The Grave Tattoo (6 page)

The question she had asked herself so many times. She pushed her curls back from her face and made a decision. ‘How well do you know the Dove Cottage archive?’

Dan looked surprised. Whatever he’d been expecting, she thought, that hadn’t been it. ‘I’ve done some research there, when I was doing the linguistic comparisons between De Quincey’s early work and Wordsworth’s prose. It’s a vast archive. More than fifty thousand items, or something like that.’

‘So many that it’s never really been definitively catalogued. Anyway, they’re about to open a new library and study centre, so a lot of the material has been boxed up waiting for the move. More or less inaccessible to anyone needing to study it.’ Jane paused, shaking off the last traces of doubt.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘I wanted to look over some family letters and, typically, what I needed was packed away. But I’ve known Anthony Catto, the centre director, since I was at school. I worked there a couple of summers when I was an undergraduate. So I persuaded Anthony to let me go foraging. And in among all the stuff that I expected to find, I came across something that I’d never seen referred to anywhere in the literature.’

‘Dramatic pause,’ Dan said drily. ‘Come on, Jane, you’re killing me here.’

‘It had been tucked into the wrong envelope, along with the letter that should have been there. I don’t expect anyone had even noticed it. The letter it was with is of no particular significance, you see. It probably hadn’t been touched for years.’

‘Jane,’ Dan said loudly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the image from her memory. ‘It was a letter from Mary Wordsworth to one of her sons. John, I presume, since she refers to children but not a wife and John was a widower. “My beloved son, I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your father’s hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit.”’ Jane opened her eyes and looked seriously at Dan. ‘You see what that could mean?’

Dan frowned. ‘It could mean almost anything, Jane,’ he said gently.

‘Well, no, Dan. William and Mary had an extraordinarily intimate marriage. They didn’t have secrets from each other. Nevertheless, they were good at keeping secrets as a family. Look how long it was before the world got to know about William’s affair with Annette Vallon and their illegitimate daughter. Whole generations went by and not a whisper of scandal emerged.’

‘OK, OK, I grant you that. But all the same…’

Jane swept on regardless. ‘For William to have kept something from his wife, it must have been a really big deal. Life and death sort of stuff. That’s one point. The other is the bit about how this matter closely touches the son. Now, John was married to Isabella Christian Curwen, who was the daughter of Henry Christian Curwen. And he was Fletcher Christian’s cousin. By the time of Wordsworth’s death, Isabella was dead. And the marriage had been a pretty miserable one for the most part. She was a spoiled little rich girl who enjoyed poor health. And I mean enjoyed. John had already suffered plenty at the hands of the Christian Curwens. I’ve racked my brains to come up with an alternative, but the only thing I can think of that explains both the secrecy and the possible occasion of pain for John is if I’m right and Fletcher not only came back but also told William the whole story.’

‘It’s still pretty tenuous,’ Dan said. ‘I mean, it could have been something discreditable about Isabella that William had found out about.’

Jane looked disappointed. ‘See, I told you it was just a bee in my bonnet,’ she said shakily, trying to make light of it.

‘No, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s more than that. Whatever Mary was referring to, it’s something nobody else has dealt with and that in itself is interesting from a scholarly point of view. I think you need to follow this up. And soon, Jane.’

‘I’ve sat on it for more than a year now, Dan. It’ll wait till I have some time to pursue it properly through the new archive.’ She drained her coffee and pulled her coat round her, preparing to leave.

‘You think so?’

‘Why wouldn’t it?’

‘Jane, you’re the one who pointed out the bog body had what sounded like South Sea tattoos. What if that body does turn out to be Fletcher Christian? After we spoke the other day, I did some basic research online. And one of the things I read was that Fletcher was supposed to have set up as a smuggler after he came back. That’s exactly the sort of career that could lead to a mysterious death out on the fells. It really could be him. And if it is, the whole world and his wife will be all over every Lakeland archive. And it’ll be too late. Somebody else will have stolen your dream.’ He gripped her hand tightly. ‘You need to move fast. And you need help. Help with expertise. And that would be me.’

6

Jake Hartnell paused for a moment in the warm shade under the corrugated portico of Koutras’s mini-market, hefting the heavy plastic bags in one hand. It had been three weeks since he’d left England, three weeks since he’d heard a news broadcast or read anything beyond a casually glimpsed headline in a British newspaper. The sun might have darkened his olive skin to the point where he could almost pass for a southern Mediterranean native, but he knew differently. Catching sight of the familiar mastheads, he felt a sudden unexpected stab of homesickness.

He crossed the narrow road and dumped the shopping in the back of the open 4×4, then walked back to the rack of foreign-language newspapers. He reckoned the papers would be a few days out of date, but cast adrift as far as he was, it made no odds. He pulled
The Times
and the
Guardian
out of their slots and went back into the chill air conditioning to pay the extortionate prices the overseas editions commanded, then set off on the short drive back with a curious lightening of the spirit.

When Caroline Kerr had invited him to escape from London to her place on Crete, he’d imagined a sumptuous villa complete with terrace and olive grove, in spite of her use of the qualifier ‘little’. After all, her London home was a three-storey house five minutes’ walk from Hampstead Heath, exquisitely furnished with the sort of antiques that quietly stated their viewer was in the presence of money old enough to have taste as well. Besides, people of her class never boasted about what they had. Their ‘little’ places in the country were generally massive Georgian rectories or cottages whose sizes had been trebled over the passage of time. So his expectations had been high.

The twenty-minute drive from the airport across the burnt red and dusty sage green of the Akrotiri peninsula had promised little, but when the turquoise sea came into view, his heart had lifted. Caroline had barrelled the 4×4 down a steep road past a tiny white chapel carved into a rock escarpment to a half-moon beach dominated by a wooden taverna with tables spread over the sand. She’d stopped abruptly behind the taverna to pick up her keys. Jake had looked around, appreciatively noting the presence of several imposing houses in the hinterland of the bay, wondering which would play host to his new life in the sun.

To his surprise, Caroline had driven past the houses, up a track by a small concrete boat slip to a trio of cottages perched on a narrow ridge overlooking the bay and the wider sea beyond. ‘Here we are,’ she’d said with a tone of deep satisfaction. Jake could hardly hide his disappointment as he followed her across a small paved patio into the tiny interior. He hadn’t walked away from his life for this, he heard himself curse inside his head. The door opened straight into a small living room, furnished with a couple of armchairs, a plain table with four dining chairs and an expensive sound system. Along one wall was a rudimentary kitchen–sink, fridge, oven, hob, two cupboards and a work surface. The cool tiled floor was bare of rugs. On a shelf above an open fireplace a group of small Minoan figures clustered. They were the only decoration in the room. Caroline made a soft noise of satisfaction. She crossed the room in a few strides and opened one of the two doors leading off. ‘This is the bedroom,’ she said. ‘Just dump the bags in there.’

It was another plain room, dominated by a wide, carved wooden bedstead. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling. The only other furniture was a simple wardrobe. All that lifted it above the most basic backpacker accommodation was a pair of magnificent silk Bokhara rugs, one on either side of the bed. Christ, he thought, this was a scant step above bloody peasant life. Jake had dropped their suitcases on the floor and returned to the living room. Caroline gestured to the other door. ‘The bathroom,’ she said. ‘A little better than primitive Greek, I think you’ll find.’

Curious, he’d opened the door. He knew from Caroline’s London house that she was serious about her ablutions, but he’d experienced Greek plumbing before and had no high hopes. To his astonishment, he found himself in a smaller replica of the Highgate master bathroom. Marble floors, a deep bathtub, a two-person shower cubicle, twin washbasins; all the luxury modern design could provide. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, backing out. ‘How did you manage that?’

Caroline tossed her dark blonde hair away from her face in a familiar gesture of indifference. ‘Contacts, darling, contacts.’ She walked into the bedroom and unfastened her suitcase. ‘Clean clothes, then a very big drink.’

Sounded good to Jake. ‘It’s wonderfully simple,’ he said, following her lead and raking through his case for some shorts. ‘But how on earth do we work here?’

Misunderstanding, Caroline laughed. ‘I know. It’s so tempting. The sea, the beach, the taverna. It’s hard, but I have to remind myself that the only way I can justify spending two months a year here is to keep the wheels turning.’

‘No, I meant practically. You don’t have a computer, a fax, a phone line as far as I can see.’

Caroline straightened up, shorts and T-shirt in her hand. ‘Honestly, Jake, you’re so twentieth century sometimes. Laptop, Blackberry, wireless internet connection–that’s all I need. I get the auction catalogues online, and if there’s anything I want to bid for, I do it by phone. And I have good contacts locally who keep an eye out for anything they think might interest me. Believe me, there’s some extraordinary stuff to be had over here. Wonderful illuminated texts from the monasteries, beautiful sheet music from the Middle Ages that is so lovely one wants to weep. I promise you won’t be disappointed with what we find on this trip. It never fails to astonish me. Reminds me of the sheer joy of having this wonderful stuff passing through my hands. You’ll see.’

‘I thought they were pretty strict about antiquities not leaving the country?’ Jake asked idly as he stripped off jeans sticky from the plane and the drive.

‘They are. But there are always ways,’ she said, her tone repressing further questions.

He’d realised by now what she meant by that. For someone whose principal business lay in the buying and selling of bits of paper–holograph letters, manuscripts ancient and modern, illuminated sheet music–it was easy to send irregularly acquired material back to the UK. As long as the envelope looked like an innocuous piece of business post–a brochure for a villa, say, or a prospectus for a new commercial development–nobody in the Greek or British post office was going to look twice at it. ‘In a dozen years of doing this, I’ve only lost one item in the mail,’ Caroline had told him matter-of-factly the first time they’d visited the main post office in Chania. ‘And it wasn’t especially valuable. People only take an interest if you start dressing it up as recorded delivery and insuring it. Otherwise, it gets taken for granted.’

Their days had quickly assumed a pattern. They’d sleep late then Jake would drive up to Horafakia for fresh bread, fruit and yoghurt. Breakfast on the terrace, then down to the beach for a swim. Sometimes they’d go into Chania so Caroline could meet one of her Greek contacts who would occasionally produce some piece of work that would take his breath away; otherwise, Caroline would write emails and make phone calls while Jake read auction catalogues or lounged in the sun with a book. From time to time, they would immerse themselves in a manuscript, discussing the hand of the scribe, the likely origins and, finally, its potential value. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he was learning from Caroline. Lunch at the taverna was followed by sex and sleep then drinks and backgammon. In the evenings, they’d drive out for dinner. The day would end with another bout of sexual activity. Jake was gradually beginning to understand why Caroline preferred younger lovers; men of her own age, he’d been led to believe, generally didn’t have the stamina to meet her demands. Not that he minded. He enjoyed sex and she was an enthusiastic and imaginative partner.

What he did mind was the worm of boredom that was working its way to the surface of his mind more and more frequently. Like most men in their late twenties, he’d fantasised about a life like this. Sun, sea, sex and a sugar momma to pay for it all. Caroline was a sardonically amusing companion, never clingy, seldom anything other than equable in temper and open-handed with her knowledge. But still dissatisfaction niggled at Jake.

It wasn’t that he felt guilty. He’d convinced himself he was right not to tell Jane the whole truth about Caroline. It would only hurt her. Instead, he’d explained that there were good practical reasons why he and Jane should loosen the bonds of their relationship–he’d have to travel for work, he’d be away in Greece for a couple of months, it wouldn’t be fair on Jane to hang around waiting for him. He’d said that Caroline was in her early forties, but had omitted to mention her lean, lithe frame, her shapely legs, her swatch of dark blonde hair or her dancing green eyes. Or that sex with Caroline had been a breathtaking adventure, right from the first cocaine-fuelled fuck at Tom D’Arblay’s party. The party Jane had had to miss because she was giving a paper at some stupid bloody symposium in Cardiff.

He’d thought it was a one-shag stand. Nobody had been more surprised than he when Caroline had texted him the next day to suggest they meet for a drink. Over cocktails in a chic Soho bar, Caroline had been bright and brilliant, showing him an autograph letter from John Keats that she’d bought only that afternoon. Then she’d put a proposition to him. She was tired of being a one-woman band. She wanted an associate in her business buying and selling rare documents. He was, she said, the one she wanted. He knew enough of the technical aspect of what they would be buying and selling to avoid the pitfalls of obvious forgeries and faked provenances. He was clearly smart and ambitious. ‘And you’re a pretty good fuck too,’ she’d added, smiling wickedly over the rim of her glass.

She’d given him a week to think it over. He’d made his decision by the next morning. His boss had been furious, Jane had been appalled at his abandoning the supposed purity of museum life for the cut-throat world of collectors and high rollers, and his father had warned him about what happens when beautiful women get bored. None of it had mattered. For the first time in a long time, Jake was having fun. Crete had merely seemed the icing on the cake.

Until reality had replaced the fantasy and he found himself bored for the first time since the age of thirteen.

Jake drew up outside the cottage. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, wondering whether Caroline would read the meaning in the newspapers. He grabbed the shopping and added the contents of his bags to the food already arranged on the patio table. Caroline emerged with a jug of freshly squeezed juice just as he slumped into a chair, clutching the papers like a shield in front of his chest.

A smile quirked one corner of her mouth. ‘Well done, Jake,’ she said, filling the tumblers.

‘What?’

‘You held out longer than anybody else I’ve ever brought here. Three weeks and two days. That’s a record.’ She leaned over and kissed him, rumpling his hair with one hand and running the other over the front of his shorts.

‘You don’t mind?’ Jake said, wrong-footed.

‘Why would I mind? I’m not an ostrich. I’m not here to escape.’ She slid elegantly into her chair and tipped her sunglasses from her hair to cover her eyes. ‘I’m here because I love it and it’s possible for me to be here without fucking up my life or my business. The only reason I don’t have you buy a paper every morning from Koutras is that I read the bloody things online, sweetie.’

They settled into their papers, Jake smarting at Caroline’s condescension. He was beginning to wonder how seriously she took his expertise; too often, he was left feeling like a gigolo, appreciated only for his bedroom skills and not for the quality of his mind. He was only half taking in what he was reading, but when his eyes stumbled over a familiar name he stopped short and returned to the beginning of the story. ‘Fuck me,’ he breathed softly.

Caroline glanced up. ‘I rather thought I had,’ she teased. ‘What is it, darling?’

Jake shook his head. ‘Nothing, really.’ He passed the paper across the table, pointing to the story. ‘It’s just that I know the place where it happened.’

Caroline skimmed the story. ‘Fellhead,’ she said, her voice clipped and her face unreadable. ‘Would that be where the lovely Jane hails from?’

Neither of them had spoken much of their past by tacit agreement, but Jake had mentioned spending time in the Lakes with Jane when Caroline had been thinking of buying a bundle of Robert Southey’s letters. ‘That’s right,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘I hope she’s seen that story.’

‘Why? Because Fellhead doesn’t hit the headlines often?’

‘No…’ He leaned across and pointed to the penultimate paragraph. ‘Because she’ll be convinced this is evidence of one of her hare-brained theories.’