to retrace the steps of that first trek with his father, the day he’d met Barrie Gilpin. He would return to the valley by way of the corpse road, following a circular route past the Brack Hall farmstead before branching off on to the lane that led to the disused corn mill and ultimately Tarn Cottage.
By the time he was home again, with any luck not only would Wayne have departed but Miranda should be back to her usual self. They could make up after the quarrel. Talk, maybe watch the DVD he’d picked up in Kendal at the weekend.
Her usual self. As the path climbed, he reminded himself that they’d met such a short time ago. What was her usual self? Might the Miranda he thought he knew be someone of his imagining, might he have misled himself about her true nature? Even with the sun beating down on his forehead, the question chilled him. He told himself not to be stupid, that it was absurd to allow a single quarrel to provoke such doubts.
The path was sticky with mud after the rain of recent days but even though the new boots were pinching, he made steady progress. Despite the fall-out with Miranda, he felt energy surging within him. He liked the sound of Hannah Scarlett. As he neared the top, the climb became steeper. He tripped over a twisted tree root and came to rest on a spiky clump of purple heather. When he looked up towards Priest Edge, the strange boulder was looming above him. With the ground falling away all around, it seemed like an island in the sky.
From this perspective, it seemed that a single gust might topple it over and send it tumbling down the slope, crushing him and everything in its wake. But this was an illusion: nothing could shift the Sacrifice Stone.
In his head he conjured up images of silent worshippers trooping along the hillside, bearing the young girl to be surrendered to their deity when they reached Priest Edge. In return for a death, they hoped to be granted fruitful living. Daniel could not conceive what prayers might run through the high priest’s mind as his acolytes laid the girl upon the rock and he unsheathed his knife, readying himself to slit her throat. And what of that other killer, who had mimicked the ceremony: had a current of cruel pleasure rippled through him as he brought the axe down on his unconscious victim?
Too much imagination could seriously damage your peace of mind. Time to move on. He picked himself up and five minutes later was scrambling over the last rough patch and clambering on to the summit of the fell. At last the grey bulk of the Sacrifice Stone squatted in front of him. At close quarters, the rock was smaller than in his childhood memories, but it occupied much of the narrow ridge, allowing space for no more than a couple of people to squeeze past on either side. He ran the tip of his index finger along the jagged rock. The Stone was a table resting on a base that lifted it clear of the ground. Finding temptation impossible to resist, he hauled himself up, so that he could sit on the smooth hard surface.
At once he experienced the adrenaline rush of being on top of the world. Scanning the panorama below, his heart beating faster. He might have been a king on his throne, surveying his realm. From his vantage point he could see the neighbouring valley of Whitmell, look over to the narrow cleft of High Gill and hear the rushing water of Brack Force. Shading his eyes, he gazed over Brack’s green and pleasant land towards a distant strip of water that he recognised as Windermere.
Here it was much cooler than down in the valley; the breeze made his cheeks tingle. A couple of greying fell-walkers, kitted out for all weathers, approached from the direction of Old Scar. He guessed that they were traversing the Brackdale Horseshoe, an arc formed by the crags that enclosed the valley.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said.
The woman paused mid-stride to wag a finger. ‘Better watch out for yourself, young man. You know the old story? If you climb on to the Sacrifice Stone, you’ll look Death in the eye before the month is out.’
‘I’ll take care,’ he promised. ‘And if all else fails, I’ll increase my insurance cover.’
She gave him a fierce glare before hurrying to catch her husband. Daniel recalled that his sister’s book had mentioned the dire fate foretold for those who defiled the Sacrifice Stone. Of course he shouldn’t have climbed it anyway. He scrambled off the boulder and, unfastening his rucksack, pulled out his makeshift lunch. There was nothing he could do to mitigate his breach of pagan protocol except, perhaps, to make sure he took his litter home.
The sun slipped behind a cloud and he found himself shivering. His fault for being beguiled by the brightness and neglecting to wear enough layers. After taking a couple of bites at his apple, he opened the can. The taste of the beer revived his spirits. He was wiping the foam from his mouth when a walker in a wine-red wind-cheater came into view. As the man trudged onward, his slender build and slightly jerky gait seemed familiar. So was the thick fair hair, flapping over his eyes.
‘Well, well.’ Marc Amos smiled as he neared the Sacrifice Stone. ‘Do you come here often?’
‘First time since we moved in,’ Daniel said with an answering grin. ‘What about you?’
‘As often as I can make it. If you want to get away from it all, where better?’
‘Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?’
‘We’re closed today. If I were a good boy, I’d be checking the inventory or visiting a couple of people with collections to sell, but frankly I was in the mood for a treat. After spending all weekend at a book fair up in Carlisle, I was longing for the chance to clear my head and get some fresh air into my lungs. What better way to do it than by walking the fells?’
‘This place is hard to beat, I agree. So much crammed into — what, less than a thousand square miles?’
‘Much less. I’m ashamed to say it’s months since I last walked the Horseshoe from beginning to end. It’s my favourite trek in the southern fells. Wainwright preferred the Kentmere Round, but even Homer nods. I like to linger on the way and soak up the atmosphere. When Wainwright was sketching the fells, he used to picture Roman legions on the march. I try to put myself in the shoes of the people who were here before the emperor’s men. The hunter-gatherers and then the Celts.’
‘Ten minutes ago, someone reprimanded me for climbing up on to the Stone in defiance of the old superstitions. All I wanted was the luxury of a magnificent view whilst I picnicked. I’d forgotten that I was taking my life in my hands.’
‘You don’t mind making waves, do you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Leigh Moffat mentioned that you caused a fuss a few nights ago in The Moon under Water. When she went to the bar, the landlord and Tom Allardyce were discussing the way you’d been talking about the girl who was killed here. You’d riled them, they were saying it was none of your business. Although they didn’t put it as politely as that.’
‘Storm in a teacup,’ Daniel said lazily. ‘All I said was that Barrie Gilpin’s guilt had never been proved. It’s harsh to be condemned as a murderer when you’ve never had the opportunity to defend yourself.’
‘You know better than most: history is written by the survivors.’
‘Yes,’ Daniel said. ‘That worries me a lot.’
Marc gave a brittle laugh. ‘Surely you can’t expect people here to be thrilled at the prospect of stones being turned over? The girl’s long buried, Barrie Gilpin, too. Time to let them rest in peace.’
‘Will they be at peace if they’ve been cheated of justice?’
Pushing the hair out of his eyes, Marc said, ‘If Barrie Gilpin was innocent, someone else must be guilty. For all we know, someone who is still living and working in the valley down there.’
Daniel gave him a long look. ‘Having claimed two victims, Gabrielle and Barrie. Would it hurt to give that someone a wake-up call?’
Marc cleared his throat. ‘Can I offer you some advice?’
‘Feel free.’
‘This isn’t Oxford. With so many tourists clogging up the car parks, the Lakes might seem cosmopolitan, but under the surface a place like Brackdale is introspective. Claustrophobic. There’s a lot of prejudice against people who come here from elsewhere and try to shape their surroundings to suit themselves. The locals have developed a carapace, it’s a way of preserving their identity. As for Tom Allardyce, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’
‘Our paths aren’t likely to cross.’
‘You don’t understand.’ The urgency of Marc’s tone took Daniel by surprise. ‘The man has a reputation for violence. Jean Allardyce has sported plenty of bruises over the years and they haven’t all come from walking into doors. The army threw Tom out for brutality, and I’d guess that says it all. He beat up Barrie Gilpin more than once and from what Leigh tells me, he’s taken a serious dislike to you. I hate to sound melodramatic, but you’ll find you’ve made a dangerous enemy.’
