As she taped the fragments of the message together, she heard the thundering of a motorbike for a few moments before the engine died. The smell of alcohol wafted as he strode through the back door, helmet in hand. His eyes might be tired but his skin was glowing. She’d seen that look on the face of a couple of boys from Hawkshead whom she’d slept with. A look of bleary triumph. Her lovers reminded her of Lakeland twitchers excited by the sighting of a rare bird, or trainspotters at Oxenholme who’d ticked a rare number off their list. All they wanted was to bask in their conquest until they targeted a new trophy.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I found this.’
She waved the anonymous message at him. He made as if to snatch the note from her, but she was too quick for him and, evading his lunge, skipped off her stool and stood in the doorway, daring him to hit her. He’d never gone so far as to strike her, at least not since he was a boy and he used to poke her in the ribs or twist her arm behind her back.
He moved forward, the soles of his trainers scraping on the tiled kitchen floor. His mouth was inches from hers. It wasn’t only the stale beer that stank, but the Pot Noodle on his breath. No wonder he hardly ever ate at The Heights, even though he and Peter had been doing some work for Bel in the garden lately. His idea of gourmet dining was curry and chips.
‘Hand it over.’
‘Why? You didn’t want it, obviously. I found it in with the rubbish.’
‘Who do you think you are, some kind of detective, sticking all the bits together again so you can have a good laugh?’
‘Sam!’ Even through the haze of drink, she hoped he might realise he was being unfair. ‘I was upset for you. The fact that someone has written something so nasty to you.’
‘Who cares about shit like that?’
‘I care! Nobody ought to say that about my brother! Do you think we ought to tell the police?’
‘What?’ He blinked. ‘You must be joking, didn’t we see enough of them to last a lifetime when…?’
‘When Dad was murdered.’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘I know, but it isn’t acceptable, Sam. Who can possibly be doing this?’
‘Some interfering scumbag with nothing better to do.’
‘I didn’t know you had any enemies.’
He scowled. ‘You never know what some people might do after a couple of pints.’
‘So you think a man sent this?’
‘No idea.’
‘I thought it might be a woman.’
‘Someone I’ve screwed, you mean? Some bitch trying to get her own back?’
She winced. ‘Surely it’s someone who knows something about Dad. It’s so strange, after all this time.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve got better things to do than lose sleep over it.’
‘You mean you’re going to let them get away with this?’
She thought she’d landed a shrewd blow. Turning the other cheek wasn’t Sam’s style. Again, she watched his fuddled expression while his brain cranked into gear. In the end, he took the easy option. Typical.
‘I’ll think about it tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I’ve put my back out. You know what, I’ve been digging all afternoon, it’s a terrible slog.’
Whatever form of exercise had put out his back, Kirsty doubted that it was gardening, but she bit back a waspish retort. They needed to be on the same side over this. Someone wanted to hurt both of them.
‘We can’t brush this under the carpet. Who could bear such a grudge against us?’
Her brother spread his arms. He didn’t have an answer, so much was clear.
‘It’s me they’re getting at, not you.’ She didn’t speak and he frowned. It was almost possible to watch the jumble of thoughts clattering around inside his brain. ‘Hey, did you get one?’
‘One what?’
‘You know what I mean.’ He waved vaguely at the note. ‘A creepy thing like this. Poisoned pen letter or whatever you call it.’
‘All right.’ She put her hands on her hips, wanting to face him down. ‘What if one was sent to me?’
A coarse smile. ‘How could anyone write anything unkind about sweet little Kirsty? What did it say?’
‘It doesn’t matter, it was nonsense. A pack of lies.’
‘Come on. You shouldn’t…’ — he was groping for the simplest words — ‘you don’t want to blush if you’re trying to hide something from me.’
He reached out and clamped his hand on her shoulder. She screamed in disgust at his foetid breath, she couldn’t stop herself shoving him away with all her might. He lost his balance and finished up on the floor. When he looked into her eyes, he didn’t seem to like what he saw. Perhaps it was revulsion; she couldn’t disguise how she felt.
‘You fucking bitch,’ he said thickly.
The next thing she knew, his hands were around her throat.
Chapter Six
A clammy night, too hot to sleep. Daniel sweated under the duvet, battling insomnia for hour after endless hour, Miranda’s smooth warm body nestling by his side. She was restless and every now and then, she murmured in her dreams, but he couldn’t make out the words. In the end, he eased himself noiselessly out of bed and tiptoed downstairs to find the histories of the Lake District that he’d bought from Marc Amos.
He poured himself a glass of water and settled on the living room sofa. He loved the smell and feel of old books. To hold them was to touch the past. Skimming the pages, he came across a handful of references to Brackdale amongst reams of stuff about better-known valleys like Borrowdale and Langdale. Skeldings had lived at Brack Hall for much of Victoria’s reign, it seemed, but there was nothing about the Quiller family. After an hour’s browsing, he found a mention of Tarn Fold in a small book with a splitting spine, published locally in 1935.
Tucked away beneath the fell is Tarn Fold, with its old corn mill and, surrounding the tarn itself, an old and melancholic private garden, mysterious and overgrown. For the visitor, the Fold is noteworthy for its proximity to the old coffin trail that wends from Brack Church up towards Priest Edge.
Not much to go on, but at least there was nothing new about the strangeness of the garden. He parted the curtains and was gazing out into the blackness when he heard a sound behind him. Louise was in the doorway, wearing a short red gown.
‘Too hot, isn’t it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What are you looking for out there?’
‘Wish I knew.’
She came into the room. ‘I’m sorry about this evening. I shouldn’t harp on about Dad.’
‘You still regard him as some sort of monster.’
‘You know how hurt Mum was after…’
‘Yes,’ he interrupted, not wanting to dredge up old quarrels.
She picked up the book. ‘What are you reading?’
Glad of the chance to change the subject, he joined her back on the sofa and started talking about the garden. ‘There’s a story to it, must be, and if the secret was old in the Thirties, I’d guess the explanation dates back to the Quillers. The odds are that the garden was scarcely touched after they died. How come Jacob and Alice died on the same day, supposedly of broken hearts? This paragraph hints that the secret was kept by later owners of the cottage. Like Mrs Gilpin, who lived here till she died? No-one attempted to give the garden a makeover. But why?’
‘Respect for the dead?’
‘Could be.’ He couldn’t help laughing at himself. ‘Here I go again. Digging into the past, searching for a puzzle to solve.’
‘I’m glad, Daniel. When you left Oxford so suddenly, I wondered if you’d had some sort of breakdown. After Aimee and…well, you know.’
‘And what do you think now?’
A sheepish grin. ‘Could be that we’re both finally coming to our senses.’
Kirsty huddled under the duvet after waking from a shallow sleep. Her neck was aching. She slid out of bed and inspected herself in the mirror. The mark was red and vivid. It was bound to bruise; she would have to wear a scarf or something to hide it. And hide her shame that her brother, of all people, should have done this to her.