As the door banged shut behind her, Kirsty ground her teeth. Her mother hadn’t given a straight answer. Was the accusation in the letter really nonsense? Or had the affair with Peter Flint started while Dad was still alive?
Chapter Seven
The morning mist was clearing as Daniel ploughed up the grassy track to the top of Castle Hill. On reaching the summit, he gazed over the lush fields of the Kent valley towards the northern fells on the horizon. A panorama panel named them, but he didn’t need it to recognise the flat-topped peaks of the Brackdale Horseshoe. Already he thought of the valley as home.
Kendal Castle was a ruin, with a tumbledown tower and fragments of wall scattered as artistically as if laid out by a heritage artist. There were peepholes and vaults and signs speculating about the precise design of the old fortress, but its defences had been down for half a millennium and now the stone remains enclosed a grassy expanse for recreation. Schoolchildren shouted, terriers barked, mothers with pushchairs gossiped. Tourists fiddled with camcorders, a teenage couple luxuriated in an endless kiss.
Daniel climbed the wooden steps and inspected the view from the top of the tower. Below sprawled the Auld Gray Town of Kendal, with its limestone houses and squat factories. The mountains in the distance would have looked the same to feudal barons eight centuries ago. Returning to ground level, he settled on a bench on the brow of the hill, soaking up the warmth as the sun came out to keep the forecasters’ promise.
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Why did Hannah Scarlett have this effect on him? He would never admit it to a living soul, but he couldn’t drive the woman out of his mind. It was as if he’d persuaded himself that she could unlock a door in his life. But he didn’t know what lay on the other side of the door.
At last he saw her, striding briskly up from the road that led back to the river. She always seemed full of purpose, a woman who knew where she was going. The colour of her hair was a shade lighter than he remembered. Catching sight of him, she gave a quick nod.
‘You’re early,’ he said, springing to his feet.
‘You’ve probably read about police officers spending too much time behind their desks. So I have an excuse for getting out and about. Not that I’m expecting to catch any criminals this morning, unless you confess to breaking the speed limit.’ She extended her hand. ‘How are you, Daniel?’
Her skin was cool to touch. He was seized by the urge to keep hold of her, but conquered it just in time. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’
‘You mean the hair?’ A suspicion of a blush. ‘It’s one of my vices. I can never quite make up my mind on what’s right for me. I haven’t got up the nerve to go blonde. One day, perhaps.’
‘It’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ She cleared her throat and jerked a thumb towards the castle. ‘So, what’s your professional verdict on our ancient pile? Not exactly Windsor, is it? Though there is a Royal connection, with one of Henry VIII’s wives. The last and the luckiest, Katharine Parr. Her family lived here, this was her birthplace.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve always loved wandering around old castles. In some ways, the less that survives, the better. Try to picture what life was like six or seven hundred years ago and there’s plenty of scope for the imagination. As for Katharine, the latest thinking is that she was born somewhere else. That’s what people don’t realise about history. It’s not set in concrete, it changes with time. Each time you find new evidence, you’re tempted to form a new theory.’
‘Like detective work. As you said in your TV series.’
‘Good training for a historian to be the son of a policeman.’
‘Ben was fascinated by the history of crime investigation, he told me that one of the earliest manuals about procedures for looking into suspicious deaths was compiled in ancient China. They called it Washing Away the Wrong.’
‘Washing away the Wrong? Easier said than done.’
‘You’re telling me.’ She eased herself on to the bench and he sat down beside her. Keeping a discreet couple of inches between them. ‘So how goes your cottage renovation?’
‘Three steps forward and two back, but the place is taking shape. I’m attacking the garden. Since I started digging out weeds and tree roots, I’ve discovered muscles I never knew I had — and all of them ache. Mind you, I’m allowing myself to be distracted by a puzzle.’
‘Last time we met, you told me there was something odd about the cottage grounds.’
He was glad she’d remembered the conversation. ‘Nobody would create a garden like that by chance. The answer may be in front of my eyes, but I’m too stupid to see it. Perhaps I ought to consult an expert in garden planning.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve looked in the directories. If you know anybody…’
‘There’s a company called Flint Howe Garden Design, on the way to Hawkshead. They’re supposed to be among the best.’
‘You’ve used their services?’
‘I know them by reputation.’
He laughed. ‘So long as there’s no criminal connection.’
She made as if to say something, then checked herself. ‘They are supposed to know their stuff.’
He picked up on the hesitation. ‘You came across them at work?’
A wry grin. ‘I’m glad you became a historian, not a lawyer. I’m not sure I’d like to be cross-examined by you. Your father was persistent, too. Good at luring people into indiscretions.’
‘Persistent, I’d own up to that. I hope you didn’t mind my calling you. It’s just that…’
As he groped for words, she came to the rescue. ‘I should have rung back sooner.’
‘I was glad to hear from you.’
‘Pleasure.’ As if to cover embarrassment, she added, ‘I owe a lot to your father. He behaved badly, leaving his family for Cheryl, and I’d say he felt guilty until the day he died. But he was a good man, even so.’
‘Are the cold cases warming up?’
‘The powers that be have secured extra funding for the project, so they’re happy enough.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Frankly, it’s a mixed blessing. The work fascinates me, but I don’t want to spend too long in a career cul- de-sac. For a historian, there may be a future in the past, but I didn’t join the police to second-guess mistakes made by long-gone colleagues.’
‘So why did you join the police?’
‘To make a difference.’ She spoke as if stating the obvious, and then gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Hark at me, I sound like a politician. Arrogant, puffed up with my own importance. But it’s true.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of idealism.’
‘Over the years, you learn to temper it with reality. How much difference can one detective really make? Even so, I suppose a part of me hasn’t changed. I like to think I’m helping justice to be done. Perhaps I’m kidding myself. Ben used to warn me I’d grow out of it. Even though he believed in justice as much as me, each time I became too serious, he’d tease me something rotten.’
‘He was the same with Louise and me.’
‘I can imagine.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. An old man in an unseasonal donkey jacket threw a stick for his Golden retriever, a flock of black-headed gulls flapped overhead. Daniel guessed that Hannah was remembering his father. The laconic humour, the quiet resolve that on occasion became unyielding stubbornness. If only he’d seen through Cheryl sooner. The family need never have been torn apart.
‘How did you come across these garden designers?’
She studied her short and unvarnished fingernails. There was nothing fussy about Hannah Scarlett. She didn’t pretend to be someone she was not.
‘A partner in the firm was murdered a few years ago.’
