The Grave Tattoo (22 page)

Diane grinned. ‘He’s not good at counting his blessings, is he? But he’s a good man at heart, you know. The kids think the world of him, and kids are good judges.’

Jane really didn’t want to get into this with Diane. She had never talked about the way Matthew had tormented her as a child and she wasn’t about to break her silence with his wife. But she knew that whatever face he presented to Diane and the world, there was a mean streak in Matthew that she didn’t believe he’d grown out of. ‘I believe you,’ was the white lie she chose.

‘So how’s your project going?’ Diane asked, seeing it was time to change the subject. ‘Matt said you’d hit a snag but you were hopeful of getting some information from London.’

Jane pushed her hair back from her temples. ‘I thought I was getting somewhere, but the wheels just came off.’ She fiddled with the fringe of one of the appliqué cushions Diane had made for the sofa. ‘Do you mind if we leave it at that? Just talking about it depresses me.’

‘I am sorry, Jane.’ Diane reached across and patted her hand in a curiously impersonal way, as if her mind was already racing to the next subject. She jumped to her feet. ‘I tell you what, let’s be really naughty and have a drink.’

‘It’s only half past eleven,’ Jane protested weakly.

‘Yeah, but I’ve been up since six so it feels a lot later. Come on, let’s be bad girls. The sun’s shining and I’ve got a bottle of Pimms in the kitchen.’ Diane snatched Jane’s hand and pulled her up from the sofa. ‘I don’t think you’ve had nearly enough fun since you and that shit Jake split up.’

Jane let herself be led through to the big kitchen at the back of the house. The substantial four-bedroomed house would have been out of the price range of most locals, but Matthew and Diane had been the beneficiaries of one of those English eccentrics who had fallen in love with the Lake District. Back in the 1970s, the local authority had decided to sell off the remaining village schoolhouses to the highest bidder. Richard Grace, a Londoner who’d made a fortune in property development before buying the biggest house in Fellhead for a weekend retreat, had decided his village would best maintain its high educational standards if it could attract dynamic head teachers. So he’d bought the school-house and set up a trust that made it available to the head teacher at a peppercorn rent. As property prices had soared over the intervening years, it had proved a powerful sweetener. And now her brother lived in the house Jane had always fantasised about inhabiting. And still he wasn’t satisfied. ‘I love this view,’ she said, gazing out of the window towards the craggy ridge of Langmere Fell.

‘It’s glorious,’ Diane agreed, pulling a cucumber and a lemon from the fridge. ‘Oh, damn, I forgot the jug. Be a love and get the big crystal jug out of the dining-room cabinet, would you?’

‘No problem.’ Jane crossed the hall to the dining room, which looked out on a wall of dense foliage, a felony compounded by walls panelled in dark wood. Even on the brightest summer day it was a dark and murky place. No wonder the family never ate there. Instead, Matthew had colonised it, turning it into a sort of school annexe, strictly for marking and lesson preparation and not to be confused with the study he’d made of the fourth bedroom, where he retreated to surf the internet and play computer games.
Lucky bastard
, Jane thought as she snapped the light on and glanced at the spread of papers covering the long table.

She carried on towards the tall glass display cabinet where the best glasses were on show, but as her brain registered what she’d seen, Jane broke stride and almost stumbled. She grabbed at a heavy oak chair to steady herself and gazed down at an array of family trees executed in childish hands. Some had managed to find large sheets of paper, a couple had used wallpaper offcuts, others had Sellotaped A4 sheets together in a mosaic that accommodated the shape of their families. Two were set conspicuously to one side, drawing Jane’s eyes inexorably.

One had been drawn with some style, photographs attached to the lower branches. The other was scrawled, the linking lines wavering and uneven. But as Jane backtracked down the ancestors of Sam Clewlow and Jonathan Bramley, she understood immediately why Matthew had set them apart.

Jonathan and Sam had a common ancestor back at the turn of the nineteenth century. Dorcas Mayson had married at the age of twenty and had borne three children. Sam’s line sprang from her firstborn son, Jonathan’s from her youngest child, the only daughter.

Jane could scarcely believe what she was looking at. The spelling was different, but well within the boundaries of nineteenth-century variation. It had to be her Dorcas. There couldn’t be two of them born and married in the same year. Here was the crucial evidence she needed for her next step, evidence of Dorcas Mason’s line of descent. Not only had Matthew known about this, he had deliberately kept silent. How could he do that to her? And more importantly, what was he planning to do about it?

Rage burning in her heart, Jane stormed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Diane looked up, then did a double take as she saw Jane’s expression. Jane struggled to keep control, then lost it. ‘What the fuck is Matthew playing at?’ she demanded.

22

Jake knew there was something about him women liked. Maybe it was because he genuinely took more pleasure in their company than that of men. Or maybe there was about him the promise of an easy ride, a man who was not going to challenge or demand but simply settle for a quiet life. Whatever it was, he knew he traded on it and that it earned him the ill-disguised contempt of his father. He also knew that it was misleading. Underneath that charm he harboured a ruthlessness that he seldom had to call on but which he had no reluctance whatsoever to engage when he needed it. He didn’t think he’d need it today, however. Even hung over, he thought his charms would be enough to win over a seventy-three-year-old widow. According to the information Caroline’s researcher had come up with, Edith Clewlow lived at Lark Cottage, Langmere Stile. Her husband David, the great-great-grandson of Dorcas Mason and Arnold Clewlow, had died in 1998 and the 2001 census listed Edith as the only occupant of the cottage. Jake had chosen Edith as his first target by reasoning that inheritance generally passed down through primogeniture in the male line. It didn’t hurt that he also knew where Langmere Stile was. In his bleary state, any little helped. He wasn’t thrilled that getting there involved driving through Fellhead, but he wasn’t planning on stopping.

The sun felt cruelly bright as he set off. Sunglasses didn’t seem to help, and he could feel his dull headache intensifying as he wound his way up the side of the fell. Fellhead itself was quiet. The only pedestrians he passed were hikers making their way to the start of the steep path that led precipitously to the ridge. A mile further on, he came to the straggle of cottages that was Langmere Stile. Four low dwellings huddled by the roadside, all looking as if they needed more love and attention than their occupants were prepared to lavish on them. Exposed on the barren side of the fell just above the tree line with an untrammelled view of an old quarry, they were too miserable even on a sunny day to appeal to the weekend commuters. Jake assumed they had originally been built for the quarry workers who were probably grateful for a roof over their head.

He slowed as he approached, checking the names of the cottages. Bluebell, Crocus, Daffodil and Hyacinth. Somebody had had a sense of humour, he thought. But no Lark Cottage. Frustrated, Jake looked around, as if another cottage might be hiding somewhere in the bare landscape. Up ahead, the road made a sharp right-hand bend, at the edge of which he could see a section of stone gable.

Rounding the corner, he discovered a single-storey stone cottage, its paintwork fresh, its small garden neatly tended. Unlike its neighbours, Lark Cottage had a view down to Langmere itself and across to Helvellyn. Jake pulled the Audi on to the verge beyond the cottage and walked back. He shoved his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and tried to arrange his face into an open, friendly expression.

The woman who answered the door looked older than her years. Jake’s own grandmother was in her late seventies and she looked as if she could give Edith Clewlow a good ten years. Narrow-shouldered and bent over with the tell-tale hump of osteoporosis, the woman thrust her face towards him. Pallid wrinkled skin hung loose on her small-boned face. Her silver hair was cut short and styled as simply as a child’s. But the blue eyes behind her large varifocals were lively and her expression was one of intelligent suspicion.

‘Mrs Clewlow?’ Jake said.

‘Aye. Do I know you, young man?’

He smiled. ‘No, Mrs Clewlow. My name is Jake Hartnell. I wondered if you might be able to spare me a few minutes of your time?’

‘Not if you’re selling something. I’ve already got double glazing and I like my kitchen the way it is. And any work that needs doing, my grandson Frank does for me.’

‘That’s very commendable of him. But I’m not selling anything. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. What I wanted to discuss could possibly be of benefit to you.’ He tried for the reassuring look.

‘It’s not timeshare, is it? Only, I don’t do foreign holidays. Not since Mavis Twiby had such a terrible experience when she broke her hip in Greece. You take your life in your hands abroad, you know. Being young, you probably don’t think it matters, but it does. Especially with all this terrorism.’

‘It’s not timeshare, Mrs Clewlow. I want to speak to you about one of your ancestors.’

Her head drew back and her eyebrows climbed. ‘My ancestors? You’re the second person to ask about my ancestors lately. Well, the third, I suppose, really, if you count our Sam.’

Jake felt a spasm in his chest at her words. How could he have been beaten to the draw like this? He was so sure he was ahead of Jane. ‘Someone else?’ he said. It was an effort to keep his voice level.

‘Aye. Our Sam, my great-grandson, that is–he’s been doing a project at school about family history. He’s a lovely lad, Sam, a credit to his mum and dad. Always got time for his old great-gran as well, not just when he wants to pick my brain about his family tree. Any road, it seems he’s done a right good job of it. The headmaster said as much this morning. Rang me up special to talk to me about it. He said I’d been a right good help to Sam and he wanted to thank me personally.’

Jake’s brain was racing. ‘You mean Matthew Gresham?’

‘Aye, that’s right. You know Mr Gresham?’

Jake nodded. ‘I do. I know his sister Jane better, but I’ve met Matthew a few times.’ What the hell was going on here? Had Jane managed to overcome Matthew’s antagonism towards her enough to enlist his help?

Edith’s air of suspicion had completely dissipated in the face of such evidence of Jake’s bona fides. ‘You’d better come in, then. I can’t be standing for too long, I’ve got chronic back pain, you know. And nothing they give me does a bit of good,’ she continued as she ushered him into a bewilderingly cluttered but preternaturally clean living room. Nothing seemed to have been left in its virgin state. A transparent plastic runner covered the carpet on the route from door to armchairs. The armchairs themselves had loose covers underneath antimacassars, arm protectors and throws to shield the loose covers. Photo frames were adorned with the bows florists garnish bouquets with; the very book Edith was reading was encased in a Mylar sleeve. The room had the chemical tang of furniture polish and air freshener. Jake was amazed he hadn’t been asked to remove his shoes at the door and put on one of those white suits forensic scientists wear. ‘Doctors,’ Edith continued as she dropped into the armchair nearest the fireplace. She closed in on herself like a hedgehog. ‘What do they know? Give you one set of pills and, before you know it, you can’t move your arms because they react with one of the pills you’re already on. Blood pressure pills, cholesterol pills, heart tablets. Shake me and I’d rattle. I don’t know what I’d do without my family around me. Take a seat, young man, don’t be standing there like Piffy.’

Jake perched gingerly on the edge of an armchair. ‘Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.’

Edith snorted. ‘At my age, time’s there to be filled. When I was young, there were never enough hours in the day. Now, breakfast to bedtime can feel like forever. I’ve got plenty of time to spare for a chat, lad. So, what is it about my ancestors that could interest somebody like you enough to come all the way up to Langmere Stile? Because you’re not from around here, are you?’

Jake shook his head. ‘I live in London. I’m a specialist in old manuscripts. I used to work at the British Library, but now I work privately as a broker between buyers and sellers.’

Edith looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with me and my family?’

‘It’s actually your late husband’s family that I’m interested in. Well, one member of his family, to be precise. His great-great-grandmother Dorcas. Did he ever mention her?’

Edith frowned. ‘Not that I recall. Surely she’d have been in her grave long before he was born?’

‘More than forty years before. But you know how it is with families–sometimes the old stories get passed down the generations.’

Edith rubbed her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘I don’t recall any stories from that long ago. And it’s not that my memory’s going. My body might be falling to bits but I’ve still got all my chairs at home.’ Edith tapped the side of her head to make her point. ‘I don’t think I ever heard anything further back than his great-uncle Eddie getting a medal in the First World War. Much good it did him; he got himself killed in action at the second battle of Ypres. But Dorcas? I never heard tales about her. The only way I even know her name is that it’s in the family Bible. I had to look it all up for our Sam. That’s why it’s fresh in my mind, like.’

Jake’s hopes flickered into life again. If she had a family Bible, she might also have family papers. ‘You’ve got the family Bible?’

‘Aye. It’s falling to bits now, but it’s been in the family since 1747.’

‘That’s a fascinating thing to have. Are there other family papers too?’

Edith laughed. ‘You make us sound like royalty. Folk like us don’t have family papers, lad. We could barely read and write back in the old days. Nay, the only thing I’ve got from David’s family is the old Bible. Why would you think we’d have family papers that would interest the likes of you?’

‘I wondered if Dorcas had left any papers. A diary, maybe. Or something similar.’

‘But why? What makes you think that?’ Edith gave an incredulous little laugh. ‘What’s so special about Dorcas Clewlow?’

Jake spread his hands in an attempt to diminish the significance of his interest. ‘It was a long shot. The interesting thing about Dorcas is that before she married Arnold Clewlow she was a maidservant to the Wordsworth family. She was working there in the last years of William Wordsworth’s life and stayed on for a while after he died.’

Edith seemed to pull herself more erect. ‘William Wordsworth, you say? Well, cover me in feathers and call me a bird of paradise. Who’d have thought it? Fancy me marrying into history and not even knowing it.’

‘So you see why I’m interested in anything Dorcas might have left behind. There are plenty of scholars and collectors willing to pay good money for anything connected to Wordsworth. I came across Dorcas’s name in some family letters and thought it was worth a try. But I can see I’ve wasted your time.’ Jake made to stand up.

‘Nay, you’ve cost me nowt. But even if I could be more help, I couldn’t let something like that go out of the family. I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll mention it to Frank when he comes in tomorrow morning. He’s a fine lad, our Frank. Comes in every morning to make sure I’ve made it through the night. I’ll get him to ask around the family, see if anybody’s ever heard anything.’

‘That would be helpful.’ Jake fished in his wallet for a business card. ‘You can reach me on my mobile,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you right back, save on your phone bill.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Edith said, struggling out of her chair. ‘They say we’ve got long memories in these parts. In my experience, that only covers grudges.’ She smiled. ‘And there’s plenty of them round here.’

Jake trudged back to the car, trying not to feel too downcast. On the positive side, it seemed as if Dorcas’s past was a secret history as far as her family was concerned. Which meant someone somewhere might have a little treasure trove whose contents had never been thoroughly explored. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Edith Clewlow spreading the word round the family. He didn’t doubt that the younger generation would have more of an eye for the main chance and less concern with keeping things in the family if those things turned out to be a potential goldmine. Talking to them directly would be better than having Edith bend their ears about hanging on to their heirlooms. He wondered about calling her later to suggest she keep his visit to herself. Would it have any effect, or would it just make her suspicious? He kicked out at a clump of grass, angry with himself for not handling Edith more effectively.

As he reached the car, he realised his hangover seemed to be improving. What he needed was some exercise to see it off once and for all. Then he could decide whether to bother any more old biddies today or whether to have another crack at making contact with Jane. He reached into the car for the Ordnance Survey map and spread it out on the roof. Studying his position, he realised that the road had brought him within a mile of Carts Moss. One of the hundreds of footpaths crisscrossing the Lake District crossed the road about quarter of a mile ahead. From there, it was only a mile or so to the moorland where the body in the bog had been found. It would, he thought, be interesting to see the putative last resting place of Fletcher Christian. He grabbed his backpack and set off.