he makes a gesture towards DS Jones, one of inclusivity.

‘We were rather working on the hoof – and we had this idea.’  Now he waves a hand at the easel.  ‘I asked our art director to bash out this mock-up.  As you can see, “The Earl and the Servant Girl” takes on a contemporary twist, with the present Lord Fellside as figurehead for a charity appeal – proceeds towards a new neonatal wing at the county hospital.  This way, we’re not just telling a story for commercial purposes, but doing public good.  The Earl receives a much sought-after reputational boost.’

Kendall Minto noticeably swallows, and he cannot help an apprehensive glance at DS Jones and a small “ahem”.  She would not be surprised to find that the hand he holds behind his back has its fingers crossed.  “Earl Does Good” is not the headline he has in his sights.  “Fellside Fraud Scoop” – with his byline – is more likely his desire.

However, there is a collective murmur of approval, and he resumes his narrative.

‘We appear to have tacit agreement from the Fellside Estate.  As we previously thought, James Crabstaff is the gatekeeper and handles all the work and arrangements.  I just need to sell it to my Editor.  Should be no problem.’

He does not dwell on this point – and again looks to DS Jones for corroboration of what he is about to say.

‘We believe the story told from Flora’s perspective is what will garner public sympathy, and so we have focused our initial efforts on delving into her past – and – we have some initial progress.’

With a theatrical flourish he flips the page of the chart to reveal a grainy head-and-shoulders enlargement of a sombre young female.  For Skelgill, it is the second sight within twelve hours of the image that DS Jones has clandestinely obtained, but no less moving than the first.

‘If I may quote adman Fred R Barnard, I’m sure you will agree – a picture speaks ten thousand words.  This could be our secret weapon.’

If Kendall Minto had unveiled Vermeer’s original Girl with a Pearl Earring, he could not have won a more rapt audience.  So much so that for a moment nobody seems to notice a tap on the door and the entry, backing in, of the balding bespectacled middle-aged man bearing a tray heavy with the wherewithal for teas and coffees.

It takes Skelgill’s radar to pick up the incursion – and he makes a rather elaborate job of rising to intercept the interloper.  His motive in relation to first dibs at the biscuits might be suspected – but in alerting the others he causes Kendall Minto to break off mid-sentence, and indeed to turn back the chart to its cover.  Skelgill notices this and holds the young reporter’s gaze for a moment – and he gives Skelgill a small nod.

The tray is somewhat reluctantly surrendered; however, the man retreats and Skelgill places the refreshments in the centre of the table for each to reach according to their wishes.  In the small hiatus Kendall Minto has resumed his seat, though attention now refocuses upon him.

He has arrived this morning in a rather curious get-up, a casual outfit that is too large for his slight frame, but which is no doubt on trend, and now he adjusts his baggy sweatshirt as though he is feeling overheated.  He makes a bow towards DS Jones.

‘Er – well – I can perhaps hand over now to Emma – since we last convened, she has done her share of the legwork.’

Skelgill reverts to looking dissatisfied about the state of affairs and credit due – but DS Jones is plainly unperturbed and now she extracts from her shoulder bag a small stack of stapled photocopied reports, which she sends around the table for each member to peel off a set.

‘These are my own notes transcribed and some direct copies from ledgers.’  She waits until everyone has a document, and the last one arrives in front of Skelgill to her left.  ‘I wouldn’t propose to go through it – perhaps you would prefer to do so at your leisure.’  She glances across at Alice Wright-Fotheringham and Professor Jim Hartley.  ‘That you know so much more than us – you might spot something that could give me pointers for our next visit.’

The two elder statespersons appear content with the suggestion.  But producer Jen – perhaps detecting over-politeness on DS Jones’s part, and it being her remit to move the project forwards with good speed – has a compromise in mind.

‘While we’ve got our tea and biscuits and plenty of refills, why don’t we spend five minutes skimming?’

The compromise receives assent.

The professor sets about his document with gusto; the retired judge more diligently.

Jen and audiographer Mel begin to confer over points of possible interest; they exchange confidential whispers – perhaps conscious that they do not wish their amateur speculation to be picked up by the table microphone.

DS Leyton reads ponderously, tracing the lines of text with a sturdy index finger.

Kendall Minto clearly pretends that all is very good and that he knows the contents, nodding in affected affirmation as he leafs through.

Skelgill pretends nothing and does not even trouble to read the document.  As he munches pensively, however, he notices that the professor is suddenly arrested by some point, and he marks the page by folding over its corner.

Presently Jen calls time.

‘So, what do we think?  First impressions.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham is keen to state her position.  She allows a hand to fall onto her papers.

‘There is a lot here.  As Emma suggested, I should like to take away these details and digest them fully.’

Jim Hartley chuckles teasingly.

‘Oh, you lawyers – dotting your T’s and crossing your I’s.’

‘Jim, I note you have charged through like a bull in a china shop.’

He laughs again.

‘It is the way of the historian.  Maybe not the destructive ox – but the meandering bloodhound, I would admit, seeking out a scent.’

He raises his document illustratively.

‘Look on page twelve – halfway down the list of entries in the ledger.’  He waits until they all find the page.  He narrates.  ‘Jacob Pendle, Sexton, Holy Trinity Church.  On the seventh of March 1851, a payment of twenty-five guineas.  That was a lot of money.  A small fortune.’

Jen is quick to inquire.

‘What is a sexton – why would you pay him?’

In snatching a swig of his tea, the professor produces a macabre gurgle.

‘The sexton is an officer of the church.  He would be responsible for husbandry of church property and land, and various lesser duties such as to organise bellringing and grave-digging.  You might say the sexton knows where the bodies are buried.’

From beneath his shock of white hair he glances mischievously around the table.

‘Perhaps, connected to the Seventh Earl of Fellside there was a death of significance in early 1851 – and a burial.  If so, I rather think we ought to know about it.’  He begins to rise and he stamps a foot.  ‘And I’m in exactly the right place to find out.  Let me flush Geraldine from the catacombs and request to see the parish records.’

He looks to Jen as Chair for her approval, but she defers to his seniority.  He bows apologetically to Alice Wright-Fotheringham and addresses the group.

‘This morning, on the car journey down, Alice kindly gave me a preview of her latest findings – so perhaps I can catch up with you in half an hour or so?  If there is something buried in the archives, it won’t take me long to dig it out.’

He dwells no longer, and with an alacrity that belies his years he departs in a flurry of angular limbs.  Alice Wright-Fotheringham watches him with resigned amusement.  A silence ensues and she detects that all eyes have fallen upon her.

She has on the table a neat stack of papers that must extend to the best part of a ream.  She pats the pile.  Though she looks about a little discontentedly.

‘Yesterday evening I received a small avalanche of emails from my contact at the National Archives.  My poor inkjet printer has been working overtime – though the same cannot be said of myself.’  She glances at Skelgill.  ‘As you will know, Daniel, last night there was a sub-committee meeting on proposed bylaw amendments that required my attendance, as the legal representative of the DAA.’

Skelgill nods, a little unconvincingly.

She shapes a hand at the pile.

‘So, I am afraid I still have rather a lot of reading to do.’

There is a sense of anticlimax about the circle – but perhaps this is intentional on Alice Wright-Fotheringham’s part, and that it is her adversarial method to lower expectations in advance of a revelation.

‘However, I did at least read the digest which led me to two documents that I consider salient.’

She removes the top page to reveal a second that she displays briefly.  It is a copy of a handwritten account in archaic hand in black ink with corrections and crossings-out, the heavy ungainly strokes likely written with a quill pen.

‘It is the witness statement of constable Jackson who found Flora Mary Graham beside Blind Beck on Halloween, 1852.  You might say it is the arresting officer’s report.’

Now she has everyone’s attention.

‘The handwriting is problematic.  I have deciphered it, and I propose to read to you.  I shall moderate some of the vernacular.’

There are murmurs of approval, a sense of settling to be sitting comfortably.  Skelgill casually reaches for a small supply of biscuits.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham begins.

‘“On the night of 31st October I was patrolling my beat along Kirkland.”  Note that here he refers to the street of that name, rather than the parish itself.  “The Holy Trinity Church clock had just struck midnight.  A gale was blowing and rain stotting down.  I heard a strange cry, like a warning owl or a fighting cat or a banshee.  It seemed to come from the direction of Blind Beck, close by Abbot Hall.  I crossed the graveyard but my lantern was little use in the storm.  The sound came again, from the far bank, the north side, but the beck was in spate.  I ran back to Kirkland to cross by the street.”’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham pauses to look up.  She sees that Skelgill is staring into space and she waits, rather like a schoolmistress who is determined that her daydreaming pupil shall rejoin the class.  After a moment, he obliges.

‘“I approached and in the light of my lantern I saw a lass up to her waist at the edge of the beck, struggling to stand against the current.  In her arms she held a bairn.  I thought, she’s drowning the bairn.  I shouted to her to stop – that I was a constable – but she ignored me like she was frozen to the spot.  I blew my whistle for help and then I managed to haul them both onto the bank.  She neither resisted nor helped herself.”’

Silence.

‘It is quite vivid in its candour, is it not?’

There are nods of agreement.

‘“The lass had the shivers summat bad.  She were soaked head to foot, her hair all matted.  In the light of my lamp I noticed a cloak lying where it had been thrown down.  It was made of Kendal green and thick, and I tried to put it round her – but she wouldn’t have it – and she laid down the bairn and wrapped it in the cloak.  That was when I saw the sovereigns scattered in the grass, which must have fallen out of the garment.”’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham hesitates – as though she might be about to add an observation of her own – but she refrains and continues.

‘“Two more constables now came, having heard my whistle.  Smithson and Harrison. Constable Smithson recognised the lass as Flora Graham, servant from Abbot Hall, as he had a brother that worked there as a gardener, and he’d pointed her out for her fine looks in church.  We agreed there was no reason to bide in the rain.  They led the lass and her bairn away.  They said they’d take them to the paupers’ hospital and one would stand guard while t’ other fetched the magistrate.

‘“I went back round to Abbot Hall, to raise the alarm and inform Lord Fellside.  That was when it was realised that his Lordship was missing, though he had been writing in his study when Lady Fellside retired at eleven o’clock.  I inquired about Flora Graham.  After a while – and worried about their missing master – one of the servant staff told me in confidence that Flora Graham had concealed a pregnancy – and had been hiding the bairn for nearly a month in her quarters.  But it were fractious – she would have been dismissed by the housekeeper if it had been discovered – and it fitted what I’d seen: that she was about to drown it.  She waited until midnight when she thought the household were all abed.  But Lord Fellside must have heard her going out and followed her.

‘“Lord Fellside however did not return and by one o’clock I took the butler and a groom with lanterns and we began a search.  Almost immediately we came upon a Moses basket with bedding just a few yards from the back door of Abbot Hall, where the beck runs closest.  From there we searched downstream – and that’s when we found the body of Lord Fellside, trapped in the sluice gate where Blind Beck meets the River Kent.  We dragged him free but it was too late.  There was a gash on his right temple.  He must have tried to intervene and was struck by Flora Graham.  We searched for a weapon but if it were a branch it would have been swept away.  She must have robbed him of the sovereigns and heaved him into the beck to make it look like he drowned.’”

Alice Wright-Fotheringham puts down the paper.  She has reached the end.  She gazes over the rim of her reading glasses to assess the effect of her account.  There is more or less unanimity in expressions of despair, except that Skelgill regards her intently.  She responds with a narrowing of her cool blue eyes.

DS Jones observes this small exchange – and now she watches as Skelgill retrieves something from the pocket of his jacket hung on the back of his chair.  She sees it is the Baddeley guide she presented to him.  He folds out a map and becomes engrossed.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham looks to the police officers.

‘It strikes me that the constable exceeded his remit, by today’s standards.  But his statement was the nearest thing to an eyewitness account.  It is powerful and – given Flora’s inability to present a competing narrative – it was no doubt influential.  Moreover, there would have been immense pressure upon the police to solve the case.’

Jen has been listening carefully.  She asks the good journalist’s question.

‘Alice, are you suggesting that Flora was made a scapegoat?’

Skelgill looks up from his map-reading but does not remark.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham is inscrutable.  However, she takes up a second paper.

‘I have here the summing-up of His Honour Ebeneezer Rich, the circuit judge from the Carlisle assizes.’  She begins to read aloud.  ‘“Seldom has there been such a vehement statement of unanimity in recommendation to mercy.”  You see – he bows to local sentiment, to the jury.  In such cruel times it is a surprise, when we have the death of a nobleman and the conviction of a member of the lower classes.  The judge closed: “I can only conclude you believe transportation is a punishment worse than the gallows.”’

‘That’s what we said.’

It is Jen’s comment, and she has more to add on this aspect.  She swipes at her electronic tablet and squints at the screen.

‘There is a British Convict Transportation Register on which Flora’s name appears – so we know she was destined for Van Diemen’s Land, modern-day Tasmania.  However, we could find no trail – not even whether she and her child survived the voyage.  Over twelve thousand British women were sent to Tasmania, most of them after 1840 when transportation to New South Wales ceased, and up to 1853.  However, we have a sister company in Sydney, and they have an agent in Hobart.  They are looking into it.  As soon as we receive any news we’ll report back.’

DS Leyton has been listening with eyes wide.  He clears his throat and looks about a little apprehensively.

The audience can tell he is struggling with a point that he plainly thinks is too obvious.  Those more solicitous offer looks of encouragement.

‘Ain’t it a bit queer – I mean – there she was, caught bang to rights trying to drown her own flesh and blood – and next thing she’s packed off aboard a ship with the poor mite.  Why wouldn’t they expect the worst?’

It might be obvious, but it silences the room.

Alice Wright-Fotheringham is first to respond.

‘Flora Mary Graham was not indicted with attempted infanticide.  Merely the greater charge of the murder of Lord Fellside.  Strictly speaking, there was no jurisdiction over her child.  It was the custom that dependants were transported with their mothers.  Besides, no community in those times sought the additional burden of a suckling infant.’

She speaks as a dispassionate finder of facts and there is a further hiatus before Kendall Minto perhaps feels he can tender a gentler line.

‘It does appear that there was some sympathy for Flora and her child.  The constable’s statement has her being taken to the paupers’ hospital.  And we know she was there long enough to hide her locket and the note.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham does not demur.

‘If she or the child were unwell – which would not be surprising under the circumstances – and they did not consider her a flight risk – then to keep her under watch at the hospital would be conceivable.  They would have wanted her to survive to stand trial.  Carlisle gaol might not have been so beneficial to such an outcome.  And a paupers’ hospital was regarded as an asylum for the disturbed of mind.’

The retired judge looks about as if to seek dissent; her gaze comes to rest on Skelgill.  He is again regarding her in a far-off manner, and she stares until his focus adjusts and he starts a little.  She plies him with a shrewd smile.

At this juncture the professor returns and there is a disturbance and modicum of small talk while he regains his seat.  He brandishes his notebook but appears a little downcast.

‘I am afraid Geraldine and I rather drew a blank.  There is no record of a death related to Abbot Hall or the Fellside family in either 1850 or 1851.  We cross-referenced the Kirkland parish records and there is nothing.  Of course, there were other churches – but the emolument of twenty-five guineas was made from the Fellside account to the Holy Trinity sexton – a payment that would typically be due to the church.’

He makes a face of discontent.

‘To put the sum into context, however, one thing we did note was that around that time, a family would be paying eleven shillings for a burial and one shilling and tenpence to have the bells rung.  Twenty-five guineas would get a funeral fit for a lord.’

There are murmurs around the table and informal suggestions, but now a sense that the meeting is drawing to its natural conclusion.  DS Jones sees that Skelgill is once more scrutinising the map he has folded out from his Baddeley – and he extracts a slip of paper from the flap in the back cover.  She recognises it as the torn scrap he has saved, the photocopy of what they believe to be Flora Mary Graham’s plaintive entreaty.

Jen gives a polite clap of her hands and indicates that she will summarise.

‘Well, we all have plenty of material to digest, with more to come.  Can I suggest that we liaise via the WhatsApp group to arrange our next meeting – perhaps by this evening we will all be in a better position to kick a new date around?’

She must notice some reaction from Skelgill – perhaps she interprets that he prickles, for she addresses him directly.

‘Inspector, we really appreciate your time and dedication – we understand you have a day job to do and an important one at that.’

Skelgill makes a face of forbearance.

‘Aye – as it happens – we need a little confab right now.’

‘Then, why don’t you use this room?  We can all leave you in peace.  Mel will switch off the mike!’

There is a breaking up, quite efficient, with brief farewells.  The Turnpike Media duo depart as a pair and Alice Wright-Fotheringham and Jim Hartley likewise.  Kendall Minto seems to loiter – but realises he has to go.  He sidles across to DS Jones.

‘Emma – you’ll let me know?  About the next steps with Crabstaff.’

She reassures him with a smile.

Left to themselves, Skelgill reaches for a biscuit and top-up from the tea flask, but it is empty and he pockets the biscuit, not troubling with a napkin.

‘We can’t let the grass grow under us feet.  Let’s check out some of these dodgy businesses that belong to Fellside Estate.’

When his colleagues might be expecting at least some reflection – perhaps the dramatic account of the arrest of Flora Mary Graham – it is plain that he has shifted track entirely.  He has the live case of the missing Vietnamese girl front of mind.  Perhaps there has been an ominous demand from the Chief, and this is what has distracted him during the meeting.

DS Leyton seems to know Skelgill expects some initiative to be shown.

‘My motor needs a clean – I could try the car wash, Guv.  I assume you mean incognito, right?’

Skelgill nods.  He looks to DS Jones.

She is on the ball.

‘I was thinking the converted flats in Fellside Mill by the river – and the old workhouse in Allhallows Lane.  I noticed a couple of agents’ boards when we passed on Monday.  I can act the prospective tenant and ask for a viewing.  I am Generation Rent, after all.  That will get me inside one or other of the buildings.  I might glean a flavour of who else is in residence.’

Skelgill regards her reflectively – but she speaks again before he might voice any concern.

‘But first, I think I ought to check if Anna is at work at the nail bar this morning.’

Skelgill narrows his eyes in qualified agreement.

DS Leyton chips in.

‘What about you, Guv?’

Skelgill stretches, and yawns.  There might just be the hint of a mischievous grin aimed at DS Jones.

‘Since I’ve acquired a smoking habit, happen I’d better try vapes – see if I can quit.’

He wins a sardonic smile.

‘Meet, say, one o’clock in the café.  Use the back entrance.’

They depart – but on the landing Skelgill makes an excuse that he is visiting the gents’.  He follows signs to the upper floor but passes by the washrooms and enters the public reference department, the lending library being on the ground floor.  He does not make an exact beeline – but follows his nose to a corner where old maps of Kendal are mounted on the wall.  He gives a small growl of approval when he sees the Henry Hoggarth plan of 1853.  It is generously scaled at seventy-four yards to the inch, with every property meticulously drawn and each householder’s name printed in minute type.

He leans close.  His eye follows the River Kent downstream to its bend where Abbot Hall and the parish church stand on the bulge of the floodplain.  Blind Beck cuts off Abbot Hall on its north side from a paddock owned by one Wm Wilson Esq which is today the recreation ground.  Skelgill traces the unbroken line of Blind Beck between Kirkland and the stream’s confluence with the Kent.

‘Prints are available for purchase, if you’re interested, sir.’

Skelgill spins on his heel – more quickly than he would have wished.  But he has been approached surreptitiously on the carpeted floor.

He faces the balding bespectacled bringer of beverages.  The ID badge on his lanyard names him as Norman Gandy, Assistant Archivist.  There is a tang of body odour.

Skelgill gathers his wits.

‘Nay – you’re alreet, ta.  I were just looking to see if there were any salmon pools marked.  They fall out of favour – but the fish don’t forget.’

The man reacts with affected neutrality.

‘We have old texts on angling.  I can point you to the section.’

Skelgill raises his right hand and gives a shake of his wristwatch.

‘Thanks – but I need to go – it were just on the off chance.’

The man regards Skelgill evenly.

‘Well – maybe next time you’re here.’

‘Aye.’

Irked, as if by the notion that the man obviously knows who he is, Skelgill does pay a brief visit to the washroom – and perhaps to check it is not he who needs deodorant.

He jogs downstairs shaking water off his hands and enters the main floor when Kendall Minto breaks away from pretending to peruse romantic fantasy to intercept him.  He has obviously been waiting.

‘Er – Inspector – I hope you don’t mind.  There is something I thought I ought to tell you.’

Skelgill scowls but stops.

‘Aye?’

Now Kendall Minto wavers.

‘Er – perhaps we could go outside?’

There is the suggestion of being overheard.  Skelgill wants to object on principle – which Kendall Minto senses.

‘It concerns Emma – well – I mean – I know she turns heads – but it is for her safety, really.’

21. MISSING

Around Kendal – 11.00 a.m.

THE TEXT FROM DS Jones to her colleagues lands on Skelgill’s mobile phone within just a few minutes of his arrival by means of a circuitous backstreet route in the picturesque yard which accommodates the almshouses and, at its front, Paupers’ Café.  Their rendezvous is not for two hours, and he has no intention of ensconcing himself – he has other ports of call, not least his nomination of the vape shop, and there is an adjacent tanning salon that might be worthy of inspection.  But he has been inside to buy a takeaway tea to go with his purloined biscuit.  While waiting at the counter, he obtained a view of Ardas Nails, but he had seen no sign of DS Jones.  He considers her abbreviated message.

“Anna gone.  Said I was calling to tip her.  Suspect manager was in back shop.  Wall of silence.”

Skelgill envisages the little scenario.  DS Jones would not have wanted to linger, or to seem to be prying into Anna’s absence.  Clearly, she believes the staff have been gagged.

He glowers at his handset; unwatched, he feels no need to conceal his concern.

It is a balancing act.  Undoubtedly, they are penetrating an illicit organisation – but what does this enemy know and suspect about them?  It is a game of cat and mouse, when it is not entirely clear who is the cat and who is the mouse.  And, if they put a foot wrong, what risks do their inquiries pose to the innocent victims?  That Anna may now have been ‘disappeared’ heightens the jeopardy.

There is, too, the jeopardy of the detectives when they operate half in shadow.  Most notably of DS Jones.  There is a dark maze of imperilment into which he does not have to let her walk.  But she is their conduit; like it or not, she bears the torch.

What Kendall Minto has told him did not come entirely as a surprise.

Minto insisted he had inadvertently followed her at a distance.  And then he noticed that she was followed to Ardas Nails.  The same man, he has just encountered himself, a man not averse to eavesdropping – assistant to Dr Geraldine Gibson, Norman Gandy.  Skelgill’s nostrils twitch.

Ordinarily he is sceptical of the eyewitness.  Whether it be a crime-related incident, or something of a less important nature – such as the identification of a bird or animal.  How many ‘big cats’ in the woods have turned out to be farmyard mousers viewed with accidental forced perspective?  Only the other day an excited walker burst into The Partridge claiming a basking plesiosaur in Bassenthwaite Lake that turned out to be a family of otters.  Folk see what they want to see.

But Minto?

Thorn in his side he may be, it is Skelgill’s experience that he has a keen ear, a sharp eye and a shrewd mind.  And the intuition of a good reporter, a quality that Skelgill respects.  In previous encounters he has been accurate.  The hack might seek sensation, but there is always the iron rule of the Editor.  Just like he has the iron rule of the Chief.  In this thought there comes a reminder of his official brief: the matter of Maria.

He makes an indeterminate squawk of frustration.

On his mobile he has two consecutive photographs.  The grainy close-up of the missing Maria from the police station CCTV and the sepia enlargement of Flora shared by DS Jones.  He thumbs between them.  If Flora was just seventeen in this shot, then perhaps Maria is only a little older.  Two centuries and two oceans might separate them, but across these voids he feels a connection.  There is common humanity in their eyes.

And he reflects upon what has caused him to gravitate to this spot.

He stands before the middle of the row of almshouses that runs perpendicular from the ancient hospital building.  The datestone states simply, “1659 – rebuilt 1852”.  The former year is also that attributed to the hospital itself, its antiquity revealed by its irregular lines and small crooked windows.  ‘Hospital’ indeed is a grand title – it is a two-storey cottage that fronts onto the high street whence a covered passage leads into the open yard.  Then again, in 1659, what space did a hospital need?  There was no equipment – no electricity, no anaesthesia.  It would have been little more than a sanctuary where local healers dispensed herbal remedies.

The date of 1852 is more salient.  Skelgill narrows his eyes.  Was this a construction site when Flora was confined here?  Was she allowed to walk about this yard, to give her child some air?  Deaf to the wolf-whistles and bawdy jibes of uncouth Victorian stonemasons?

And yet some renovation work they carried out in the hospital provided her with the chance to hide her locket and the note that has travelled through time.  He places a hand upon the pocket of his jacket where its facsimile is folded inside his Baddeley.

The solid presence drives away the ghosts and he shakes his head.  From its spot balanced on the gatepost of the adjacent almshouse he picks up his paper cup and drains its contents and looks about for a means of disposal.  The almshouses are occupied just as any other properties might be, and he deciphers the recycling codes of a series of coloured wheelie bins by peering inside.

He considers that to use the ginnel to reach the high street opposite Ardas Nails is not a wise option, and he retraces his steps to rejoin the stretch close to the Carnegie Library. 

He crosses and continues northwards and finds his progress hampered by a couple of about his age; the woman, well dressed and shapely, fights to restrain a brace of Labrador retrievers, one black and one chocolate, that haul at their leashes as if lunch lies just beyond the tips of their snouts; the man, about the same height as his wife, wears a blue-and-white bobble hat and a red cagoule, and is preoccupied in taking snapshots of almost every building they pass.  Skelgill catches snatches of their conversation, and he cannot help feeling that he has seen them somewhere before.

Perhaps for this reason he slackens his pace and yields to the lot of following them for what will only be a short distance.  He allows a gap to lengthen and when they stop for a photograph he turns to browse whatever shop window is nearest.  The man becomes particularly animated as they reach the coffee house that inhabits the old brush factory, a venerable edifice with extraordinary chimney stacks, and a datestone of 1575.

‘It’s like we’re back in the Middle Ages, doll.’

The observation is a little wasted on his partner, who literally has her hands full as the dogs get wind of fresh baking, and her movements resemble those of a water skier crossing the wake of another boat.

A few yards more and the man is arrested by a second café bar, equally incongruous as a modern outfit trading from an old property, this a magnificent three-storey Georgian town house.  It has a Kendal Civic Society plaque of the type favoured by DS Jones and the man now relays a fragment of its contents.

‘Hey up – listen to this.  It says Bonnie Prince Charlie slept here in 1745 on his retreat from Derby.  And the next night his pursuer, the Duke of Cumberland, slept here!’

His wife can only pay limited attention.

‘Well, me duck – p’raps it used to be an Airbnb.’

The man shoots her a disdainful glance – but he has his sights on more trophies for his camera and begins to move off.

‘Come on, doll – there’s the sign for the Ye Olde Kendal Mint Cake Shoppe.  We’ll buy some for the drive home.’

Skelgill has been lulled into comfortable eavesdropping, but this mention of what is also his destination stirs him from his reverie.  These visitors might serve him well.

He crosses back over to the west side of the street and strides quickly, overtaking the couple and stepping into the entrance of a ginnel opposite the mint cake store.  He retreats a little into the shadows.

As far as he can see, the shop is still closed.  There is no light on inside, nor an ‘Open’ card on the door.  He waits as the man peers first through the main window and then the glass of the door and, finding it locked, begins to knock vigorously and complain to his wife.  The dogs react to his frustration and begin to bark.

But Skelgill is not watching what is happening at ground level – his eye is fixed on the windows of the flat above – and, sure enough, almost immediately there is a slight parting of the Venetian blinds as somebody gets a view of the pavement below.  It is just a few seconds before the bent blind snaps back into shape – but it has been long enough for the peeper to determine the nature of the commotion.

Skelgill remains in place until the couple and their dogs give up and move on, and indeed he waits for another minute to satisfy himself that whoever is inside the flat is not about to haul up the blinds to admit some daylight and in the process reveal themselves.

But he has seen enough.  The scenario fits with his own failure to gain entry with his colleagues on Sunday, when he was sure he saw a movement in the back of the shop.  And, since, he has learned from DS Jones that this is one of the Fellside Estate properties that Kendall Minto’s mole believes is being targeted for repossession.  The rent jacked up to unaffordable proportions.

No surprise, then, if the present tenant has barricaded themselves in.  Quite likely the estate manager Crabstaff will send round the bully-boy bailiffs.  Skelgill would like to hear about this from the frightened shopkeeper – but he knows that right now his only chance of getting the person to open up would be to reveal his official credentials – probably needing to shout from the street in order to do so.  To broadcast the involvement of the police is not an option at this juncture.

He leaves the cover of the alley as though he has walked through it, and only casually glances across at the famous old store.  He notes that its sign gives its date of founding as 1869 – not so long after Flora Mary Graham became the talk of the town, but not something she was able to remain in Kendal to enjoy.

Now he begins to retrace his route of Sunday, finding the sloping yard which unlike most run perpendicular from the high street and which instead descends at a tangent towards the river and which, in another place, with its quaint and curious old shops crowding in on the passer-by might merit the magical epithet “Diagon Alley”.

He emerges close to the Kent, and he heads for the walkway, keen for a glimpse of the flow now that the last of the rain from the fells has passed through; a river reveals itself when it recovers from spate, its nuances, slow straits and shimmering shallows, its waterside plants and wildlife.  And his improvised excuse of looking for historical salmon pools was only half a lie – of course he wants to know where anglers of yore tried their luck.  Nor is it lost on him that tomorrow is the first day of November.  The close season begins and he will have to wait until February.

It strikes him that he could hire a rod from the tackle shop along Kirkland and fit in an hour’s practice; his two-handed casting is rusty, after all.  And there is the Witches’ Pool, eulogised by Jim Hartley, and Jim knows his onions.

Such is he mesmerised by the notion, that he does not notice the woman who watches him blithely cross the junction where traffic swings round from Miller Bridge with scant regard for pedestrians who may be tourists and thus doubly oblivious to the perils of sightseeing.  She might have been about to cross herself, in the opposite direction, but instead she teeters on the kerb.

‘The lure of t’ watter.’

Skelgill is jolted from his wishful thinking.

It is the traffic warden.

She seems to know his mind.  Or did she previously see him ogling covetously the travel rod?

‘Alreet, love.’

He cannot think of a witty rejoinder, but she does not wait for one.  She steps close and places a hand against his elbow and pinches the sleeve of his jacket.

‘How did you like the paupers’ hospital café?  Best parkin in town, I always say – ha-hah!’

Skelgill is experiencing a flurry of confused imagery, so much so that he misses what must be a joke.  Scenes flash through his mind: her intervention outside Fortune Antiques; her behaviour as reported by Kendall Minto (who swears she was passing or receiving a message); the force of DS Leyton’s exclamation when he identified her among the bellringers; and her forward manner now.

Rather than panicking when bewildered, playing daft comes easily to him, and he is not without charm in his own dry way, and a little impetuously he calls her bluff.

‘There’s not much gets past thee – I shouldn’t like to be a motorist hereabouts – I’ve got a glovebox stuffed with tickets, as it is.’

‘Aye, well – happen I’d make an exception.’

She seems pleased with his reaction, and mildly flirtatious – that despite their difference in age she is flattered by the approbation of the younger man.

She still has hold of him, and he feels he must play along.

‘If we keep meeting like this, I might have to book you as my tour guide.’

She chuckles warmly and gives a mischievous tug on his sleeve.  She leans closer.

‘I’ll tell you a local secret.  If you go up t’ castle – make sure it’s before dark.  Tonight’s Halloween – and they say the spirits of the Kendal Witches rise to wreak vengeance on the ancestors of them as burnt them at t’ stake.’

She laughs a little hysterically and lets go and backs off, watching him closely.

Then, satisfied it seems, she gives a wave and turns and ambles away, interrogating her mobile phone or perhaps some portable device that monitors errant parkers.

Skelgill regards her for a moment before he continues downstream.

Don’t go to the castle after dark?  An embedded command, if he ever heard one.

That said, it is merely midday, and he is halfway up Sunnyside en route to the castle and deep in ruminative feeling if not productive thought when his downcast gaze falls upon the micro-library that had so arrested DS Leyton.  It springs him from his tangled reverie.  He halts – as before, it is not the literature but the window with its menagerie of stuffed animals that holds more interest for him.  There is no sign of the feline that impersonated a dozing wildcat – and he notices another change.  Where previously there was the ram’s skull now stands a pair of carved and painted antique figurines, maybe eight inches tall – a cane-bearing gentleman in Victorian top hat and tails who appears to proposition a coy young woman dressed like a housemaid with a gold bow in her black hair, cradling on one hip a small child and trailing in her free hand a heavy wicker basket.

Skelgill is contemplating this staged cameo when from the side of the house he hears a latch click and the excited yap of a dog – and the voice of a woman imploring it to be patient.  A walk is afoot.  Likely a regular route – across the road, through the park and up into the castle grounds.  Or does she just know he is standing here, and is making an excuse to come out?

He does not wait to find out.  He turns on his heel and marches back down the hill towards the river.  He pulls up his hood and does not look around – and only stops after a minute when he reaches the bridge – Castle Bridge, it is called – spanning what he had previously classed as the abandoned railway line.

He leans on the parapet and stares along the grassy walkway.

There is perception and truth – for Henry Hoggarth’s map of 1853 has corrected his assumption.

It was not clouds of steam and the clank of iron that once rose from beneath this bridge, but the splash of water and the whinny and champ of Clydesdales.  For this was not the railway coming up into town, but the Lancaster and Kendal canal.

A canal no more.  It is drained and filled.

Reaching the Kent, he crosses the footbridge and considers the recreation ground.  Aye, the map.  Here was William Wilson’s paddock at the time of the … of the what? He realises they do not have a title for the events of Halloween, 1852.  The attempted drowning of the bairn?  The arrest of Flora Mary Graham? The death of Lord Fellside?

He pulls out his phone and finds the photograph he took of the portrait of the Seventh Earl of Fellside.  The confident, arrogant posing nobleman and the backcloth – literally cloth on his left, the curtain of Kendal green – and on his right the view through the sash window of the pasture.  Painted now, where he stands, Skelgill would be a stick figure among the sheep.

He approaches the point where the Kent walkway crosses the outflow of the stream.  Beneath the wall to his right Blind Beck is steep-sided and probably was then.  The old sluice gate to which the constable referred has been replaced by the modern wrought-iron debris screen that had prompted Kendall Minto to comment, designed to filter out logs and plastic rubbish and let the water through.  Today the stream is just a few inches deep.  But that could change if the shipping forecast he heard at midnight is correct.  The first proper storm of autumn is presently barrelling across the ocean.  And severe enough to merit a name – Áine – a fashion copied from America, and for some reason the Irish Met Office gets to choose.  He supposes because these Atlantic cyclones make landfall at the southwestern tip of the British Isles.

He looks to the sky and sniffs the air.  There is barely a breeze but there is mist and the fellside horizons around the dale are closing in, the mountains gradually disappearing into an obscure blue-grey haze that whitens as it extends overhead.  It is the sort of cloud that only thickens.  He anticipates that before long mizzle will dampen the crisp leaves and drip from blackened boughs.  The chill in the air is a precursor to the sudden rise in temperature as the warm front sweeps in and the storm turns the place on its head.  Trees will sway like beds of kelp in tidal races and small branches will be torn from their anchorages.  In Constable Jackson’s vernacular, it will be stotting down.

And so Blind Beck will rise.

Skelgill follows the north bank of the stream to the modern footbridge halfway along, close to Abbot Hall, for convenient public access to the gallery.

He crosses but immediately stops in his tracks and stares at the ground at his feet.

Right here is the spot where the constable found the empty Moses basket.

His pulse quickens.

Then he smells baking.

But when he looks up and across to Abbot Hall he sees that he is being watched.

Standing straight and tall in the very gallery window where the Seventh Earl was captured in oils in the northern light is the slender lass with the big hair, the serving girl from the café who had seen him take the photograph.

She must have been looking at him, though now with the habit of her generation she has her head bowed slightly and her two hands holding her mobile phone.  And then she turns and moves away – such that Skelgill could almost ask himself if he has imagined her presence.

His first inclination is to follow – after all, he needs little excuse to visit the cafeteria.  But when he skirts the building something pulls him away, and he crosses the grass towards the Holy Trinity Church and reaches the sheltered corner that DS Leyton had called the ‘paveyard’.

The early afternoon gloom seems to intensify, but it is the shadow of the great spreading yew that swallows the light and Skelgill becomes conscious of entering into the scene of the landscape that hangs over the hearth in the Ring O’ Bells.

He stops to consider for a moment the tree itself.  The artwork, he recalls, is dated 1888 and yet the tree appears little different in its proportions.  But what are a couple of centuries in the life of a yew?  They live for thousands of years and guard Christian sites of worship with their pagan magic.

He thinks now of what else he has seen in the painting.  Its otherworldly character leaves room for interpretation – but that would be to admit into his method the very confirmation bias he has earlier decried.

Nonetheless, he locates the distinctive memorial – the ‘pirate grave’ with its grotesquely eroded skull and crossbones.  What words, if any, were carved into the yielding red sandstone are worn away – but the date is just legible, 1834.  Without epitaph or explanation, he is free to invent his own story – and he experiences a sensation that is not exactly the clichéd shiver down the spine, but it is not far removed.

The church appears empty as he pushes through the inner door of the vestibule and stops dead like a fox with its senses switched to max.  Silence is the first signal received – if nothing can be something – and yet it is a silence that describes the walls, the windows, the rafters, the organs and their pipes, the artefacts great and small, the oak pews, and even the bells up in the tower as if they all emit some energy that is the essence of a church, perhaps an energy they have absorbed over a millennium and now emanate.  Heard thus, silence may be deafening.

But scent subsumes sound and candlewax incompletely combusted and the smells of old hymnals and mould spores and the fresh pungency of what he realises are carved turnips that may just be beginning to decay, being more tangible reassure and prompt him to enter.  He treads quietly, however, and follows the same clockwise circuit he took with his colleagues – passing the old pub sign of the distorted bellringers, the alms board – an early social media timeline, really – and along past row upon row of oak pews and round by the apse until he reaches the Fellside chapel with its ornately carved open partitions.

The sarcophagus, mottled grey marble, massive and heavy beneath the window, like Jupiter draws him into its orbit as the captured moon Io.

He lays a palm on the inscription.  The church is cool, but the stone is cold.  How can that be?

And – in here – or is it below here, in the undercroft – lie the mortal remains?  The Seventh Earl of Fellside, Lord Edward William, his life “cruelly” terminated.  Then – presumably, since this was no pharaoh whose retinue went live to his grave – interred at later intervals were the bodies of his wife and daughters.

Skelgill looks up at the window.  The shepherd, his flock, the coat of arms with its suggestions of purposefulness.  The Latin motto that he sees but cannot easily enunciate.

But he recalls the translation.  Alice Wright-Fotheringham, in enlightening them of its meaning, could not keep from her tone a judge’s note of sarcastic disapproval.

‘How was your pickle?’

He starts.

This voice is not in his head but comes from close behind.

He turns to see the tower captain standing demurely in the open frame of the chapel entrance.  Perhaps a little breathless, she cradles a large pumpkin.

Such has been the maelstrom of his feelings that it takes him a moment to land this mundane question – it slips and slides like an errant trout that evades the net and, when he finally gathers his wits, he is almost prompted to a white lie – except he is sure she will know, and he vacillates.

‘I thought I’d save it for a rainy day.’

‘I’m sure that will be soon.’

Skelgill remembers she was not around when he made his purchase, putting money in the honesty box and pocketing the small jar.  She is merely smiling.  She has a kind, benign nature – and clearly no wish to make him feel uncomfortable.

‘Well – I shall leave you – I see you are busy – and –’ (she gives a little heave on the pumpkin) ‘I have this to disembowel.’

She chuckles and begins to back away.

‘Aye.’

Skelgill resorts to a neutral default in absence of anything better to say.

She holds his gaze.

‘And we’ll be seeing your – er – your lady friend?’

Skelgill swallows.  His mouth is dry.

‘Aye, happen you will.’

She smiles and turns and ambles down the central nave.  As soon as she is at a respectable distance, Skelgill too sets off although he veers to his left and takes the adjoining aisle, stepping in parallel some thirty feet staggered.  He sees her approach what must be the door to the belltower and disappear inside without looking back.  He continues and leaves via the vestibule ahead of him and strides through the churchyard onto Kirkland and across the road and does not stop until he reaches the window of Fortune Antiques.

The short but brisk walk has cleared his mind, which now kindles the faint hope that the brass fly reel has found its way back onto sale.  But what makes him catch his breath is a small jewellery box that is front and centre of the display, open like a clamshell and containing a pair of earrings of the same old silver and striking midnight blue stones as the bracelet he has gifted to DS Jones.  Lapis lazuli.

He blinks several times.

He knows what he ought to do – just like he should have struck while the iron was hot and bought the reel.  Yet a minute passes, and he is still wrestling with procrastination when almost unbelievably a heavily ringed hand snakes between two brass candlesticks and withdraws the blue earrings.

He steps back, embarrassed that he might be caught coveting the item – nor does he wish to be identified.  Then he edges closer and affects casually to be browsing – much as he wants to press his nose to the glass and shade his eyes and peer to see what is going on inside.  Is there a customer about to snap up the jewels?  But the window is packed with wares, obscuring the view, and within it is gloomy, no doubt lamplit as before.

He could go in and make a better offer.

Or maybe they’ve just taken them for cleaning.

At his back, he becomes conscious of the bells of Holy Trinity Church beginning to strike the Westminster Quarters.  He listens, the first twelve of sixteen possible notes – it is a quarter to one and he has not yet called on the vape shop.

His colleagues will be expecting something of him.

And therein lies another dilemma.

His sergeants are inclined towards a view that jars with his. That the Fellside Estate is up to no good – sure, they are all three on the same page.  But they differ when it comes to the shadowy accomplices.  The bellringers – he’ll call them that (he can’t tell the Chief they are investigating a coven of witches).  Where his sergeants have applied logic and seen a conspiracy, he has encountered a curious and inexplicably candid conviviality.

It is not conjecture on his part – conjecture is conclusion drawn from incomplete facts and speculation.  His is a determination founded upon entirely tangible intuition.  Gut feel.

At the risk of succumbing to trickery and malign intentions, he would say the vibes have been positive.

There have been nudges and intimations.

And, as a man of few words, he is moved by a handful of phrases that have left their mark upon him.

He steps back to the edge of the kerb and cranes up at the little window, the garret room where the clairvoyant plies her trade.  It began in the psychedelic darkness:

“The lass.  With child.  The water.”

Maria, reportedly, to the desk sergeant:

“I am in danger.”

Anna, nearly tripping him in the high street:

“Maria.  Castle witches have her.”

Just now – in the church – or, at least, Alice’s translation:

“To work and keep.”

And – he feels his pocket for the Baddeley – Flora’s pitiful entreaty:

“Save there souls My Lord as dround bairns an all.”

Fragments.  Powerful fragments that combine.  Impressions of Maria, Anna and Flora have entwined to become part of a single whole.

And now another fragment.  A text from DS Jones:

“At Paupers’ Café.  What do you want?”

22. PARKIN

Paupers’ Café – 1.00 p.m.

THAT SKELGILL ORDERED “the works” for his lunch caused amusement for his colleagues if not surprise.  But also a certain trepidation, given there is no such item on the menu.  If it were breakfast time, then they could translate his words to mean “The Full English”.  There being no standard lunchtime equivalent, DS Jones has simply checked off the extras such that Skelgill, just seated, and looking a little like he has hurried the last yards from whence he has come, is presented with a plate laden with Cumberland sausage, fried eggs, baked beans, mushy peas and chips, and a side of bread and butter.  All to be washed down with a large mug of tea.

Much as the dog that pauses to compliment its owner before wolfing its dinner has not yet been bred, Skelgill is well into his first mouthful before he shows any such gratitude – and this the wielding of a chunk of sausage on the end of his fork, which may be interpreted as a vote of approval.

Additional sign-language, in the manner of a conductor, suggests that he must eat while his meal is hot and they, having made the more conservative choice of cold sandwiches, are at liberty to begin speaking.  Accordingly, DS Jones takes up the baton.  She glances at her associates in turn.

‘Okay – so you got my text about Anna.’  She treats the question as a statement – but she is pensive for an instant, as if she has to shut down some inner voice that raises a contention.  ‘To be honest, I wasn’t surprised.  I just hope she’s okay.  I’m working on the assumption that they’ve moved her to a job behind the scenes.  I’ve been wondering if they’ve got a sweatshop in one of the barns at Fellside Grange.  Or maybe this.’  She reaches into her shoulder bag and produces a promotional flyer.  ‘This could be their cleaning business.  Ready Maid.  I picked it up at Fellside Mill Apartments, in the foyer.’

Skelgill breaks off from his meal.

‘You got inside, then?’

She nods evenly.

‘I did.  I viewed a flat.’  She looks invitingly at Skelgill.  ‘Two bedrooms, master with ensuite, sunny southwest aspect with sweeping views of the river.’

‘That’d drive me crackers.’

Skelgill’s retort is intended to be ironic – that he would not be able to watch potential prey swim by unchallenged.  DS Jones continues.

‘As you might expect, the estate agent wasn’t going to tell me anything about noisy neighbours – overcrowding, anything like that.  So I had to play along with her.  The apartment was on the third floor, so I did see something of the block.  It’s in satisfactory order – the corridors were clear of bikes and the walls freshly painted.  There was a cooking smell, of fish sauce, I should say.’

Though it is a fairly bland report, she lets the latter point sink in before she speaks again.

‘Outside, when we were saying our goodbyes, I noticed the postie coming.  He knew the service code on the entry pad.’  She grins.  ‘So do I, now.’

DS Jones takes up her mobile phone and manipulates the screen.

DS Leyton leans closer.

‘You went back in?’

She displays a photograph.

‘There are numbered pigeonholes, one-to-forty, and a shelf for junk mail and anything that’s not properly addressed.  On the shelf were seven identical government envelopes, marked Department for Work and Pensions.  They had no flat number, just a name and “Fellside Mill Apartments” and the postcode.’  She brings the handset up to read.  ‘Listen.  John Smith.  William Brown.  Robert Taylor.  Michael Wood.  Peter Walker.  David Harris.  Graham Parker.’

She waits for a reaction.

Skelgill has reverted to eating.  He reveals comprehension through a narrowing of his eyes.  DS Leyton voices what may be the same thought.

‘Sounds like someone’s googled “common English names” and copied the list.’

Skelgill now interjects, covering his mouth with a palm.

‘They’re not even local names.’

DS Jones is nodding.

‘I noticed the envelopes weren’t properly sealed – they must have got wet in the postie’s bag.’ She gives a forced ahem.  ‘Three were completely open.’

She speaks in flat tones while she manipulates her phone and displays a new image on the screen.  Her colleagues, knowing it has been a dry day and thus reading between the lines, listen with deadpan admiration.

‘The letter refers to approval of Universal Credit, and there’s confirmation of a bank account number into which payments will be made.  It’s the same account number on each letter.  I got Kendall Minto to cross-check it with his mole at the accountancy firm.  The account belongs to Fellside Estate.’

Now her colleagues react more demonstrably.  Skelgill stops chewing and DS Leyton raises his shoulders, winding in his thick neck like a bull readying for a head-on impact.  He speaks quietly, however.

‘So – it’s a benefits scam.  Why stop at the exploitation of workers.  Let’s rip off Joe Public, an’ all.’

DS Jones nods reflectively.

‘It certainly looks that way.  I’ve sent these details to DC Watson to contact the DWP.  Unfortunately, we can’t expect a quick answer.’

Skelgill has set aside a small heap of chips, and he loads them into a butty, adding salt and vinegar and HP Sauce.  He presses down on the top slice of bread, leaving the impressions of his fingers in the greasy dough.  He picks up the sandwich two-handed – but surveys his colleagues’ plates before taking a bite.  DS Leyton has eaten his filled roll, while DS Jones has barely made inroads.  With raised eyebrows, Skelgill sets DS Leyton running.  It is time for his report.

‘Yeah, right – Car Foam Warehouse, it’s called.  Hah – they like their corny names.’

DS Jones picks up on the literal aspect.

‘Is it a warehouse?  These places are usually open-air.’

DS Leyton wobbles a chunky hand.

‘It is actually mainly indoors.  They’ve got a couple of jetwashes on a little forecourt and then it’s like a mechanic’s garage with ramps and inspection pits.  That’s where they do the waxing and valeting.’

He gives a little cough and takes a drink of his tea.

‘But that ain’t what you want to know.  They’ve got a glass-sided reception office with a couple of seats and a drinks machine.  You go in there to book in, and that’s where you wait if you want the job done on the spot.  It was an English geezer on the desk, I’d say Manchester-type accent, front teeth missing, not the sharpest knife in the drawer – but didn’t want to talk.  I said I was up from London to do some hillwalking.’

DS Leyton hesitates as Skelgill scowls at what he evidently thinks is a preposterous cover story.

‘Yeah – said I’m working me way through the Wainwrights – been doing it for years.  And that last time I passed, this was a garage, and they replaced me big end, what had gone on the M6 just after Lancaster.’

Skelgill’s critical expression now softens, as if his sergeant’s strategy is gaining a little more credence.

‘Course, I asked him what happened to the old geezer who used to run the place, and who bought it – but he just reckoned he’s only been there a couple of months, and he don’t know nothing about that.  I had to go easy, ’cause I could see he was getting suspicious – he was cagey straight off, truth be told.’

DS Jones is listening with obvious interest.

‘What about the other staff?’

‘Youngish lads working on the cars – they wear protective visors and face masks – and they had their hoods up against the cold.  Hard to make out – but from what I could see, they were all of Far Eastern ethnicity.’

DS Leyton shoots a glance at Skelgill; deep into his chip butty, he seems distracted.

‘There’s more.  Just as I was driving off, guess what pulled in?’

Skelgill does not engage, but DS Jones is ready to answer.

‘The grey transit van?’

DS Leyton opens his notebook and holds the page for her to see.

‘I reckon one better than that.  Recognise this reg?’

She widens her eyes.

‘A black Range Rover?’

‘You got it, girl.  Registered to Fellside Estate Limited as a company vehicle.’

‘That’s the car James Crabstaff was using yesterday.’

‘Slick-looking middle-aged geezer, right?’

This statement rouses Skelgill from his reverie.  He swallows and takes a gulp of tea and is about to speak when DS Leyton holds up a palm.

‘That ain’t the end of it.  In the passenger seat was a small young woman with long dark hair.’

The revelation prompts a moment of silence.

Skelgill inclines his head towards the window.

‘You saw Anna in the nail bar – and on the crossing.  You’ve seen the photo of Maria.  Could it have been either of them?’

DS Leyton bares his teeth and inhales sharply.

‘I did, Guv – but the motor had tinted glass.  They were past in flash – and I was on the driver’s side.’

Skelgill grimaces.

‘Was she an Asian lass?’

DS Leyton holds his ground.

‘I know what I wanted to see, Guv.  And I didn’t leave it at that.  I stopped and went back into the reception cubicle.  Pretended I’d left a driving glove.  But the Range Rover wasn’t there.  The garage angles round a corner, and I reckon there’s a yard out the back.  Obviously, I didn’t want to set any alarm bells ringing by sticking me nose in.  Frustrating, I know – because we ain’t quite got enough yet, have we?’

Skelgill has his elbows on the table, his long fingers balancing his chin in an attitude of prayer.

His sergeant is right.  The evidence might be mounting, but it falls tantalisingly short of reasonable cause.  To expect the Chief to sanction a costly salvo of coordinated raids is wishful thinking.  It is a Catch 22 – to openly investigate as CID risks an overnight flit.  And what would become of the two young girls?  Quite likely a more despicable fate awaits.

He emits an exasperated snort that briefly attracts the gaze of a lone male diner at the next table.

DS Leyton eyes Skelgill with affected optimism.

‘Unless you got something, Guv?’

It takes Skelgill a moment to react.  He scowls.  His colleagues have found facts.  His morning has been a journey through the metaphysical.

‘Where’s Fellside in all this?  The Earl, I’m talking about.’

That he answers with a question might be disorienting, but DS Jones calmly fills in.

‘There was no sign of him when I visited Fellside Grange.  If anything, James Crabstaff was acting like lord of the manor.’

DS Leyton is now frowning.

‘Are you saying we should collar Lord Fellside, Guv?’

Skelgill shrugs indecisively.

‘I’m saying we’ve spoken of him plenty – and he’s not figured in owt we’ve seen.’

DS Leyton folds his arms.

‘But wouldn’t we blow the gaff if we go straight to the top?’

Skelgill does not answer, but DS Jones offers some mitigation.

‘I could ask James Crabstaff for an interview with him – in my capacity as researcher for Turnpike Media.  Given that we want him as figurehead for the charity appeal.’

She reaches absently to place a hand on her mobile phone.  Skelgill is sensitive to the action.

‘Have you heard from him?’

‘James Crabstaff?’  DS Jones forces a reluctant smile.  ‘Er, yes – a text about an hour ago – asking if we could reconvene tonight.  I wanted to check with you – about, you know – my other option?’

Skelgill sees that DS Leyton is looking perplexed.

‘Have you told Leyton about your bellringing?’

She shakes her head – but reaches up her satchel and brings out the promotional leaflet from the church and lays it on the table.  She turns to DS Leyton.

‘When the tower captain saw me looking at this, she invited me to come along to observe.  There was the suggestion that they welcome new recruits.  There’s a practice tonight – ahead of the All Saints’ Day service tomorrow.’

DS Leyton looks at Skelgill, but he appears ambivalent.

He frowns concernedly.

‘How do you feel about that, Emma?’

She is not expecting such solicitude and – left to weigh up the pros and cons – it takes her a moment to consider her answer.

‘Well – we don’t have time on our side – and we only have to wait until tonight – and I might just pick up something.’

She turns interrogatively to Skelgill.

He grimaces.

‘I’m just wondering why they’d let you into their circle.’

DS Jones looks like she has anticipated what is a reasonable doubt.

‘If they think I’m from Turnpike Media – like we’ve told Fellside Estate – then maybe it’s entirely innocent.  They think I’m interested in local traditions.  If not – well – it’s hardly the lion’s den.  And this might just be the chink in the armour we need.  It’s arguably our best lead – other than I go back to James Crabstaff.’

Skelgill averts his eyes.  He pushes away his plate and for a moment looks searchingly towards the service counter, though his expression is patently introspective.  True enough, the lion’s den was the night before.

‘Aye.  Put off Crabstaff.’

He inhales to speak again, but DS Jones quickly interjects.

‘By the way, there is one other thing. When we left the library this morning, Geraldine Gibson was lifting some books onto a high shelf, on tiptoe.  I noticed she was wearing floral Doc Martens.  When I first saw her yesterday, I thought there was something familiar about her.  Now I know what it was.  Look.’

She rotates the leaflet and points to one of the bellringers in the photograph, hitherto unidentified – being side-on and partially obscured by the next nearest person in the circle.  The woman’s feet, however, are in view, and she is plainly wearing the iconic boots.

DS Leyton leans closer.

‘Cor blimey, Emma – so she’s involved, an’ all?’

Both sergeants turn to Skelgill for his reaction, but he has remained impassive, sitting upright.  He rubs his palms on his thighs and again looks over to the servery.

‘Who’s up for dessert?  That traffic warden recommended the parkin.’

DS Leyton shoots a sideways glance at DS Jones – then he shrugs and rises with a groan.

‘I’ll go.  Parkin it is.  Just the ticket, Guv.’

23. DEAD RINGERS

Kirkland – 8.00 p.m.

THE BELLS RING OUT through a gathering storm as DS Jones approaches the dark shape of Holy Trinity Church; it is like some great Gothic spaceship that has landed from another epoch, or a volcanic crag that rises defiantly, standing for a thousand years against the worst the weather can throw at it.  Her hair is tossed and blown and her cheeks wet with rain as she wrestles with the immense oak door, one moment leaning back like a tacking windsurfer and the next flipped and slammed unceremoniously into the vestibule.

Despite its sanctuary she feels no less trepidation, as if the elements have conspired to feed her into the fray.  She reminds herself to stay on guard.  Even Skelgill has urged caution.  “Watch out for tricks.  We’ll wait for you in the Ring O’ Bells.”  And while there is the reassurance that her colleagues are just yards away, in leaving them she had overheard DS Leyton’s anachronistic aside to Skelgill, not intended for her ears.  “They ain’t gonna do nothing to her in a church, Guv.”

The storm and the bells are quietened further as she enters the body of the church.  It is deserted, the lighting low – but there is no sense of the sinister, only the welcoming familiarity of the ages, of goodness.  Her breathing becomes more regular.

The belltower door is ajar, and she meets intensifying sounds and the burgeoning aroma of incense as she ascends its spiral stone staircase.  She moves with growing purpose, but she hesitates at the open threshold of the ringing chamber.  It is shadowy, an oak-boarded platform and walls made dark, clad with gold-lettered black peal boards that record feats of ringing endurance dating back down the centuries.

It is a scene that in a sense she recognises from the photograph.  Hooded in their capes of Kendal green are twelve ringers.  It appears, a dress rehearsal.

Though what a photograph cannot capture is the extraordinary impression of perpetual motion, that is at once systematic and yet somehow irregular, as the participants ring the changes.

The ringers’ concentration seems intense, and she is just beginning to wonder if she is unnoticed, and what to do, when there is a cry – a command she cannot decipher – and there is a slight shift in the pattern and one woman lets go of her rope and slips out of the circle to approach her.

She sees it is the tower captain, Liza Pendle.

The woman beams and shapes as if to hug DS Jones.

But she stops a little short and merely places her hands on her upper arms.

She leans closer, though she still has to raise her voice.

‘Emma, my dear – we have a place for you.’

Amidst the clamour of the bells DS Jones thinks she must have misheard, and she glances about.  But there is no chair for instance from which she might observe.  In the low light – there are stout church candles on ledges and sills – she notices a pumpkin on a small table in one corner, surrounded by tea lights and with what looks like a ladle protruding from its open top.

‘No, no – a place in our twelve ringers.  We are one short.’

DS Jones is taken aback.

‘But – aren’t there twelve of you?’

The woman smiles archly.

‘Our number is thirteen.  As captain, I do not normally ring.  I have been standing in.  Hazel is coming later.  You might know her.  She runs the Kendal Mint Cake Shop?’

DS Jones’s thoughts are thrown off track.

‘Oh.  I understood – it was closing –’

‘So you can take her place.’

‘But – I don’t know what to do.’

‘You are a fast learner.’  DS Jones feels a gentle pressure of the thumbs that clasp her biceps.  ‘And the fittest woman in this room.  Come.’

She draws DS Jones by her sleeve around the back of the circle to the rope that hangs loose.  DS Jones is conscious that surely all eyes must be upon her – but she dare not look about and concentrates as the woman stands her in position and faces her, close.  She can smell her musky perfume.

‘I shall ring it up for you.’

She applies several lusty pulls.

‘Now – follow my hands with your hands.  There are only two strokes.  Stand straight and let your arms do the work.  See – the handstroke, when you pull on the sally – let go – and – now – the backstroke, when you pull on the tail-end – and – grab the sally.  That’s it – we do it together.  You have it already.  You’re ringing the bell full circle.  Bravo, Emma!’

DS Jones is well used to gym equipment and even the likes of endlessly repetitive punching in martial arts classes, but now, while the motion looks metronomic, the timing is not – and she must fathom what appears to be an impenetrable arrangement.

She realises she doesn’t need Liza Pendle to help with the work and indeed that now the woman’s hands and motion are merely guiding her for timing.

‘But I don’t know when to pull.’

‘Now you can walk and in a few moments you shall run.  See how we all watch one another.  It’s called ropesight.’

DS Jones snatches a glance about the circle.  From the shadows of hoods, gimlet eyes glint, alert and watchful.  They are working as a team, almost telepathically, it would seem.

‘We are hunting up to the back.  The bell you follow on the next stroke is the one currently following you.  So you always know which that bell is.’

DS Jones understands the instruction.  But she is far from confident.  Frankly she is confounded by such a baptism of fire.  But she seems at least to be holding her own.  And so, she focuses.  Who rings immediately after her?  Now she can see that they are all watching for the same.  And though Liza Pendle is still ostensibly guiding her, she suddenly realises it is no longer her tutor who is making the timing decision, but her.

The woman steps back.

‘Perfect.  You are a star pupil.  And so much more.  Ring away, Emma.’

She slides past DS Jones.

But then her voice comes from close behind.

‘We are ringing a half-peal.  Just over an hour to go.’

DS Jones, still having to concentrate hard, grows in confidence that she will pull at the right time; one tug on the fluffy sally, the next on the harsher jute of the rope, the tail-end.  She realises the sally is so designed for comfort, for it must be clutched to restart the cycle.  In the gym she wears fingerless weightlifting gloves; here, everyone is barehanded. At three hours for a full peal, they must get through some hand cream.

Her eyes have become accustomed to the candlelight, and as she more intuitively senses whom she should follow each turn, she begins casually to scrutinise the features of her fellow ringers beneath their cowls.

Of course, she knows from the photograph some of whom to expect.  But among the familiar faces there are those who ought to be surprises – and yet do not feel so.

One, Liza Pendle, tower captain, is still out of sight.

Two, at DS Jones’s left elbow is the traffic warden.

Three, beyond her, the tall, slim young girl she recognises from the little restaurant in Abbot Hall.

Four, another food service worker: the cheery middle-aged woman who runs Paupers’ Café.

Five, the tarot reader from Fortune Antiques who sold her the Baddeley guide.

Six – though she was only glimpsed when she ascended the staircase to the attic – surely the clairvoyant who so unnerved Skelgill.

Seven, the unmistakeably mascaraed landlady of the Ring O’ Bells.

Eight – and, yes, sporting her Doc Martens – Dr Geraldine Gibson – who bows an imperious acknowledgement in a most knowing manner.

Nine, the church helper who was carving turnips with the Sunday school children.

Ten, the woman that DS Leyton had recognised as the dog walker.

Eleven and twelve – Jack and Queen – these anonymous to DS Jones – and yet – she feels like she knows each of them from somewhere.  Eye contact that has been made in her goings about the town.  Then it comes to her – the two women who entered the bar with Liza Pendle last evening.

And so, despite the unrelenting effort, her heartbeat – upon her arrival pumping in three figures – has settled to a steady eighty, as she begins to feel less on her guard and more just the calm, unthreatening aura, a sense of sorority, of benign sisterhood.  There is no animus. 

There is just a feeling of belonging to the team; and in this regard she gets glimpses of blue jewellery.  Gleaming in the candlelight, here an earring, there a brooch, here a ring, there a bracelet like her own.  Lapis lazuli.

How could they possibly be in league with Fellside Estate?

There is a sudden movement to her left, at the edge of her field of vision.  Liza Pendle is circling clockwise.  She cradles the pumpkin in one arm and with her other stirs what are soupy contents with the ladle.  Deftly, she offers a drink to each person as they pause between strokes.  There are no refusals.

DS Jones has watched, hawklike; she is last to be approached.

‘Half an hour to go, Emma.  A reviver.  It is non-alcoholic.’

Her best excuse is pre-empted; she eyes the mixture suspiciously.

Her reaction elicits a mischievous chuckle from the tower captain.

‘Pumpkin punch.  We call it our flying ointment!  There are times when it can feel like the bells lift you off your feet.’

Her head tells her that everyone has drunk from the same receptacle.  However, after James Crabstaff’s “special margarita”, her instincts are not entirely aligned.  But her head also reminds her that is upon her that the investigation hinges.

She ducks forward and accepts a mouthful.

The drink is thick like a smoothie, but cool and instantly refreshing.  The taste is explosive, at once sweet and spicy and earthy and pungent, so complex that it defies comparison.  Its effect is immediate.  She feels a pleasant tingling in her scalp, a heady rush and a warming sensation as she swallows that becomes a lightening of her whole self – such that she can imagine she is indeed levitating from the tips of her toes at the culmination of each handstroke.

It is as though her natural endorphins have received a turbocharge, and she intuits the same among the company; not that they redouble their efforts, but that they will sustain their performance to the very end.  In the dusty candlelight, while her limbs are energised, she does not fight the glazing of her eyes; it is the same she has seen in Skelgill, pulling his oars the length of Bassenthwaite Lake, rowing into a tunnel of euphoria.  With the mesmeric rhythm comes a dreamlike state, her senses subsumed by the all-pervasive resonance of the peal, like a deep, warm bath or a hot, steamy shower.

Time becomes timeless.

Until she is roused by a call.

The ringers respond to the captain’s command; the peal is complete and now they ring rounds, from high notes to low, and there are nods of approval that she has the ear and the instinct to keep her part.

A final call and, one by one, they fall still.

The chamber reverberates with the last throes of the bells.

Candles are quenched and the night enters.

The shadowy company, dark beneath their hoods, begin to form up and slowly file out.

She feels unsteady on her feet, like a seagoer first disembarking.

Then a touch across her shoulders – she is being given a cloak to wear.

The whispered voice of Liza Pendle.

‘Come, Emma – it is our Halloween tradition.  We process to the castle.’

She hardly notices the challenging stone steps, or their passage from within the church, and when met by the force of the storm that ought to foreshadow concern, she merely welcomes the long, heavy woollen cape for its protection.

From beneath her hood she glances across towards Kirkland, where she can just discern the old buildings that have lined the way for centuries; sparse streetlamps reflect off slick slate rooftiles and dripping iron gutters.

Diagonally above the churchyard wall she can see the Ring O’ Bells.  The sign swings in the wind, catching a light.

She thinks of Skelgill, cosy by the hearth, regaling DS Leyton with angling lore.  Or they will be watching their drinks for signs of paranormal movement.  She might take longer to return now – but there are pints and steak-and-ale pies to keep them occupied.

She is last but one in the line, the tower captain bringing up the rear rather than leading.  They skirt around the front of the church and cross a paved area and the lawn at the rear of Abbot Hall.  The gallery is closed and shuttered, and the shadows deepen as they reach the little footbridge over Blind Beck.  The wind in the surrounding trees comes in ferocious gusts, but she can hear the urgent rush of water beneath.  There is only a low wall, knee-high, and she remembers Skelgill’s words of warning and feels a sense of relief to reach the north side, whence they follow the path to its junction with the River Kent walkway.

Here, lampposts beyond the far bank cast a little light, reflecting off the water’s surface.  Their marching column first turns left along the towpath and then almost immediately right, over the footbridge.

Though she has not been to the castle she has looked at the map and knows the short route.  Now beside the river for a few yards, then left for Castle Bridge and the rising Victorian terrace of Sunnyside with the unlit public park opposite.

But she is wondering.  “We process?”  Normally that is done for someone to see, a tradition, a tourist spectacle, but there is no sense there will be an audience nor that they wish there to be one.  They have moved swift and silent beneath the storm, almost invisible in their dark capes.

Besides, who would be abroad at this late hour in these conditions?  The kids trick-or-treating earlier will be safely tucked up in their beds, replete with chocolate, and their relieved parents collapsed in front of the TV.  Adult Halloween revellers will be crammed into humid, raucous beery pubs along the high street, costumed as characters from the otherworld, stitches beginning to give way, fake make-up scars beginning to melt.

They reach the entrance to the castle grounds; the wind tosses the treetops like a troubled sea.  As they ascend through the copse there is little to see of the landscape – just an impression of the steep motte and old walls rising like jagged black cliffs above a fellside gill.

With the fresh air and the climb, the dreamlike state is wearing off; she has a growing sense that she ought to have her wits about her.  In the womb of the church, the place of refuge, there was an aura of safety.  Out here in the night, in the storm, within the bailey at this site symbolic of repression – this site of executions – her apprehensions return.

Should she have texted Skelgill to say they were leaving?  She could do it now – except it would be so obvious.  Earlier, she could have sidled off into the night.  Now, hemmed in by the castle’s defences it does not feel so easy.  And has the group not formed into a shielding semi-circle around her and the tower captain?

There have been uttered no commands – just a collective sense of purpose and concentration as though they each know this is their role.

DS Jones sees a flame.

A candle seems to be signalling from beneath what might be the stone arch of a low doorway.  There is a halo of pale light.

The arc of the candle is stilled; the flame is steady – it must be inside a lantern.

She feels a tug on her sleeve.

‘Come, Emma.’  The voice of Liza Pendle.

She allows herself to be led.

She senses that the company follows in step but stops short.

‘Keep low.’

She ducks her head; a narrow stone passage opens into an unlit inner chamber.  Water drips unseen.  The air is foetid and cloying.

Now she is drawn forwards and catches sight of their guide, a woman whom she does not recognise.  There is resolution in her features, but the glimpse is fleeting as she steps aside, and the lantern is thrust at arm’s length and DS Jones feels a gentle push in the small of her back.

She gasps.

‘Maria.’

There is no mistaking the girl from the photograph – except whereas in the police station she looked fearful, now she is positively terrified.

DS Jones feels a surge of adrenaline.

Can she fight her way out of here?

They are impossibly outnumbered.

They are in a dungeon.

She must stay calm.

The girl whimpers and instinctively she reaches to comfort her – but the girl shies away.

DS Jones feels a hand upon her arm.

Liza Pendle moves alongside her.

‘Emma is here to help you.  She is from the police.’

Having withstood the first wave breaking over her, DS Jones is now rocked by the backwash.  What has she just heard?  A kaleidoscopic rush of thoughts unbalances her … until she realises the tower captain is now addressing her, her voice urgent.

She gestures towards the woman who stands by with the lantern.

‘Hazel is our thirteenth member whom I said you would meet.  She has harboured Maria above her shop.  It was being watched.  They left via an attic passage built for Bonnie Prince Charlie, whence Maria has been smuggled by a network of yards and along the old canal.’

DS Jones is fighting to keep her head above water.

‘But – how –’

‘There is no time to tell you more, Emma.  We must leave you.  Wait for ten minutes.  Stay silent.  Take her to safety.  She is your charge.’

In these words the weight of responsibility descends upon DS Jones; she pulls herself together.  Logic takes hold.

‘My car is beside Abbot Hall.’

‘That is as I thought.  We shall return to the church by way of the river and Nether Bridge, downstream.  Any watchers, suspicious of our actions, will surely follow us.  We came up as thirteen and shall descend as thirteen.  Hazel will take your cape.’

She moves to help DS Jones out of the cloak and to drape it onto the woman.

Scenarios are streaming through DS Jones’s mind.  She is thinking this is not the best plan.  She feels her brow crease.

But Liza Pendle reads her qualms.

‘Do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good.  It is not foolproof, but the best we can muster under the circumstances.  There are reasons which I may be able to relate to you another time.  We know you can do it, Emma.’

DS Jones inhales to speak, but the woman reaches to take hold of her wrist and raise her arm.  With the tips of two crossed fingers she touches DS Jones’s bracelet.

‘The charm is firm and good.’

And then they are gone.

Only the lantern remains.

DS Jones turns to Maria.  She inhales determinedly.

‘You’ll be fine.  Trust me.’

But still the girl seems to cower.

‘Maria – what is it?’

She steps forwards and at least the girl allows her to place a hand on her shoulder.

Her great dark eyes are downcast.

Her voice, when it comes, is tremulous.

‘You will deport me.’

DS Jones grips her about both shoulders.

‘Listen, Maria – if you want to stay in this country – I’ll do everything I can to help.  But first we must get you to safety.  I might be police – but criminals won’t stop for that.’

To her immense relief she feels a little of the tension drain from the girl’s small frame.  But Maria shivers, despite that they have dressed her in a black ankle-length quilted coat, several sizes too large.

DS Jones checks the time on her phone – she needs to know when ten minutes are up.

Should she text Skelgill?  He and Leyton could drive to meet them.

She sees that she has no signal; the stone walls must be six feet thick.

If she were to go outside she would reveal herself.

And now the girl is clinging to her.

Besides, though the plan is not great, they will not be so exposed.  Only in the stretch between the castle grounds entrance and the footbridge over the Kent are there residential properties and vehicular access and the occasional streetlight.  Once across the river they can merge into the velvety blackness beside Blind Beck, where just a few yards beyond her car awaits.

The time ticks slowly.

Doubts begin to creep into her mind.

What would the criminals stop at?  In Maria, surely, she has the key to their illicit enterprise.  Why else would they go to such lengths to recover her?

And the Dead Ringers.  Can she really trust them, or is there some twist in store for her?  Has the pumpkin punch – the witches’ brew – made her malleable to their will, a servant to their ends?

These thoughts swirl about her like cold wraiths that haunt the ancient ruins.

The wait is becoming unbearable.

She curses under her breath.

‘Nine minutes – come on, Maria.’

She abandons the lantern to burn out and at the threshold of the dungeon she waits one full minute, counting down.

Listening is impossible, they might as well be at sea.  They are buffeted, even in the lee of the great stone edifice.

But she sees no light close at hand, no indication of movement or the presence of any foe.  Only the distant illumination of Kendal in the river valley, faint and misty through the curtain of rain.

One last chance to text Skelgill.

She cannot risk the glow of her screen.

She pulls up the hood of her jacket and helps Maria to do likewise.

‘Once we reach the terrace on Sunnyside, it will look like we’ve come from one of the houses.  We’re just two lasses heading for a night’s clubbing in town, right?’

She offers an arm and the smaller girl links with her.

She is reassured by Maria’s firm grip, and that she keeps pace, despite the slippery turf underfoot; self-preservation is a formidable driving force.

There is only one instinct that might be more potent.

24. BLIND BECK

Sunnyside – 10.00 p.m.

‘ARE WE SCARED?’

DS Jones feels Maria’s grip tighten on her arm.

She has halted them in the shadows beneath the trees at the gates of the castle grounds.  Here they must leave cover and cross to the pavement opposite and descend past the terrace where occasional streetlamps cast silvery rain-streaked cones, like a row of giant shower heads.

It takes her a moment for the entreaty to register – for it is not a plain answer but reassurance that the girl seeks.

So, this is how it feels to be a big sister.

‘We’re not scared.’

She steps out, drawing Maria with her.

But her confidence is fragile.

True, anyone closing their curtains as they turn in for the night will likely think nothing of them.  Young folk hang about the castle drinking cheap supermarket hooch at all hours.  And, besides, it is Halloween.

But it is not the casual observer they must fear.  A sentry on the lookout for Maria and a possible chaperone would find them a noteworthy target.

A flickering orange glow in a long, low window catches her eye.  Set amongst a display of ornaments, its face carved into a wicked smile, a pumpkin still has its candle burning.  The universal sign that invites trick-or-treaters to knock.

DS Jones falters in her stride – though it is not the pumpkin or the antique paraphernalia that draws her gaze, but a Jack Russell terrier that raises its head and silently watches them pass.

They have gone maybe another thirty yards when a single warning yap penetrates the storm.  Instinctively, she turns to glance over her shoulder.

A dark shape shifts behind a stone gatepost.

It has to be her imagination.

A sudden eddy of rain, or a bush that sways in the wind, or the shadow of an owl swooping beneath the adjacent streetlamp.

Maria detects her concern.

‘What is it?’

‘A fox.  The dog saw a fox.  Let’s go.’

In another minute they are crossing the River Kent footbridge.  No car can now suddenly screech up and its doors spring open and assailants surround them.

Below, the river runs dark and swift.  DS Jones recalls Skelgill’s analysis, that it takes a couple of days to flood, unlike the local streams that rise in minutes, not least Blind Beck with run-off from the rooftops and tarmac of the town.  Ahead, a wall of noise tells her they approach the trees that border the recreation ground and line the banks of Blind Beck and mark the boundary of Abbot Hall’s grounds.

She finds the junction where Blind Beck has its outfall beneath the river walkway.  The pitch dark that she had only minutes earlier considered a haven seems ominous and she would like to switch on her phone light.  But she can just about trace the solid strip of tarmac path, strewn with twigs and plastered with wet leaves.  To their left the beck laps, threatening to overflow its banks; it must be five feet deep.  The sound in the treetops is like a jumbo jet landing.  Storm Áine is going at full tilt, and they have to bend their backs into the gale.

But her car is close.

‘Maria!’

The faint voice, its precise source elusive, reaches them from across Blind Beck.

DS Jones stops dead.

But Maria tries to move towards the watercourse.

DS Jones tightens her grip on her sleeve.

‘Maria, it’s a trap.’

The girl is having none of it.  She shakes her head extravagantly.

‘No – is Anna!’

‘How do you know?’

‘She my sister!’

‘Maria!’

The plaintive cry comes again.

It might be Anna – but DS Jones is certain of a trick.  They are using her as bait.

But what to do?

Retreat across the recreation ground?

Or make a dash for the footbridge?

If they can only reach her car …

Maria is writhing, trying to break free.

And now DS Jones’s hand is forced.

Maria ducks down and slips backwards out of the oversized coat and spins off into the darkness.

‘Maria – wait!’

But her warning is to no avail.

She engages the torch on her phone and sprints after the girl.  Only yards ahead now she sees the low wall of the footbridge.

Maria reaches the bridge … and a reception committee steps out of the shadows.

Four men clad in black.

Her senses electrified, DS Jones recognises them even before she can discern their faces.

She smells cologne and pear drops and body odour and wax polish.

James Crabstaff and his henchmen.  The manager from the nail bar.  Norman Gandy from the library.  And – as described by DS Leyton – the leering gap-toothed Mancunian from the car wash.

Thrusting her mobile at arm’s length, she strides forwards.

‘Police.  Let the girls go.’

But she hears the tremor in her voice.

There is a collective movement – as if amused glances are exchanged at her audacity.

James Crabstaff is on the bridge and has taken hold of Maria.

Behind him Norman Gandy has the diminutive form of Anna.

The two girls appear defeated, resigned to their fate.

But DS Jones is not.

She takes out her warrant card.

Now a powerful torch is directed at her.

She is forced to shield her eyes.

‘You are under arrest on suspicion of human trafficking and kidnap under the Modern Slavery Act 2015.’

There is a sardonic cackle.

Then the imperious voice of James Crabstaff.

‘You fool, Emma.  We could have worked out something between us.  A little entente cordiale.  Perhaps there is still time.’

She stands her ground.

‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.’

A pause.  Until his voice comes again, stonier now.

‘Then just an unfortunate drowning in Blind Beck.’

He utters some command – and two figures push past him, the nail bar manager and the Mancunian.  They separate and come at her in a pincer movement.

She takes guard.

She’ll get one hit and it must count.

She inhales …

… when demons come screaming out of the night.

A fist cracks the nail bar manager on the side of the jaw, and he drops like a sack of rice.

In the same instant, as the Mancunian lunges two-handed for DS Jones’s throat he is bulldozed aside by a bone-crunching tackle that audibly expels the wind from his lungs and sends him to the ground, his assailant on top.

Skelgill and Leyton.

DS Jones is toppled backwards by their intervention.  She loses her phone and has to roll and scrabble about in the mud to recover it.

She is desperate to join the melee – but her light shows only DS Leyton dragging the bloodied Mancunian and handcuffing him to the dead weight of the unconscious nail bar manager.

Where is Skelgill?

She shines her torch at the bridge and sees he stalks towards where James Crabstaff and Norman Gandy hold the two girls.

She scrambles after him.

Without warning Norman Gandy propels the small figure of Anna towards Skelgill and takes to his heels, disappearing into the darkness in the direction of Abbot Hall.

Skelgill cushions Anna and seems to know DS Jones is close behind and swings the girl around to her.

Ahead on the bridge James Crabstaff grips Maria, his eyes flaming and his lips drawn back like a marauding wolf at bay, still ready to slaughter his prey.

He might hold a hostage – but Skelgill calls his bluff.

But as Skelgill accelerates towards the man, with an unearthly howl he heaves Maria over the low barrier into Blind Beck.

Anna’s voice rings out.

‘No!  She no swim!’

Skelgill dives in.

James Crabstaff turns and flees.

For a split-second DS Jones wants to chase him.

But Anna is frantic.

‘Maria!  Maria!’

DS Jones has to restrain her – she might follow by jumping into the raging torrent.

She shines her torch from the bridge – but it is ineffective – there is only black water.

DS Leyton is alongside her.

She yells out.

‘They’ll be swept into the River Kent!’

But DS Leyton begins to pull her away.

‘Nah, girl – remember – there’s the log trap!’

As they dash, she has the presence of mind to swoop up the discarded thermal coat.

DS Leyton shows a remarkable turn of speed; DS Jones holds hands with Anna.

At the end of the path, they skid, panting, to a halt.

DS Leyton is ready with a powerful pocket flashlight.

And there – pinned against the log trap – glistening in the darkness amidst tempest and torrent, debris trapped in his hair, Skelgill holds Maria’s head above water.

DS Jones lets go a cry of relief.

Skelgill is more articulate.

‘What kept you?’

They haul first Maria and pass her to her sister, and then Skelgill, who resents too much assistance and in rejecting such almost slips back into the surging current.

But now he pushes past his colleagues.

DS Leyton illuminates the two girls.

Maria kneels on the path.

Anna is unfastening the coat to be able to wrap it around her sister.

Maria is shivering violently.

Her thin top is soaked and like a second skin.

DS Jones gasps.

‘Oh, my.’

DS Leyton turns to her.

‘What is it, girl?’

‘Maria – she’s pregnant.’

25. LOCK IN

Ring O’ Bells –11.30 p.m.

‘You definitely said “the lass, with child”.’

The woman shakes her head.  Though all the time she regards him absorbedly over the rim of her glass.

‘I don’t retain memories of what I pass on.’  She takes a slow sip and swallows and makes a soft purring sound in her throat.  ‘Call it data protection.’

The excited hubbub of the public house is verging upon claustrophobic; the tiny bar room is heaving as The Undertones belt out Teenage Kicks from a 1970s juke box and Skelgill has to lean close to catch her words.  He raises an eyebrow to demonstrate suspected evasion, but she merely holds his gaze.  That she employs a phrase of the technological society seems designed to deny any esoteric component, and that dressed as she is in biker-like leathers adds an extra layer of contradiction.

But it is she who has approached to where he has been anchored before the blazing hearth for drying purposes, so he does not quite give up.

‘And you said “water”.  I thought it were some prophesy about Flora Mary Graham – the historical investigation we’re conducting.’  He indicates with his half-full glass of ale about the room.  ‘Except you all knew about Maria.’

She brushes casually at her long, straight black hair and smiles phlegmatically.

‘That’s above my pay grade.  Speak to Liza.  Or happen Geraldine – she’s our vice-captain.  I know she wants a word.’

Skelgill questions himself.  They knew about Maria, but they could not have foretold that events would reach their climax at Blind Beck.  Surely that is not what this woman did?

Whatever, it had him on his guard from the very moment she uttered the words in the candlelit loft above Fortune Antiques.  Indeed, more than on his guard – inexplicably invested.  If it were intended, it did the trick.

‘Claire, love – are you chatting up our half-naked hero?’

The intervention comes as cool fingers wrap around his bicep.  The landlady squeezes between him and the psychic.  With their raven locks they might almost be sisters, or at least related.

Her use of “half-naked” is hyperbole.  Albeit Skelgill has stripped down to a climber’s wicking singlet, he has kept on his jeans and has declined offers of a dressing gown or tracksuit bottoms from her wardrobe in the flat above the hostelry.  Sodden trousers are not an alien sensation; he has plenty of times been soaked in the fells or needed whilst angling to wade up to his waist.  Presently, close to the flames, the denim is steaming nicely.

The landlady reaches to drape a fluffy white hand towel around his bare neck.

‘Thick head of hair like yours – we don’t want you catching your death.’

She places a palm flat against his midriff.  He feels the experimental pressure on his abdominals.

‘Your top’s nearly dry.  But are you sure you don’t want to give me those jeans?  They’ll take no time in my tumble-dryer.’

Both women now reach to test the dampness of the fabric at his hips, under the guise of concern.

But a loud clearing of the throat comes from just behind Skelgill.

‘A-hem.  ’Scuse me, ladies.’

Skelgill turns to see DS Leyton, who wields his mobile phone in such a way as to indicate there is some matter of importance to his superior.  He bows self-consciously to the two women.  The landlady puts a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

‘We’ll leave you and your hot pants to your official business.’

Grinning, the pair slip away into the throng.

DS Leyton’s news is evidently not so urgent that he cannot comment.

‘Could see you’d been cornered there, Guv.  Double trouble, eh?’

Skelgill scowls like he might not have minded.  But he catches the eye of DS Jones, speaking with Liza Pendle across the room.  She smiles.

DS Leyton cocks his head to refer to the departed females.

‘I can just see that pair in witches’ hats an’ all the paraphernalia.  They look the part without even trying.  Hah – that traffic warden – Val, she’s called – she was just joking that you and I should have been in fancy dress.  Good disguise on Halloween.’

‘What did she have in mind?’

‘Batman and Robin.’

Skelgill scoffs – but there is a distinctive glint in his eye.

DS Leyton glances at the knuckles of his right hand.

‘They’d have been proud of us, Guv.  The Dynamic Duo.’  He chuckles.  ‘As it is, I can’t wait to see the faces on the jury when they hear that Crabstaff and the Gandy geezer were collared by a coven of witches!’

‘Bellringers, Leyton.  They were dressed as bellringers.’

DS Leyton does not look persuaded.

Nonetheless, Skelgill is forced to reprise – he casts about, his brow furrowed.  While the crowded gathering is energised and the chatter on a par with the raucous punk rock, the thirteen women in everyday garb and of various ages might just be employees of a local firm enjoying an after-work night out.

Yet this was the sisterhood that had the wits and wherewithal to form up as a second line of defence, and in the shadows trip and overpower the fugitives – and who left them bound with bell ropes outside the church for the police to find when blue lights lit up Kirkland just minutes after the rescue of the two Vietnamese girls.

He turns back to DS Leyton.

‘Besides – we don’t know for sure it was them.  They’re not taking the credit for it.’

DS Leyton shrugs phlegmatically.

Now he, too, glances about the small bar room.

‘Seems Emma’s getting on a storm – they’ll be recruiting her permanently.  Val reckons she took to the bellringing like a duck to water.

‘Enough of water, Leyton.’

DS Leyton grimaces apologetically.

‘Just as well we tailed Emma, though, eh, Guv?’

Skelgill nods grimly.  He was never going to let DS Jones play a lone hand – much as she had objected to his stalking her the previous evening at Fellside Grange.  Of tonight’s shadowing, she has been less vocal in her protests.

The men stand absorbed in their own thoughts, nodding just perceptibly to Blondie’s Tide is High – until DS Leyton remembers why he has broken up his superior’s little fan club.  He lifts his mobile phone.

‘Oh, yeah.  I’ve had an update from DC Watson.  She’s managed to raise the Chief, and warrants have been authorised for dawn raids on all the Fellside Estate properties.  Cop ’em in one fell swoop.  But here’s a thing – seems Lord Fellside’s in the South of France – been at his villa on the Riviera for the last six weeks.  Makes you wonder how much he knows about all this.’

Skelgill takes a drink of his bitter, which he has neglected for the past few minutes.  It has warmed well above cellar temperature, and he makes a sour face and balances the glass on the mantelpiece.

‘It’ll come out in the wash.’

DS Leyton nods.  He has more.

‘And a report from Westmorland General.  The two young girls are fine – just a bit shocked.  Anna’s unharmed and Maria’s none the worse for her ordeal.  The baby’s kicking like a good ’un.  Seven months gone, they reckon Maria is.  I said I thought you and Emma might pop in and see them in the morning.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’d better be home early doors – breakfast, uniforms, packed lunches, sports kits, school run an’ all that.’

Skelgill inhales; he might be about to opine when DS Leyton is distracted by his phone.  He has felt a vibration.  He waggles the handset beside his head.

‘Thought my ears were burning, Guv.  The Missus.  I’d better nip out behind the bar, where it don’t sound like we’re having a knees-up.’

Left alone, Skelgill turns to face the fire.  He gives the coals a couple of jabs with an iron poker.  Then he stands straight and considers the painting of the ancient church and its venerable yew.

‘It has an interesting history.’

Another voice, a new one, but more familiar than many in the room.

It is Dr Geraldine Gibson.  She steps alongside him.

‘Merry meet again.’

He turns to look at her, but only briefly.  Then he gives a small toss of his head, indicating her fellow campanologists.

‘Happen you never got chance to mention your hobby.’

She nods – but rather than explain, she tests him further.

‘I believe you are acquainted with my good friend, Rhian Roberts – over at Whitehaven?’

Skelgill hesitates.

‘Aye, there’s – there’s family connections.’

Geraldine Gibson steps sideways, such that they are shoulder to shoulder.

‘We have very much appreciated your circumspection.’

She allows him a moment to read between the lines.  He knows what she is about to say.

‘When I learned of your coming through Jim Hartley, and our union in the Wise Council, I recognised a possible ally.  And suddenly the stakes were raised with the threat to Maria and the need to protect her.  You, too, were fighting her corner.  I am afraid we rather resorted to intrigue and hints to keep you on the right tracks.  My apologies if we were at times somewhat oblique.’

Skelgill shakes his head – though not so much in rebuttal as introspectively.

‘Ask my crew, they’ll tell you.  Oblique’s my middle name.’

She chuckles.

‘We have been playing a game of subterfuge.  Them watching us.  Us watching them.  That there was a mole was inconvenient – but also a conduit through which we could sow disinformation.  I refer to Norman Gandy.  And you know what they say, better in the tent than out.  I’m sure I don’t need to finish the aphorism.’

Skelgill produces a wry grin.  She talks his language.

‘We were concerned that the girls would be treated as criminals and suffer deportation – or, worse, that “no case” be found and they be handed back to their enslavers.  We realised that Norman Gandy knew Maria had been to the police.  We intercepted her and placed her into hiding.  We passed a message to Anna, but before she could escape, she was taken.’

Skelgill makes a growl of frustration.  Anna was indeed snatched from under their very noses – in broad daylight, with DS Jones powerless to act – and when it was still far from clear where Geraldine Gibson and her associates’ loyalties lay.

But she seems sensitive to this precise point; she turns to press him on the upper arm.

‘The closer we came to your team, the more reassured we felt.  We concluded that we could discreetly pass Maria into Emma’s safekeeping – and that would lead to the freeing of Anna.’

Skelgill is staring at the painting, though he nods compliantly.

‘I think you understand, Inspector, we are content to be known as the Dead Ringers of Holy Trinity Church and no more.  Ours is not a practice for the purposes of self-aggrandisement or personal gain.  We are custodians of an ages-old tradition, helping those in need, doing good where it may usefully be done, providing alms, medicine, shelter.  It is a frail fruit that we nurture.  Beneath the glare of publicity, it would wither on the vine.’

Skelgill raises the towel from his neck and clamps it about his head and gives a robust shake that leaves his damp hair at all points of the compass.  It seems the action has a dual purpose.

‘Nay – there’s no need for any of this to be mentioned.  Not beyond that you’re bellringers and what happened by the beck.  One of your group was sheltering a lass in distress.  The local police will have their hands full with everything the Fellside Estate’s been up to.  Carry on ringing, I say.’

The woman again touches his arm; now it is a gesture of indebtedness.

‘I thank you – I must pass your kind words to Liza; she will be elated.’

Geraldine Gibson begins to step away – but now Skelgill reaches to place a palm lightly between her shoulder blades.  He indicates with his free hand to the painting.

‘You said there’s a history.’

She hesitates – but evidently more out of urgency to convey her news than reluctance to address his query.  She glances across the room and then leans closer to the oil.  She speaks quietly and Skelgill has to strain to hear her words.

‘When I researched the Green Lady for my book, I heard a different story.’

Skelgill waits.

‘The Green Lady was no ghost.’

Skelgill nods.

Geraldine Gibson points to a spot beneath the deep shadows of the spreading yew.

‘Do you imagine a figure?  A gravestone marked with a skull and crossbones?  Or a trick of the light?’

Skelgill stares intently, his eyes narrowing and his features creasing.

The woman takes half a step back.

‘I should leave you.  I realise you still have a ghost to lay.’

He meets her gaze; she must see something in the flare of his grey-green irises, for she smiles broadly.

‘In fact, I think you may have laid it.’

And she turns away.

Skelgill looks briefly back at the impressionist artwork and then considers the more concrete presence of his unfinished pint on the mantelshelf.  He picks up the glass – but then, anyone watching would see that he has second thoughts, and he replaces it and drapes his towel over a chair and heads for the low door in a corner marked “Toilets – Duck or Grouse”.  What is less apparent is that he has hold of his jacket, trailed unobtrusively at his side as he disappears from view.

He finds a rear exit into a small shadowy yard where empty beer casks are helpfully piled against a wall and which facilitate his flight.  From the flat roof of the toilet block the slit eyes of a black cat watch him scale the barrier.

Skelgill makes a mewing sound and the feline blinks.

He lands with a less-than-catlike thud of his boots – but from inside the pub he can hear carolling to the strains of Sweet Gene Vincent, DS Leyton’s faltering bass distinct amidst a chorus of sopranos.

He enters the graveyard by the conventional route and follows the path to the main door of Holy Trinity Church before skirting left around the perimeter of the ancient edifice.

He knows his way in the dark, and while the gale still tosses the surrounding treetops and produces a sound like the crashing of irregular surf, the rain has abated and he strides easily to reach the ‘paveyard’ where the great yew looms in the sheltered crook of the building.

He slows his pace – and treads respectfully now – for whether or not the contents of the graves were relocated along with these now-recumbent headstones, there is still a sense of decorum, as stopping to bow one’s head when a motorised funeral procession passes, or pulling into the kerb when driving, for the two minutes’ silence on Armistice Day, however removed one is in practice from the actual event and irrespective of being observed.

With the beam from his mobile phone he locates the sandstone slab that stands out for its red hue.  Again, he notes that the elements have not been kind.  Its markings are cruelly disfigured.  Perhaps a more affordable stone versus Threlkeld slate or Shap blue granite.

That he revisits the spot to which he came only half a day earlier might be curious – but that he stands nodding slowly over the grave suggests he returns with some conviction that was only supposition and suspicion before.  In the ambient glow of his light his expression is one of intense concentration.

‘Looking for the Green Lady?’

When most would start, or spin on their heel or perhaps even jump half out of their skin, Skelgill does not move a muscle.

And when DS Jones steps alongside him to look down at the gravestone, he takes hold of her arm.

After a few moments she remarks quietly.

‘1834 would have been Flora Mary Graham’s year of birth.’

Skelgill is silent for what must seem to his companion an age.

‘Lass, it were Fellside all along.’

DS Jones sways a little; but he tightens his grip on her and she senses he has something else to say.

Skelgill’s voice is hoarse and barely audible.

‘We need an exhumation order.’

When there is no logic to the reaching of a conclusion, no amount of deduction can fathom it – but DS Jones recognises the final surfacing of the swirling undercurrent that has had Skelgill yawing about since he careened from the door of Fortune Antiques late on Saturday afternoon.  Accordingly, no question is needed right now.  Flesh will be put on the bones in good time.

And – in any event – simultaneously they sense an approach, and turn to see, meandering across the dark graveyard from the direction of the gates, the beam of a torch, picking out a path for its bearer.

‘Emma!  Guv!  You pair okay?’

Skelgill directs his light to indicate in the affirmative and he and DS Jones begin to converge with their colleague before he can trip and do himself some harm.

‘Hah – seems like I’m stalking Emma stalking you, Guv!’

In his statement he reveals that his concern for his colleagues’ wellbeing is not entirely quelled.

But now he jerks a thumb back over his shoulder.

‘Belinda – the landlady – she’s just called last orders.  Her extension’s only until twelve and she reckons she don’t want to fall foul of the local plod – seems they give her a bit of a hard time.  I put in a provisional order.’

By unspoken mutual consent the trio pick their way onto the central path.  As they reach the gates the church bells begin to ring out the Westminster Quarters.

Skelgill begins to intone under his breath.

‘All through this hour

Lord be my guide

That be thy power

No foot shall slide.’

He just about holds the tune.

DS Leyton is impressed.

‘How’d you know that, Guv?’

‘Cub scouts.  Afore they kicked us out.’

DS Leyton chuckles – but any further comment is put on hold as the great bell begins to toll the strokes of midnight.

They stand, listening, straining their ears through the storm.

As the last echoes fade, in the pale orange light of a nearby streetlamp the three look about at one another.

It seems a strange contest.

Finally, it is DS Leyton who can contain himself no longer.

‘I made that thirteen.’

Skelgill jerks his head towards the pub and begins to move.

‘Just as well you got that round in, Leyton.’

Monday

5th November

26. THE DETECTIVE’S TALE

Carnegie Library – 9.30 a.m.

‘AH, DANIEL – we hear you’ve been digging up the graveyard!’

Skelgill, toting a large presentation board with the display side pressed to his chest, grimaces over the edge of the card and at the same time gives a nod of thanks to Dr Geraldine Gibson, who accompanies him and holds open the sprung door of the meeting room.

‘All in good time, Jim.’

Skelgill crosses to prop the board facing inwards on the ledge of the easel and takes up his seat between producer Jen of Turnpike Media and DS Jones, who is to his right.  Whence, positioned anticlockwise around the table are DS Leyton, Professor Jim Hartley, an empty chair, Alice Wright-Fotheringham, Kendall Minto and Turnpike’s audiographer, Mel.  The space between the professor and the retired judge has been reserved for Geraldine Gibson, and Jim Hartley signals accordingly.  Refreshments have already been distributed, and Skelgill notes with satisfaction that DS Jones has made ample provision for his needs.  He makes brief eye contact.

The professor is not tamed.

‘And what shenanigans on Halloween!  The cat is well and truly among the pigeons.  The jungle drums are saying you’ve exposed a criminal ring at Fellside Estate.’

Skelgill looks about.  This is not on the agenda – despite that it is he who has convened this meeting of the Wise Council.  All eyes are upon him – and Kendall Minto has his reporter’s pad at the ready.  As he sees it, his coveted scoop dangles tantalisingly.

Skelgill turns to the Turnpike Media duo.

‘Are we recording?’

Mel, hands to her noise-cancelling earphones, and who might be conducting a sound-check, shakes her head.

Skelgill takes a moment, unaware that he is making a shrewish face that shows his front teeth.

‘You appreciate we have to be tight-lipped.  Mid-investigation, a loose word could jeopardise a conviction.’

He looks to Alice Wright-Fotheringham for corroboration; she obliges with a single stern nod.

Skelgill glances at his colleagues, and then around the group.  He inhales and gives a tilt of his head, towards the door.

‘I were just on the phone to the Chief.  She’s giving a media conference at five p.m.’  He must detect that Kendall Minto stiffens in alarm, for he eyes him directly.  ‘But that’ll just be placeholder information.  We’re some days away from charges being made.  What she will be saying – is that with assistance from local sources …’

His voice tails off as he glances furtively at Dr Geraldine Gibson.  He performs a conspiratorial pinch of his nose – and then resumes, initially repeating himself.

‘… what she will be saying –’ (and now he gestures to his right, across his chest with his open left palm) ‘is that Sergeant Jones basically cracked this Fellside Estate case – and demonstrated no small degree of personal bravery.’

There is a spontaneous round of applause and words of praise.  DS Jones appears to be in slight shock at Skelgill’s overt crediting.  DS Leyton looks jubilant and pats her proudly on the shoulder.

As the acclaim subsides, the professor still will not quite give up.

‘Congratulations, young lady.  But – can’t you tell us something?  Does this affect us?’

DS Jones turns inquiringly to Skelgill.

Skelgill again scrutinises the eager faces around the table; Kendall Minto almost literally has his tongue hanging out.

Skelgill nods to DS Jones. He trusts her to give a sanitised account – since there are ramifications for the project.

‘Aye, you’d better answer.’

DS Jones folds her hands and looks about, self-effacingly.

‘It was a team effort.’ Her gaze falls upon Kendall Minto, who is plainly undergoing a form of torture.  ‘I think you’ll find, when the time comes, the full story breaks in the Gazette.’

Her generosity seems to assuage the young journalist’s agonies.  He lowers his pad and leans forwards on his elbows to listen dutifully.

She gestures with both hands.

‘You’re aware, of course, that we had opened a missing person’s inquiry.  Then a confidential source told us that various commercial properties in the town owned by Fellside Estate were being used for fraudulent purposes.’

Studiously, she avoids further eye contact with Kendall Minto.

‘We realised the two were connected – in the shape of illegal migrant labour.  Indeed, most serious is the people-trafficking aspect.  We believe we’ve uncovered a wide-ranging modern-slavery operation.  The workers were virtually imprisoned at their lodgings and shipped around inside secure closed-sided vehicles.  Some were being kept under lock and key at a live-in factory in the farm buildings behind Fellside Grange.’

She brushes at a strand of bronzed blonde hair that has fallen across her face, and for a moment her soft hazel eyes seem to contemplate the pale, silvery-blue November sky that fills the expanse of windows across the room.  A dozen town pigeons wheel in synchrony and she gives a small start.

‘We freed over fifty young adults, some barely of age.  They are from different parts of the world, from Iraq, Afghanistan to Vietnam.’

Jen interjects.

‘Will they be deported?’

DS Jones senses that Skelgill sits impassively.

‘About half of them have made asylum claims.  We think they’ll be accepted.  They were tricked, and in some cases coerced or worse – effectively kidnapped.  We understand some want to return to their families in their homelands.  To be repatriated.’

DS Jones takes a drink of her tea; she seems drained.  Though it is a short exposition, it has plainly roused her emotions.

It is the professor who steps into the hiatus.  He brings the long, bony fingers of his hands together in a gesture that seems designed both to be symbolic and to catch the attention of his audience.

‘Is it not extraordinary that we are researching – and are shocked by – the conditions of the mid-1800s … and, nearly two centuries later, the pattern repeats?  Poverty, slavery, the workhouse.  The model still functions.’

‘UT OPERARETUR ET CUSTODIRET.’

Not for the first time in this context, Alice Wright-Fotheringham makes a strident intervention.  She looks a little surprised that startled faces turn towards her.  She exhibits a flash of her judge’s impatience.

‘To work and keep.  I merely reiterate the common link – the Fellside Estate.  It cannot have escaped your attention.’

There are obedient nods around the table, but it is DS Leyton who actually acknowledges the admonishment.

‘Ain’t that ironic?  All the time, the writing was on the flippin’ wall.  Literally.’  He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.  ‘Well – leastways, the window.  The Fellside chapel, I mean.’

Jen, like Kendall Minto, has a nose for a story.

‘It smacks of an ancestral strategy, a modus operandi handed down through the generations.’  She turns to Skelgill.  ‘Have you arrested the present Earl?’

Skelgill indicates with a jerk of his thumb that DS Leyton should continue.

The sergeant shakes his head, perhaps a little ruefully.

‘Top line – nah, he ain’t in custody.  As best we can establish, this little number was down to James Crabstaff.  Seems him and Lord Fellside go back to their schooldays – though Crabstaff’s a good ten years older.  Prefect and fag – that public school malarkey.  Later, they were briefly in the army together, Crabstaff the senior officer.  Crabstaff left under a cloud – dishonourable discharge – hushed up – NDA – that kind of thing.  We suspect there was some trafficking being facilitated, on that score.’

DS Leyton glances about a little apprehensively – but he has the rapt attention of the meeting.

‘Fast forward – about five years ago the Earl came into his inheritance – and was out of his depth – floundering with the business side of things.  Crabstaff was poised, ready to chuck him a lifeline.  Got the job of estate manager through the old boy network – and found himself with a useful idiot on his hands.  The Earl was easily fooled and even easier pleased.  So long as he could lead his playboy lifestyle, seems he was happy as Larry.  He’d always looked up to Crabstaff and trusted him.  Crabstaff saw the opportunity to make a mint.  A property portfolio ideal for cash businesses – and compliant labour at a knock-down price.  He ran it like a military operation.  Used contacts he’d forged while serving abroad to tap into the people-smuggling gangs.  Recruited a couple of heavies to do his dirty work.  Bob’s your uncle.’

Jen is keen to understand the implications for Turnpike Media.

‘So where does that leave Lord Fellside?’

DS Leyton gives a slow shrug of his broad shoulders, his sturdy neck gradually sinking into his collar.

‘If he’s to be believed … he’s probably in the clear.  Course, he may have turned a blind eye.  That’s something we’re looking into.  He could be culpable of negligence, as a non-executive director of Fellside Estate Limited.  But it ain’t a crime to be stupid.  Hah – I should know!’

His artless remark elicits a round of amiable protests – but he holds up a palm to silence his supporters.

‘One thing Crabstaff was right about. When this case hits the courts and the press pack get their teeth into it – no offence, Kendall, mate – Lord Fellside’s going to need all the positive spin he can get.  Crabstaff had told him nothing of our project – but he’s keen to cooperate with the hospital appeal and has offered to throw the family archives wide open – anything we want, especially concerning Flora Mary Graham.  Result.’

By way of resting his case, DS Leyton punches his right hand into his left palm, though the action has him checking his knuckles while the group exchange murmurs of approval.

Jen appears sufficiently reassured, and there is now a short hiatus as she reviews the agenda – when there comes a notification on her electronic tablet.  It clearly sidetracks her – and she gives a little rat-a-tat-tat of her pen upon the table – and then seems surprised that she has inadvertently called the meeting to order.

‘Oh – it’s about Flora – fresh down the wires from our contact in Tasmania.’  She looks at Skelgill.  ‘I can cover it after your spot?’

But he shakes his head.

‘Mine’ll keep.’

There is the suggestion that he caws canny.

‘Sure.’

Jen gives a signal to Mel to begin recording.

‘I’ll paraphrase.  The sources are the Centre for Tasmanian Historical Studies and the National Library of Australia.  It appears there is a treasure trove of data, but these are the highlights.

‘The register of transportees shows that a Flora Mary Graham and her infant son Edward William Graham survived a three-month voyage and were disembarked at Hobart, Van Diemen’s Land on the twenty-first of March 1853.

‘Female convicts were assigned as servants in free settler households or sent to a female factory – a women’s workhouse prison.  There were five female factories.

‘Flora got a lucky break.  A domestic role.  Perhaps because of her work experience, so to speak … and perhaps out of concern for the child, or sheer practicality.  Or perhaps there was a sympathetic settler.  Certainly, there was a general scarcity of women – although it states here that marriage to a free man operated neither as a pardon nor remission, nor revocation of assignment.  And there is no indication that she married.

‘However, the local censuses of 1855, 1865 and 1875 record her and her son as residents of Lenah Valley Estate.  Flora is listed as “Convict Maid” and her son as first a minor and ultimately “Second Mate, Tasmanian Steam Navigation Company.”  Then the census of 1885 – there is no trace of either of them.’

She looks up to a ring of expectant faces.  She turns the screen outwards.

‘We await more information.  But now we know they survived – and, in a sense, prospered.’

Though the hot trail is cooled, and there may be a sudden dip in morale, for one person at least, this seems to be a catalyst for action.

Skelgill rises.

However, he makes no attempt to explain what possible segue there has been between Jen’s relayed account and what he might be about to say, and instead he moves across to the easel where his display board is propped.  He has in his right hand a dark red textbook – and rather like a preacher he swivels to face his congregation and raises it melodramatically.

‘This dates from 1895 – a bit later than we’re talking – but one of the maps in it got me thinking.’

He looks at his sergeants – they have some inkling of his end game – but are in the dark as to the rules.  He glances about the wider group – and then, a little abstractedly, like DS Jones a few moments earlier, out of the broad windows at the sky beyond.

‘There’s a portrait in Abbot Hall of Lord Fellside – the Seventh Earl that Flora supposedly murdered.’  He pauses to let his words sink in, for there is controversy in his tone.  ‘Through the window behind the Earl, you can see sheep in a paddock.  No reason to think that wouldn’t be accurate – water meadows made fertile grazing.’

Now he turns the display board face out to reveal an antiquarian map mounted upon it – it is the library’s own display copy, borrowed from the upper floor reference section: Henry Hoggarth’s map.  He points carefully with a long index finger.

‘And here’s the exact paddock – owned in 1853 by one William Wilson.  Notice it’s fenced alongside the River Kent and the backs of the houses – but Blind Beck forms the boundary with the grounds of Abbot Hall.’

Again he pauses, as if he would prefer someone to calculate what this adds up to.  But it seems he must take it a little further.

‘There’d be no sheep in there if it weren’t a secure barrier.  Look closely – there’s no bridge over Blind Beck.  We knew that, anyway.’

Again, he waits to see if there will be a bite.  Alice Wright-Fotheringham looks like she knows exactly what he is talking about but refrains from intervening.

‘We knew, because of Constable Jackson’s witness statement.  He was in the churchyard when he heard the bairn.  He had to go round by the main street, Kirkland, to get across the beck.  He found Flora.  Aye, she was in the water, holding the bairn.  But her cloak was cast down on the north bank.  The paddock side.  Later, the constable found the Moses basket directly opposite, on the south bank.  Abbot Hall side.  Close to the mansion house.’

He indicates the spot, now with two hands, two index fingers, one on either side of Blind Beck.  He cranes around and holds the pose and makes a face that invites – or perhaps even demands – audience participation.

It is Kendall Minto who takes the plunge.

‘You’re saying that she didn’t carry the baby to the water’s edge.’

A silence ensues, in which Skelgill stares fiercely at the young reporter.

‘You’re saying it.’

Skelgill glares a little longer before his expression softens.

‘I’m just giving you evidence to put before the judge.’  He looks at Alice Wright-Fotheringham and grins and she nods slowly.

Jen interjects.

‘What about the gold sovereigns?  They said she murdered and robbed Lord Fellside.’

Skelgill gives a nonchalant shrug.

‘The sovereigns were in the grass, also on the north bank, where they’d fallen out of her cloak.’

There is more silence; minds might almost be heard whirring.

Skelgill speaks again.

‘Let me remind you of another scrap of evidence.’

He opens his Baddeley guide and picks out from the map flap in the back cover a slip of paper.  He unfolds it and hands it to DS Jones and indicates she should pass it on for each member of the Wise Council to read.

He watches as the note makes its way around; it is his torn-off photocopy of Flora Mary Graham’s entreaty, folded into her locket and concealed in the wall of the paupers’ hospital.

Wise heads and sharp minds – his own colleagues, the retired professor of history with a string of qualifications after his name; the archivist (another doctorate); the retired judge and KC; the erudite journalist – they each read the sparse, plaintive words in slow contemplation and in turn glance at Skelgill for a clue that is not forthcoming.

Then a small but conspicuous explosion.

Audiographer Mel, who is simultaneously taking a sip of tea as Kendall Minto presents the note for her to see, splutters, her eyes wide and showing their whites, and as the reporter manages to relieve her of her precariously tilting mug, she grabs the note and brandishes it exuberantly.

Skelgill can be observed to be merely grinning with satisfaction.  He addresses her directly.

‘You’re a local lass.’

Due to her essential technical role – monitoring the levels, balancing voices soft and loud – when her job is the form, it is never quite apparent whether she is able to engage with the content.

It seems she has.

She yanks down her headphones.

‘She means him, don’t she?  Not the Lord Almighty – but Lord Fellside.’

Skelgill is now nodding enthusiastically.

The professor leans forwards and politely stretches out a hand to Mel.

‘May I just see that, once more?’

She obliges, and he squints at the note while the others look on.

He narrates verbatim.

“Save there souls My Lord as dround bairns an all.”

Then he looks up and about, his eyes shining.

‘By gad, Mel’s right, isn’t she?’

Jen looks puzzled – but seems to understand there is something in the local dialect.  The professor sees that she is perplexed.

‘Flora – she wrote “as” to mean “that” or “who”.’  He grins and looks at Skelgill.  ‘Like you would say, Jim’s the one as taught us to fly fish – eh, Daniel?’

Skelgill nods, though perhaps for a moment distracted by the professor’s statement, true though it is.

The professor smooths out the strip of paper on the table and pores over it.

‘Yes – we have to remember the poor girl was barely literate.  And if she’d intended to refer to the Almighty, she would have said Our Lord, not My Lord.  If we punctuate and tidy it up, I think we’d arrive at this.’

He scribbles on the back of his agenda and holds it up triumphantly.

“Save their souls, including Lord Fellside, who drowned the children.”

‘My word.’  Jen intones slowly.  ‘How utterly alarming.’

Kendall Minto slaps a hand on the table.

‘The cloak – she threw it off!  She must have come upon Fellside in the act of drowning her child!  He knew she had left Abbot Hall – and he carried the baby to Blind Beck!’

And the professor comes back in.

‘Perhaps she’d been for alms.  Remember – the maid who gave the account?  The child was fractious and couldn’t be concealed.  Happen the poor mite was ill.  If Flora slipped out at night – perhaps to go to the paupers’ hospital for help – perhaps they gave her alms to pay for a physician.  She was returning with the money.  She wouldn’t have wanted to be seen – she would have come along the river, not the high street where she might run into a constable.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham now raises her fountain pen imperiously; she has deigned to enter the fray.  Her expression, however, speaks more of devil’s advocate than judge.

‘There can be little doubt that there was a confrontation between Flora Mary Graham and Lord Fellside.  That Lord Fellside died.  That his corpse was dragged from Blind Beck with a head injury.  That Flora was caught in flagrante, so to speak.’

She pauses intentionally, waiting for a response.

Skelgill looks unflustered; indeed, he and his colleagues are evidently content to leave this debate to the amateur detectives.

Kendall Minto resumes his defence of the servant girl.

‘If Flora found Lord Fellside about to drown her baby – she would have fought like a tigress.  If he lost his footing – he would have been swept away – the beck was in spate.  So – he hit his head on the stone banks – or the sluice gate.  He drowned.  But cause of death – there is no mention of an autopsy – they just went by the head injury.  In those days – would they be able to tell the difference?’  He looks to the police officers as if they will know the answer.

But Alice Wright-Fotheringham interposes a further check.

‘Does it seem too much of a coincidence that Flora was returning just as Lord Fellside was about to drown the baby?’

DS Jones, who has hitherto held her peace, is unable to contain her response.

‘A mother’s instinct.’

The answer is uncharacteristically subjective, amidst the hard facts they are fitting together, like a jigsaw puzzle with too few pieces and too many hands dipping in – but her quiet determination shines through.

‘Wait!’

Now Kendall Minto has his finger in the air, puzzlement suddenly crowding his features.

‘Fellside didn’t drown her baby – at least, not on the night in question.  But – it says “bairns” plural in her message.’

The reporter glances about – there is intrigue and consternation in the air – and he seems to get himself into a tangle.

‘What the heck am I saying, here?’

But Skelgill intervenes.

He approaches the table and leans on the heels of his hands and looks about portentously, before settling his gaze upon the professor.

‘Jim – you said we were digging up the graveyard.’

‘Quite right, I did, Daniel.’

‘And, before I tell you about that, I’d like to hand over to Dr Gibson to explain why I asked her to join the meeting.’

Skelgill remains standing – but takes several steps back and folds his arms.

Geraldine Gibson has been watching Skelgill intently, but now she gives a brush with her fingertips at her fringe, and casts about the circle, her chestnut eyes bright and her manner relaxed.

‘Inspector Skelgill invited me to speak about the Green Lady – the ghost that is reputed to haunt the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church.’

It is the sort of opening line that might draw titters of amusement – but this audience listens keenly, and she proceeds without any apparent sense of embarrassment.

‘The painting of the church that hangs in the Ring O’ Bells is known by hand-me-down local hearsay as “The Grave and the Green Lady”.  It is said that, in certain lights, a faint image can be discerned of the spectre standing beneath the yew tree, hooded and bent over a headstone marked with a skull and crossbones.’

She glances briefly at Skelgill; he listens inscrutably.

‘During the research for my book, Kendal Folk and Folklore, I came across an alternative narrative.  Put quite simply, the Green Lady was not a spectre – not a spirit returning for an unrequited purpose, seeking to be set free of some mortal bond – but of flesh and blood, a real woman who would visit under the cover of night to conceal her identity.  If disturbed, she would retreat into the shadows.’

The group sit perfectly still.  Geraldine Gibson continues in the same matter-of-fact manner.

‘The artist remains anonymous, but the canvas is dated, 1888 – and in fact I found no earlier references to the Green Lady.  It seems she is a comparatively recent phenomenon and that the painting was commissioned by persons unknown who wished to preserve her legacy.  The artwork has always hung in the Ring O’ Bells, which has been in the same family for seven generations – and to which the present landlady Belinda belongs.’

She looks about and her gaze comes to rest upon Skelgill.

‘Is that sufficient, Inspector?’

Skelgill may have drifted into something of a daydream – for he does not respond, despite that he is looking directly at the archivist.

‘Inspector?’

He starts.

‘Aye.  Aye, thanks.’  He continues to stare at her and speaks as if just the pair of them have been in conversation.  ‘It all fits, doesn’t it?’

He ponders a moment longer – and then seems to become aware of his responsibility to the whole group.  He steps forwards.

‘Beneath the yew, among the many memorials, there’s a grave, red sandstone, badly eroded – but it does have a skull and crossbones.  And the date can be made out – 1834.  The year of Flora Mary Graham’s birth.’

He looks at DS Jones and holds out a palm towards her as if to credit her with this deduction.  She takes it as a cue to speak.

‘We know she was an orphan – her mother may have died in labour.’

Jim Hartley clears his throat.

‘Maternal mortality was all too common – almost one birth in ten during that era – especially in rural counties such as ours.’

But Kendall Minto has realised that DS Jones has advanced the argument.  He leans towards her, a hand outstretched.

‘Wait – Emma – are you suggesting this grave – that it belongs to Flora Mary Graham’s mother?’

She opens her palms, inviting him to elaborate.

He needs little encouragement.

‘Ergo – the Green Lady … she is Flora.’

An uneasy silence manifests itself.

Jen is next to contribute.  She lifts her tablet illustratively.

‘Flora’s disappearance from the 1885 census – that could have been her returning to England.  Her son was a seafarer.  They would have had the means and knowhow.  Cumbria boasted great trading ports.  But – legally?’

Heads turn towards Alice Wright-Fotheringham.  Her penetrating blue eyes are unblinking.

‘You will recall Magwitch.  Fictitious, yes – but I remind you, authentic in that he could only return to his homeland under pain of death.  Transportation for life, transgressed, led to the gallows.  Flora Mary Graham was transported for life.  Like Abel Magwitch, she could only return incognito.  Would such a lethal risk justify the chance to mourn at the grave of a mother she never knew?’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham has thrown in a dampener.

But Skelgill steps right up to the table and shoots out a hand towards her, slicing the air with an open palm.

‘Exactly, Alice.  I agree.’

Now they all wait.

He looks at the professor.

‘Jim – I come to the point.  Exhumation.  Last night the red sandstone slab was raised.’

He waits.

All eyes are upon him.

It is a pin-drop moment.

‘Beneath it, just a foot below the surface, were the skeletons of two infant boys, likely twins.’

Now there is a collective intake of breath, a simultaneous gasp like a wave breaking about the room.

Before anyone else can react, the professor jumps to his feet and gestures animatedly in multiple directions in between making jabs at his shock of white hair with fingers spread wide.

‘Good heavens – the sexton!  I knew it!  The irregular payment in 1851 from Lord Fellside’s private account.  Him as dround bairns!’

That Jim Hartley has run a little amok and lapsed into the vernacular is perhaps less alarming than it might otherwise be – since, with Skelgill’s revelation, the pieces of the jigsaw have suddenly fallen into place.  It seems Kendall Minto is right: Flora Mary Graham came home to mourn her lost children.

Now Jim Hartley is more measured.

‘You see – the sexton might have been bribed and coerced into conspiracy and silence – but he would have been a God-fearing man.  And perhaps he didn’t have the heart to inter them in an anonymous pauper’s grave.  Flora’s mother’s resting place was the nearest thing to a family plot.’

There are more nods, and glances of consensus are exchanged – but now Jen indicates towards the central microphone, as if she refers to those who will be listening.

‘Can I just clarify – why would Lord Fellside do such a thing?’

The professor fields the question.

‘That, young lady, is not difficult to explain.  Lord Fellside’s only recognised offspring were daughters.  Just think what an illegitimate son would have meant.  Never mind Victorian prudishness – a controversy in waiting – but the implications for patrilineal primogeniture would have been cataclysmic.’

Alice Wright-Fotheringham gives a sharp rap of her knuckles on the table.

‘Jim – plain English before the court, please!’  She gestures expansively.  ‘He means the elimination of a potential male heir – one who could make a claim to the title of Earl of Fellside.’

‘Bastard.’

DS Leyton’s spontaneous outburst has him shooting a hand to his mouth.

The professor, however, reaches to reassure him with a pat on the arm.

‘Sergeant Leyton, you are quite right – that was the everyday term for an illegitimate child.  In the nineteenth century it was not considered offensive.’

DS Leyton stares at him, his eyes a little wild.

‘I meant the Earl.’

His candour – that a profanity was intended (if not for public consumption) – draws no signs of censure.  Nevertheless, he attempts to row it back.  He flashes a deprecatory look at Jen and Mel.

‘You can edit that out, right?’

But Jen shakes her head.

‘I think we keep it in – if I know anything, you speak precisely what our audience will be feeling.’

There are murmurs of agreement.

And now Alice interjects.

‘May I speak?’

There are no dissenters, and she proceeds, folding her hands carefully before her.

‘What we seem to know explains an aspect which – you will be aware – has troubled me.  That is the leniency shown by the court.  That a peripatetic judge, known as a hanging judge, would allow himself to be swayed by a provincial jury – when swift and severe justice was demanded in retribution for the violent death of a prominent noble; on the face of it, this does not stack up.  Therefore, I can only conclude that many more people, from the jurors to the wider townsfolk – and perhaps other more subtle lobbies brought knowledge and influence to bear.  I shan’t repeat the word, but I rather suspect that, in their opinion of the Seventh Earl of Fellside, there was unanimity – and that Sergeant Leyton is entirely correct.’

‘Hear, hear, Alice!’

It is the professor’s seconding, and the little speech gets a round of applause – it is not clear whether for Alice Wright-Fotheringham or DS Leyton or both – and DS Jones now reciprocates the earlier collegiate pat on the back.  Skelgill is grinning broadly.

What is also apparent is that Kendall Minto’s mind is still whirring.  Absently he flicks back his hair and turns up the collar of his trademark leather jacket, as might be his habit upon encountering his reflection.

‘You know, despite all this – and I am sure it is right about the despicable Earl – and there she was, hamstrung by disability and station in life, meekly resigned to an undeserved fate … and yet in her note, Flora prayed for his soul.’

It seems the young journalist’s introspection becomes a little contagious, and it is a few moments before anyone speaks, and it is DS Jones who does so.

She indicates towards Jen.

‘The report you just received from Tasmania.  I couldn’t help noticing that Flora named her son after him.  The Seventh Earl, I mean.  Edward William.’

‘Good heavens, so she did!’

It is the professor who confirms what surely cannot have been a coincidence.  But, when there is a small window for sentiment to make its case, Alice Wright-Fotheringham is quick to assign cause.

‘She was an orphan, plucked from the grind and misery of Fellside’s workhouse, likely for her appearance.  I suspect she felt a misguided sense of obligation.’

Here, Jen seems to have an alternative idea.  She raises an index finger to her chin.

‘Or perhaps she was farsighted.’  She looks across at Jim Hartley.  ‘Professor, would Flora’s surviving son or his descendants have a claim to the title of Earl of Fellside?’

The professor chuckles and winks mischievously.

‘Jen, Mel – Wise Council – I think we’ve just found our sequel!’

Two weeks later

27. REELED IN

Ring O’ Bells – 11.00 a.m.

‘THE TWO LASSES – they’ll be over the moon.  Can I tell the others – at ringing practice tonight, I mean?’

Skelgill nods amenably to the landlady’s question, though perhaps not least that she places before the trio of detectives a tray of hot pies and steaming mugs of tea.  A quick pit stop – he has insisted – before they call on Maria and Anna.  On-duty fare.  On the house, Belinda has insisted.

Skelgill tucks in enthusiastically.  His colleagues are more conventional in conveying their thanks.  And DS Jones picks up their host’s line of conversation.

‘We thought we’d surprise them, by turning up unannounced this morning.  We’ve only just heard from the Home Office ourselves.  How are they getting on, do you know?’’

‘Just champion.  Hazel wants them to stay and work in the shop – and she says they’re keen.  Now that Lord Fellside’s granted a year rent-free, she reckons the business will soon be back on its feet.  The estate’s paying for a full refurb of the flat and offered a new long-term lease on favourable terms.  And between the three of them they’ll juggle the bairn.  It’s a boy and he’s due on Christmas Day.’

DS Jones is about to respond when there is a click of the latch and an elderly man comes whistling into the pub.  He is short and stout with a cheery demeanour and a bulbous red nose and he tows a well-worn Border terrier on a leash of blue baler twine.  The dog smells pies and veers towards the lunch party; Skelgill reaches down to palm it a corner of crust.  The man brandishes a sheaf of newspapers, which he passes to Belinda.

‘There’s your Gazettes, lass.  Now, where’s my pint of brown and bitter?’

He draws the dog away and settles in a corner seat; an arriving regular it seems, he has intercepted the delivery of newspapers.  As Belinda makes to move to the counter she glances at a headline and peels off the top copy and hands it to DS Jones.

‘Here, love – I expect you’ve been waiting to see this.’

DS Jones eyes the page.

‘Kendall’s piece.  I thought it was coming out next week.’

DS Leyton leans to see.

‘He’s taking no chances – he wants the scoop.’

DS Jones lays the newspaper on the table; the article is splashed across pages two and three.

DS Leyton chuckles.

‘He’ll be on a tidy bonus for this.’

DS Jones taps the main headline.

‘“The Fall and Rise of Fellside Estate.”  It looks like they’re putting a positive spin on it.’

DS Leyton tilts his head from side to side.

‘Fair enough, I s’pose.  I was speaking with Jen – she’s interviewed the Earl for the podcast epilogue.  Seems he’s set on turning over a new leaf.  He’s committed to re-establishing traditional businesses and he’s already pledged half of the money for the Gazette’s maternity unit appeal.’

Skelgill has been following the discussion with knitted brows.

‘He’s got his work cut out.  Now the estate’s tarred with the brush of modern slavery.’

DS Leyton regards his superior pensively.

‘It’s just what the Prof said, though, ain’t it?  What goes around, comes around.’

Skelgill frowns at a forkful of steak-and-ale pie.

‘Did it ever go away?’

DS Jones murmurs and sighs.

‘I was taught that the first great civilisations were built on slavery.  An oxymoron.’

Skelgill grins and flashes her a sideways glance.

‘You can put that in the report.  Say I said it – that’ll give the Chief a laugh.’

DS Leyton offers a more pragmatic take.

‘Leastways, the bad guys’ll think twice before trying it again in this neck of the woods.’  With a knuckle he raps a sub-headline above a mugshot of James Crabstaff.  ‘He’s getting the book thrown at him.’

DS Jones’s gaze lingers on the photograph.

Skelgill does not miss her reaction.

‘What is it?’

A small line forms across her smooth brow – but she knows she must answer.  She meets his inquiring eyes.

‘Oh – well – you know that Forensics found a supply of GHB in Crabstaff’s quarters at Fellside Grange?’

‘Aye.’

‘Several of the freed women have been questioned in this regard – and have now made allegations against him.’

From between DS Leyton’s gritted teeth escapes the post-nineteenth century insult previously reserved for the contemptable Seventh Earl.

Skelgill, however, can see that DS Jones has more to say.

‘And?’

‘This morning, the lab got back to me.  You were right.  The sample that I took from his cocktail – his “special margarita” – it also contained GHB.’

Skelgill joins DS Leyton in a salvo of Anglo-Saxon expletives.  They look ready to rise and commit murder.  She reaches to placate them each with a calming hand.

‘Look – don’t worry – there was no way more than a tiny drop of his drink was ever going to pass my lips.’

But she can see they are seething.

‘Besides – my evidence might be what nails him.’

This is a persuasive argument.  The testimony of an unimpeachable undercover officer with no axe to grind could be decisive.

Her colleagues grudgingly settle.

And now DS Leyton reflects on the bright side of matters.

‘The Chief’s gonna be thinking all her birthdays have come at once.  She got two for the price of one!  Organised crime and a historical murder case – both cracked.  And Turnpike’s podcast – it’s a nailed-on award-winner, ain’t it?  She’ll be trotting across the stage in her heels and glad rags looking like Nicole Kidman!’

DS Jones smiles at her colleague’s allusion.  The A-list actress would make an appropriately red-headed casting.

‘Jen says Turnpike are thinking of hiring a stretch limo for the Wise Council.’

DS Leyton runs a finger around inside his collar, as if he is imagining the discomfort of a hired dinner suit.

‘I wonder if they’ll invite the Earl along?’

Skelgill, nose in his mug, makes a sound of discord.

‘He might not be so keen if he finds out Turnpike are planning a follow up.’

DS Leyton nods reflectively.

‘The rightful heir.’

‘Aye.’

But DS Jones appears less doubtful.

‘It must have crossed his mind.  He cooperated with the DNA tests to establish the lineage of the baby boy twins – and by extension Flora’s surviving son, Edward William Graham.  And of his progeny, in turn.’

DS Leyton pats Skelgill on the forearm.

‘Why don’t you put yourself forward, Guv?  Like I said the other day – you’re a closet Graham, after all.  You could be next in line.’

Skelgill baulks at the suggestion.

‘Leyton, I’m not even next in line in the photos in the arl lass’s front room, never mind the Graham clan.  Besides, our lot’s the Cumbrian branch.  I reckon Flora was from an Irish offshoot.’

His words prompt their collective gaze to home in on the grainy enlargement, now in newsprint for the world to see, that captures Flora Mary Graham in all her solemn beauty.  Beneath the image is a reproduction of her handwritten note.

DS Jones touches the spot lightly with a fingertip.

‘When did you first realise what she actually meant?’

Skelgill jerks back, his eyes widening as if he is uncomfortable with the admission he must now make.

‘The second I saw it.’

He sees that his colleagues are momentarily taken aback.

‘I mean – I couldn’t have put that into words.  But after visiting the fortune teller – and then this.’  He points to the note.  ‘I knew summat were askew.’

DS Jones persists.

‘But from the off, you read it – interpreted it – in the same way as Mel did?’

Skelgill shrugs awkwardly and looks aside – and she might reasonably deduce that, on the first occasion, surrounded by degrees and doctorates and skilled exponents of the English language, he might not put his head above the parapet.  She leans to interrupt his line of sight.

Her action forces a reply.

‘Aye.  Happen I did.  But I didn’t jump to any conclusions.  Besides, after that, the clues came thick and fast.  We had a helping hand, didn’t we?’

DS Leyton clicks his fingers and finishes the action with a pistol arrangement of thumb upwards and forefinger pointing at his superior.

‘You were dead right about the Dead Ringers.  You weren’t suspicious like me and Emma.  There’s us thinking they were a wicked bunch of old crones.’

They have by tacit agreement come to avoid the words witches and coven.  This is both out of respect for the Dead Ringers’ shunning of the limelight, and the realistic danger of ridicule or even undermining of the detectives’ case.  Mention of witches conjures pointy hats, broomsticks, black cats and cauldrons, and incantations that turn unfortunates into frogs – despite that the reality seems to be more akin to the Women’s Institute, a benevolent upholding of traditions, of works for good ends carried on down through the centuries.

But the notion prompts DS Leyton to take a lighter tack.

‘Our nippers are lapping up that story book, Guv – Carbonel.  The little girl and the witch’s cat.  We’re already halfway through the second reading.  I’d be grateful if you could get a word of thanks to your lady friend over at Whitehaven.’ He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes for a moment.  ‘Can’t think how she knew.  There’s a word for that, ain’t there?’

‘Prescient?’  DS Jones supplies the answer.  Her colleagues regard her suspiciously – but this merely causes her to laugh.  ‘I suppose it’s her job.’

Skelgill makes a face which might suggest resignation – but his gaze is distracted as the low autumn sun must emerge to send a shaft of light angling from a small window near the door, highlighting countless hitherto unseen motes of dust that swarm the still air of the bar room.  It falls full square upon the landscape above the hearth.

He stares for a few moments and then there must be something in the way he rises and stalks across to the fireplace, for his colleagues exchange glances of curiosity.  His own shadow interrupts the beam and he has to stand to one side in order to scrutinise closely one corner of the canvas, the swathes of dark shadows beneath the yew.

DS Leyton calls out.

‘What is it, Guv?’

Skelgill continues to minutely examine the artwork.

‘Come here a minute, Leyton.’

DS Leyton obliges.  Skelgill steps aside, though he points roughly to the area he has been examining.

‘What do you see?’

DS Leyton leans too close and sways back.  He shifts about and finally takes a step away to take in the bigger picture.

‘Just the church and that old tree – it’s the corner paved with gravestones.  Where Forensics dug it up.’

Skelgill is scowling and appears unwilling to accept this explanation.

‘Is that all?’

DS Jones joins them.

Skelgill, in looking at her, presses for an opinion.

‘Yes – the same.’  But she seems to know what he is driving at.  ‘You’re thinking about Dr Gibson’s anecdote – of being able to see a hooded figure and a carved headstone.’

When he might agree, Skelgill merely looks more troubled.

He stares again at the painting and even dabs at it with his long figures and checks their tips as if there might be recent paint.

He makes a growl of disapproval.

‘She said it were only in certain light.’

DS Jones smiles knowingly.

‘Or perhaps it had something to do with the power of suggestion?’

‘Power of a few pints, more like.’  It is DS Leyton’s contribution.

Skelgill nods slowly, though it is unclear to which of his subordinates’ theories he attributes most credence.

He seems unwilling to leave the spot.

DS Leyton makes a show of checking his wristwatch.

‘Hadn’t we better get our skates on, Guv?  If we’re to give the girls the good news and get back for the Chief.  Besides, I reckon our motor’s out of time in that parking space.’

Skelgill glances back at their table; there is a pie left.

He gives a jerk of his thumb towards the door.

‘You pair go ahead.  I’ll catch you up on foot.  Don’t wait for me, to tell them.’  He looks to DS Jones.  ‘It’s your news to break.’

He watches his sergeants leave.  He takes one last look at the painting and then returns to the table.  He ponders over the pie.

‘Like a doggy bag for that?’

Belinda has emerged from some business behind the curtain beyond the bar.  She leans over the counter and eyes him casually; her thick mascara might have been freshly applied, and her glossy raven hair newly brushed out.

He carries the plate over.

She reaches down for a paper bag, and he watches as she adroitly slips the pie inside without touching it.

‘I don’t know what you put in them – but they’re cracking pies.’

She holds up the bag, her long painted nails on display.

‘Old family recipe.  I like to keep customers coming back.’

He nods and begins to turn away.

‘Inspector?’

He hesitates.

‘If you get soaked, fishing – you’re welcome to dry your jeans here, any time.’

The landlady smiles beguilingly but before he can reply she turns and slips through the curtain.

His features creased, he emerges onto Kirkland and stands for some seconds on the pavement.  Then the sound of a car horn – a soft toot-toot as in “thank you” or “goodbye” – attracts his attention.  A couple of hundred yards along towards the town centre he sees the unmarked pool car DS Leyton has requisitioned to drive them to Kendal.  As it pulls away from the kerb, his sergeant’s hand emerges from the driver’s window.  Waving from the pavement is Valerie Nabb, traffic warden and part-time bellringer, and other.  Skelgill watches as she turns away, shaking her head – and then she crumples what might be a parking ticket and tosses it into a waste bin and walks on.

Skelgill crosses to the fishing tackle shop.

He stares for some time into the window at the much-vaunted travel rod.  A new sign has been added: “Last one remaining.”

He moves.  But not for the door – but seemingly on autopilot to the window of adjoining Fortune Antiques.

He performs a double take.

Centre stage in the display are the lapis lazuli earrings that he thought had been sold from under his nose.  The price ticket seems very reasonable – surely reduced by half?

He enters cautiously.

In smoky lamplight the two proprietors – both of whom he now knows by name but still thinks of as the Clairvoyant and the Tarot Lady – are seated at the sales table.  They do not look surprised to see him, and he is not surprised when they both rise and the former goes to the window and the latter to an antique Welsh dresser where she takes something from a drawer.  They resume their seats and Skelgill approaches the table.

‘Afternoon, ladies.’

They smile at him and then conspiratorially at one another; the Clairvoyant is already folding tissue around the jewellery box while the Tarot Lady is loosening the drawstring on a small olive-green canvas bag.

Skelgill removes notes from his wallet and places them next to the price ticket which the Clairvoyant has laid aside on the table surface.

The Tarot Lady hands him the canvas bag; it is heavy for its size, the cloth old and worn, though soft rather than brittle.

‘A gift – from the Dead Ringers.’

Skelgill tips the contents of the bag into his palm.

He starts.

It is the vintage brass fly reel, cleaned and oiled.

He winds the crank and the ratchet makes a satisfying purr.

He looks at the two women, but they seem to understand he is lost for words.

The Clairvoyant hands over the wrapped jewellery box and he carefully places one item in each of his jacket pockets.

He takes a step back and bows, in the way of unspoken thanks.

The women seem content, and just a hint amused.

As he turns to leave the Tarot Lady speaks.

‘Inspector.’

He cranes around.

‘The jewellery.  We’ll let you know – if we get a matching ring in.’

Skelgill hesitates.

For a moment, his voice catches in his throat.

‘Aye – do that.’

***

DATES MENTIONED IN THE TEXT

1566 – confiscation by the Crown of Kendal Castle

1597 – Kirkland plague outbreak

1597 – publication of Daemonologie by future King James I of England

1612 – witch trial and executions at Kendal Castle

1659 – construction of Fellside paupers’ hospital

1735 – Witchcraft Act

1741 – construction of Ring O’ Bells

1745 – Bonnie Prince Charlie lodged in Stricklandgate

1759 – construction of present Abbot Hall

1818 – founding of the Gazette

1834 – “pirate” grave, Holy Trinity Church

1833 – Slavery Abolition Act

1834 – Poor Law

1837 – Slave Compensation Act

1848 – fire at Fellside Mill

1851 – payment to sexton of Holy Trinity Church

1852 – death of Seventh Earl of Fellside at Blind Beck

1852 – renovation of Fellside almshouses

1852 – transportation of Flora Mary Graham & child to Van Dieman’s Land

1853 – Henry Hoggarth map of Kendal

1853 – Penal Servitude Act

1888 – landscape painting of Holy Trinity Church

1895 – Skelgill’s Baddeley edition

1909 – founding of Carnegie Library

1922 – Infanticide Act

Italicised entries are fictitious, although Sandes Hospital, Kendal was built in 1659, and its associated almshouses were rebuilt in 1852; and the infamous Pendle Witch Trials took place in neighbouring Lancashire in 1612.  In 1597 King James VI of Scotland (later King James I of England) really did publish a treatise on necromancy!

NEXT IN THE SERIEs

MURDER ON THE MENU

IN THE LAKE DISTRICT’s natural larder, deadly poisons lurk unseen.  Pretty flowers and exotic fungi may flatter to deceive, and they should not be underestimated.  Their toxins evolved in prehistoric times to deter great grazing beasts like bison and elk and the Ice Age aurochs.

But in the modern fashion, rare plants and other wild fare – Grizedale venison, Arctic char, Herdwick lamb – are blended with traditional ingredients to make Cumbria a gourmet’s paradise.  The rugged and beautiful county boasts more Michelin stars per head than any other part of the British Isles.

And each year the region’s ten top-ranked chefs compete to be crowned Champion of The Great Cumbrian Feast – a six-course tasting menu: the more original and innovative, the more likely a restauranteur will serve up the winning formula.  In search of obscure ingredients, contestants scour sea and shore, lake and river, forest and field and fellside.

For the chef and the gourmand alike, it is the chance to experiment – to stretch the limits of convention and excite the taste buds.  And to win an accolade that may bring fame and fortune.

But for someone with murder in mind … it presents an opportunity of a different kind.

‘Murder on the Menu’ by Bruce Beckham will be released in  December 2025.

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Or please refer to ‘Books by this author’ in the following back matter.

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Books By This Author

Murder on the Menu

NEXT IN THE SERIES ...

IN THE LAKE DISTRICT’s natural larder, deadly poisons lurk unseen.  Pretty flowers and exotic fungi may flatter to deceive, and they should not be underestimated.  Their toxins evolved in prehistoric times to deter great grazing beasts like bison and elk and the Ice Age aurochs.

But in the modern fashion, rare plants and other wild fare – Grizedale venison, Arctic char, Herdwick lamb – are blended with traditional ingredients to make Cumbria a gourmet’s paradise.  The rugged and beautiful county boasts more Michelin stars per head than any other part of the British Isles.

And each year the region’s ten top-ranked chefs compete to be crowned Champion of The Great Cumbrian Feast – a six-course tasting menu: the more original and innovative, the more likely a restauranteur will serve up the winning formula.  In search of obscure ingredients, contestants scour sea and shore, lake and river, forest and field and fellside.

For the chef and the gourmand alike, it is the chance to experiment – to stretch the limits of convention and excite the taste buds.  And to win an accolade that may bring fame and fortune.

But for someone with murder in mind … it presents an opportunity of a different kind.

The DI Skelgill Series Books 1-4

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"I have long awaited a series of books that can hold your attention and surprise you at every turn … when the answer is finally given you are only too painfully aware that you have been given all the clues but failed to join the dots.

His setting for the books and his descriptive accuracy is amazing. I grew up with the Northern Lakes as my "go-to place" and I can visualize the settings as if I were back in my teens. I can honestly say I would recommend these books to anyone who wants a riveting good yarn set in one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth."

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Such descriptive writing, expansive character development, and unexpected twists and turns!

I'm just back from a trip to England and now I want to turn around and head for Cumbria. Delightful, intriguing reading plus I've expanded my vocabulary!"

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