closed in together beyond the dead industrial remains. There was no through road. Miranda was right: a casual visitor would never guess that the valley existed. Tarn Cottage was concealed from view, as if by pale plumes of smoke. But Daniel knew that no fire burned, it was only the blossom of damson trees.
‘Look over there!’ Miranda was excited, he was aware of her tensing beside him. ‘That weird stone on the summit.’
The boulder was shaped like an anvil, stark against the sky. Even on this innocent spring morning, its grey bulk loomed dour and secretive. Without thinking, he said, ‘I climbed up there once. People round here call it the Sacrifice Stone.’
‘Really?’ Her voice rose. ‘Go on, tell me more.’
He’d said too much. That was the trouble with the valley; it seduced you into betraying what was on your mind. Laughing, he changed the subject. He must focus on the here and now, not let anything darken a perfect day.
They shuddered over a cattle grid; it would be a miracle if the car’s suspension survived the weekend, but who cared? As they joined the road on the far side of the village, dry stone walls gave way to hedgerows smudged by the gold of willow catkins. A mile further on stood a wooden sign with worn lettering. He could barely make out the words Tarn Fold. Next to it a gleaming estate agent’s sign pointed towards the woodland: Cottage for sale by private treaty.
It must be Tarn Cottage. Had to be. There was no other dwelling down the track. His skin tingled: soon he would see the old place again. He parked on a square of turf where the asphalted lane became an unmade track. Miranda leaned towards him, eyes closing as they always did when she was aroused. Her perfume had a heady jasmine fragrance. They kissed and he put the cottage out of his mind until she pulled away.
‘Time to explore.’
As he led her across an old packhorse bridge, they heard the faint splash of a fish in the beck. Past a ruined corn-mill, the route forked, and, without hesitation, he headed towards a coppice of beech and ash. Wrens murmured in the trees. He’d read that birdsong is quieter in the countryside: no need to compete with city noise. Above the track, sinuous branches arched to form a green tunnel. He had a sudden fancy that he and Miranda were people in a story for children, passing through a portal into another world.
A breeze set the trees swaying, as if to to the rhythms of a samba that only they could hear, and he glimpsed the whitewashed walls of the cottage. Beyond, he remembered, lay the barn and the bothy. When they reached the clearing, they stopped a few yards from the gateway at the end of the track, taking in the luscious air. A board freshly painted in a blinding shade of yellow bragged that Tarn Cottage “presented outstanding potential for sensitive refurbishment.”
Ground elder and nettles had colonised the gravel path that curved towards a front door from which green paint was peeling. At least the tracery of the mullioned windows was intact. Moving closer, they could see the slope of the garden down to a reedfringed tarn. Sunlight glinted on the water. Further on, the land rose towards the lower reaches of the fell. They paused, no longer able to hear the rushing of the beck. The breeze had dropped, the birds had lost their voice.
For a long time, neither of them broke the silence. Daniel slipped his arm around Miranda’s waist and felt her trembling. It wasn’t in her nature to be uncertain. Perhaps, like him, she felt as if she had arrived at a sort of holy place. The two of us are worshippers, he thought, we’re here to make our devotions. And now we are overcome by awe.
‘How could anyone live here and not be at peace?’ She was whispering, even though no one could hear.
‘Maybe we ought to put in a bid.’
‘Oh God, yes,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s do it.’
Her smile was dreamy. He’d seen it before, in her flat in London, moments after they made love for the first time. She could ask for anything, he would give it gladly. Seizing his hand, she gripped it tight.
‘Let’s do it,’ she said again.
‘But…’
‘No buts, Daniel. I mean it.’
‘You’re not serious.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘Believe me, I am.’
He tried being logical, though this was no time for rational argument. ‘You work in London. I’m in Oxford. It takes almost as long to drive up here as to fly the Atlantic.’
‘You weren’t talking like that a couple of days ago.’
‘You weren’t talking about buying a holiday home then.’
‘Not a holiday home.’ She pinched his arm. ‘Listen, remember when I read out my horoscope last night, that stuff about making a new start? We could make it here. Sell up everything and move into Tarn Cottage.’
‘You’re joking.’ His mouth was dry. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I’ve never been more serious,’ she said. ‘I hate my job, and the college is stifling you. Listen to me, Daniel. Life is short, we don’t get second chances. Let’s escape from it all, make a fresh beginning together. We could be so happy here.’
He took a step away and stared at her flushed cheeks. Once such intensity would have scared him, now it made him giddy with desire. She lived by instinct and he adored her for it. For too long he’d played the sober academic, weighing evidence with cool scholarship before proceeding to a measured judgement. But reason was a ball and chain. Even though he’d never been able to get Brackdale — and Barrie Gilpin — out of his mind, it had taken him twenty years to return. Miranda was different. From the moment she’d seen the cottage, she had fallen head over heels.
‘It’s not exactly Islington.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Didn’t you once tell me that anywhere north of the Wash was like a foreign country? You’ve never even lived in a small town. You’re a Londoner, the city’s part of you.’
‘Parts of it I hate. The greed, the dirt, the crime. The newspaper placards screaming Murder of Woman — Witnesses Sought.’
‘But…’
‘Hey, I thought you’d understand, that you’d want this as much as me.’
A gust caught the damson petals. Daniel watched them flutter in the air like crystals of snow before they merged with the wood anemone carpeting the ground beyond the little wood.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Are you up for it?’
If I say no, he thought, will things ever be the same between us? I mustn’t mess up, the way I messed up with Aimee.
He swallowed hard. ‘Sure.’
Flinging her arms around him, she kissed him with a fierce hunger. Unbuttoning his shirt, unbuckling his belt, pushing him backwards and down. The grass smelled damp but they didn’t care. The two of them were drunk with passion for each other. Her skin tasted sweet. He’d never experienced this before Miranda: not such abandonment. Surrendering to the will of another human being. Until now he’d always kept control.
Later, stroking his chest with warm fingertips, she said, ‘You’ve never been able to get this place out of your mind, have you? I love that. That kind of obsession.’
Obsession? Yes, he supposed she was right. He ought to tell her that once, in this quiet and lovely place, a woman had been savagely murdered. But this moment was too precious. He would never forgive himself if she took fright and fled, vowing never to return. She was impulsive, he could never quite be sure how she would respond. He could tell her later.
Their pilgrimage had come out of the blue. Miranda had been trying for a late booking at a hotel on the Riviera that a friend claimed was the last word in luxury. She was desperate to take a break from London. At a party a few weeks back, Tamzin, her editor at the magazine, had made a pass following too many glasses of wine. Perhaps Miranda’s rebuff had been scathing, she really couldn’t remember. Ever since then, Tamzin had subtly set about making her life hell. When told that the hotel was full, Miranda burst into tears. Daniel threw out a suggestion, scarcely imagining that she’d say yes.
‘Why go abroad? We could stay in England, off the beaten track. How about the Lakes?’
‘Windermere?’ she asked, making it sound as remote as the Sea of Azov.
