responsible?’
‘Or even if it didn’t, perhaps forensic evidence could have proved Philip didn’t kill him.’
He nodded. ‘And Kit Payne is the man who leaves nothing to chance, we’re told.’
She finished her cone and clambered to her feet. ‘Shall we head for the Hanging Wood?’
‘Sure.’ Greg sprang up. ‘And talking of the way things look, ma’am …’
‘Yes?’
‘You have a smear of ice cream on the tip of your nose.’
‘Is Aslan around?’ Daniel asked. ‘He left a message on my voicemail asking for a word.’
Sham glanced up from her computer. She’d perfected the expression of an upwardly mobile young executive interrupted in the midst of a life-or-death task, but a glance at the screen revealed she was catching up on the latest gossip from a soap opera website.
‘Waltzed in this morning, on time for once, and announced he’d only be in for an hour or so today. And then he spent all his time in the library, rather than in his own office. Never known him do that before; he once told me he’s not much of a reader. Sure enough, inside thirty minutes, he was tearing out again. A man in a hurry.’
‘Why the rush?’
‘Dunno, he didn’t say a word. The bloody librarian was asking me a question and he just waved as he dashed past. Didn’t even shut the front door. I saw him stop by the flower bed and take a knife from his pocket. He cut off two red roses and took them with them. The principal would go mental about it, if only he knew.’ Daniel recognised an admiration for Aslan’s effrontery, mixed in with disgruntlement. ‘He didn’t present the roses to me, that’s for sure.’
‘He’s keen on flexible hours, isn’t he?’
‘Another way of saying that he works as little as possible.’ Sham sniffed. Dark rings under her eyes suggested a late night. ‘Not that I blame him. Wouldn’t I just love a job like that? Events organising? A real skive, if you ask me.’
‘Doesn’t he enjoy it?’ Daniel was all innocence. ‘I assumed everyone here would be highly motivated.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Sham allowed herself a lavish sigh. ‘Aunt Fleur suggested I might fill in here for a few weeks, until Mockbeggar Hall opens to the public.’
‘So you’re joining the family business?’
‘Dad told me they want me to run the welcome desk. He came for one of his weekly meetings with Aunt Fleur in her office here, discussing the plans for the Hall. Apparently they like the idea of having a member of the family working in the Hall full-time, and there’s no arguing with that pair once they’ve made up their minds.’ She groaned. ‘No escape, is there? I meant to make a break, strike out on my own. My sister Purdey is the business- minded one, not me. I’m not really cut out for the nine to five. Maybe I should travel the world. Aslan has never settled down, and it hasn’t done him any harm.’
‘What brought him to St Herbert’s, if not love of the job?’
‘I suppose it’s a pretty place to pass the summer. He’s a volunteer, and in his opinion, that gives him the right to get away with murder. Mind you, the rest of us might as well be working out of the goodness of our hearts.’ As if bored with whingeing, she dazzled him with a sudden smile. ‘Never mind, one thing I’ll say about this place is that you do meet some interesting people. Television stars, for instance.’
‘I was never a television star.’
‘Aunt Fleur never missed a programme. She’s one of your biggest fans; she has all your books in hardback. I’m surprised she hasn’t demanded your autograph yet. Maybe she will at dinner tonight.’
‘You’ll be there?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
‘I assumed you’d have better offers.’
‘Are you kidding? Keswick isn’t exactly alive with excitement for people my age. And in case you’re wondering, Aslan and I aren’t seeing each other, not seriously. Yesterday evening was only the second or third time we’ve even been out for a drink.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He wondered why she was bothering to tell him.
‘I never intended to put poor Orla’s nose out of joint. I mean, Aslan is pretty fit, but she’d have been welcome to him.’ So was she feeling guilty at having tempted Aslan away from the dead girl, or trying to explain away her failure to captivate him? ‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to tonight. Couldn’t let Purdey get one up on me through having dinner with a media celebrity, could I, now?’
An earnest vicar approached the reception desk, flourishing the St Herbert’s annual programme of events. His demeanour suggested he was about to ask complicated questions to which Sham was unlikely to have answers. Daniel seized the opportunity to sidle away.
‘See you tonight, then,’ she called.
Climbing to his eyrie in the library, his thoughts drifted back to the principal’s report of that fraught conversation between Orla and Aslan Sheikh. What connected Callum in her mind with Castor and Pollux — surely not the fact that the two siblings had different fathers?
A red squirrel dashed into the undergrowth as Hannah and Greg approached the Hanging Wood. The wood was separated from the holiday park by a barbed wire barrier which ran behind a group of low buildings where maintenance equipment and backup generators were kept, and which lay behind eight-feet-high waney-lap fences covered with health and safety warnings and signs saying
According to Kit Payne, the Madsens had abandoned the Hanging Wood after Philip Hinds’ death, and the disappearance of his nephew. Philip’s cottage was demolished, but there was no question of developing the land, even if it hadn’t been inconceivable that the Parks Authority would allow it. The Madsens owned more than enough land to expand their site, Kit explained; two-thirds of the Mockbeggar Estate remained untouched and out of bounds to visitors.
Greg began to whistle, and Hannah recognised the opening bars to ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.
‘What do you reckon to the guy on the CCTV, wandering into the Forbidden Forest?’ Greg asked.
‘Surely he can’t have become so bored with his luxury holiday home that he went in search of adventure?’
‘Naughty not to heed the notices telling him to “keep out”.’ Greg shot her a glance. ‘He must be as keen to get into the Mockbeggar Estate as the Madsens are to warn off intruders.’
They reached the outer fringe of the Hanging Wood. As they moved between the trees, the temperature seemed to drop two or three degrees. Wych elms towered above them, along with rowan, ash and oak. Coarse grass, heather and spiky brambles obscured the old path, ivy tendrils smothered the bark.
‘Did you think the chap seemed familiar?’ she said at last.
A brisk nod. ‘Hard to tell from that camera angle, but he reminded me of the bloke we saw outside Mike Hinds’ farm.’
So she hadn’t imagined it. ‘Me too.’
They pushed on along the half-hidden track, ducking their heads under low and heavy branches. A foetid stench wafted from a small stagnant pond. Greg trod on a fallen branch, and the snap of wood sounded like a pistol shot.
Out of the blue, he said, ‘I read up about wych elms last night.’
‘You did?’ He had this knack of setting her back on her heels.
He kicked the broken branch out of his way. ‘Idle curiosity, that’s all.’
Hannah guessed he wanted to understand the environment in which Philip Hinds had lived and died. He’d never admit it; he didn’t want to seem touchy-feely. She remembered Ben Kind preaching the importance of getting under the victim’s skin. Do that, he maintained, and you were halfway to getting under the killer’s skin. Not that anybody thought of Philip as a victim. Except for Orla.
‘Disease killed a lot of elms,’ Greg said. ‘Even so, some trees survived. Turns out there’s something macabre about wych elms. They feature in a lot of folklore. Traditionally, they were associated with melancholy and death.’
