She raised her eyebrows and Daniel sensed that, for all her distress, this was a woman of considerable strength of mind. ‘What on earth brings you to my house?’
‘I live in Brackdale and I’ve been reading your book about the riddles of South Lakeland.’
‘Not my book, really,’ she said. ‘I’m only a humble publisher.’
He grinned. ‘A humble publisher? Some people would say that’s a contradiction in terms.’
‘Not if they know anything about the realities of running a small press.’ She mustered a tired smile. ‘I don’t do long expense-account lunches or six-figure advances. In fact, I don’t do advances at all. Our authors write for love rather than money. An occasional royalty cheque is a bonus. The book you’re talking about was written by — let me see, Eleanor Sawtell? Nice lady, primary school teacher. She’d been collecting curious tales from her neck of the woods for donkey’s years.’
‘I was wondering how to make contact with her. Is she still alive?’
Roz sighed. ‘Yes — but the last I heard from her daughter, poor Eleanor was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Her husband had died and she’d moved into a care home in Kendal.’
Shit. ‘In that case, could I pick your brains?’
‘To be honest, it’s not convenient.’
He assumed a doleful expression. ‘Of course, I’m happy to make an appointment and come back another time.’
‘No, no.’ She took a breath. ‘It isn’t every day that a television personality shows up on my doorstep. Do come in. On second thoughts, let’s sit out in the garden. This weather won’t last forever. Might as well make the most of it. My husband’s doing just that.’
He followed her round to the back of the cottage. Chris Gleave was sitting on the edge of a low stone wall. He was wearing brief shorts and nothing else, his body was slim and brown. Daniel noticed the look of proprietorial pleasure on Roz’s face, as she considered her husband while introducing them.
‘I saw some of your programmes on the box,’ Chris said. ‘History as detective work. Neat concept.’
‘Now,’ Roz said, evidently reluctant to become distracted by chit-chat with their unexpected visitor. ‘What is it you want to know about Eleanor’s book?’
He explained about Jacob Quiller and the garden at Tarn Cottage. ‘Did Eleanor have any inkling about the cipher?’
‘If she did, I don’t remember her sharing it with me. She wasn’t a professional researcher; I think she relied on anecdotes that she’d gathered over decades for most of her tales. As most of my authors do.’
‘Only when I’ve asked about the Quillers in Brack, nobody seems to know anything about them.’
‘It was a long time ago. Eleanor’s scraps of knowledge might date back as far as the Forties or Fifties.’
‘If that’s right, there’s not much chance of my finding out much more about them.’
A bleak smile. ‘A test of your prowess as a historian, then.’
‘Or as a detective.’ He sighed. ‘Your own garden is gorgeous. Did you create it yourselves?’
‘Not exactly,’ Roz said. ‘We used a professional firm.’
‘I’ve called in experts to look at our garden too. They are based near here. Flint Howe. You know them?’
She nodded, unwilling to commit herself to words. Daniel saw that Chris had paled beneath his tan.
‘Have you heard about Sam Howe’s sister?’
Roz blinked. ‘You know about Kirsty?’
‘I was at the airfield yesterday.’
Chris whispered, ‘Jesus.’
He looked as though he too was about to burst into tears. Roz fired him a nervous glance.
‘I’m sorry. We’ve known Kirsty since she was so high. The news has come as a terrible shock to both of us. Really, it’s not something either of us can bear to talk about. Now, if you don’t mind, I really ought to be catching up with some work.’
‘On a Sunday?’
She moved forward, waving him back to the front of the cottage, like a farmer trying to shift cattle from his field. ‘Running a small business from home is a seven day a week affair, I’m afraid. Sorry I can’t be more help.’
The church was a cool refuge from the heat outside. A couple of elderly ladies were up near the altar, arranging flowers and enjoying a good moan about the weather. On a table near the door were scattered a selection of leaflets about fair trade and third world poverty. Nothing about the history of the parish or the denizens of the graveyard. But at least the rector had got his priorities right, Daniel thought as he ambled down a side aisle, inspecting the plaques set into the wall. The memorial to the Quillers’ son was easy to find. A large rectangular cast-bronze panel, bearing an embossed inscription.
He heard footsteps echoing on the stone floor and someone humming an approximation of ‘Praise my soul, the King of Heaven’.
‘Mr Kind, how good to see you again. Still on the detective trail?’
Daniel turned to face the rector of Brack, a tiny man with sparse grey hair and half-moon spectacles perched on a pointed nose. His manner suggested a gregarious church mouse.
‘You remember my interest in the fellow who built our cottage? This is his son.’
‘Ah.’ The rector peered so closely at the panel that Daniel thought he was going to rub his little snout against it. ‘A tragic business. Death in war is so futile, don’t you agree? Take this young fellow, for instance. If I’m not much mistaken, the war was over within weeks of his death. He’d survived everything the enemy could throw at him — only to die of natural causes. So sad.’
‘His parents never got over it. A local legend grew up about them.’
As Daniel explained about the cipher garden, the rector’s eyes widened with excitement. ‘Dear me, dear me, how very intriguing. I once had a parish in Norfolk, with an elderly monkey puzzle growing by the edge of the graveyard. Not an attractive tree to my mind, I much prefer the good old English oak myself. But there was no question of chopping it down, my parishioners wouldn’t have heard of it. Would you happen to know why?’
Daniel shook his head.
‘By tradition, the sparse foliage is meant to deprive the Devil of a hiding place. If the branches were leafy, he might be able to spy on funerals and steal the souls of the dead.’
‘What about yew trees and weeping willows — any symbolism there?’
‘Most certainly.’ The rector twittered with delight at the opportunity to display his expertise. ‘Yews are supposed to represent immortality. Weeping willows, as you might guess, are associated with sorrow and bereavement. So how do you interpret the cipher, may I ask?’
‘Strictly speaking, I don’t think it is a cipher. Ciphers involve the substitution of letters. This just looks like a cryptic message.’
The rector wagged his forefinger in playful rebuke. ‘Ah, there speaks the Oxford don!’
‘Pedantic to a fault, I know. Trouble is, breaking a code may require more than precise, minute analysis. Sometimes imagination is called for.’
‘Goodness, do I take it that you have solved the conundrum?’
‘Yes.’ Daniel stared at the bronze panel. ‘Unfortunately, I think I have.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Are you all right?’ Marc asked.
Hannah contemplated several possible answers before saying, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘We could go away somewhere.’ He chewed a last mouthful of burnt bacon before slinging his plate and cutlery into the dishwasher with a crash. ‘Spend a bit of time together. You’re due plenty of leave.’
The coffee he’d made was bitter on her tongue but she drained the cup anyway. Better make the most of his solicitude; it wouldn’t last. At once she rebuked herself for cynicism. He was making an effort. She slid off the stool. All she’d felt like eating for breakfast was a single slice of unbuttered toast.
