Tina Howe was sitting on a high stool next to the breakfast bar, munching an apple while she checked her post. Her skirt showed off her bare legs, her top was even more revealing than Kirsty’s waitressing garb. The old, old story: whatever Kirsty tried to do, Mum always did it better.
‘Hello, stranger.’
Tina looked up from a gas bill. ‘Isn’t that what parents are supposed to say to children? Before long, you’ll be complaining that I treat this place like a hotel.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re denying it?’
‘Well…I have been very busy lately.’
‘Oh, yes?’
Tina tossed the apple core into the bin. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t want to be a neglectful parent.’
‘I’m old enough to look after myself.’
‘But?’
Kirsty pointed to the stack of opened mail in front of her mother. ‘Something arrived for you today. An envelope with your name and address printed in capitals. What was it?’
Tina swung her legs back and forth. ‘‘Why do you ask?’
‘It looked — odd. Not the handwriting of any of our friends or relations.’
‘As a matter of fact, it was a piece of horrid anonymous rubbish. Not worth talking about.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Listen, it was vile, you’d only be upset. As soon as I read it, I ripped it into pieces and shoved it down the waste disposal.’
‘What did it say?’
Tina frowned. ‘Look, sweetheart, it’d be best-’
‘Please, Mum. Tell me.’
‘All right. If you really want to know.’ Tina took a breath. ‘It said something like this. When you killed your husband, you were screwing his partner.’
As the words sank in, Kirsty put out a hand to steady herself against the breakfast bar. ‘But that’s nonsense! I thought you were…you told me you’d only been seeing Peter Flint within the last year or so.’
‘Darling, it’s bad enough to open a letter and find a message like that. I don’t want a Spanish Inquisition on top, OK?’ Tina eased off the stool. ‘I’d better be getting back to the office. We’re still trying to catch up after the computer crashed.’
‘Will you be back tonight?’
Tina paused at the kitchen door. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Are you going to tell him about the letter?’
‘Who, Sam?’
‘No.’ The question was disingenuous. ‘Peter.’
‘I don’t want to think about it any more. I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d make a fuss.’ Tina lifted the keys to the SUV off a rack decorated with little wooden fish and the fading legend ‘Souvenir from Llandudno’. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?’
As the door banged shut behind her, Kirsty ground her teeth. Her mother hadn’t given a straight answer. Was the accusation in the letter really nonsense? Or had the affair with Peter Flint started while Dad was still alive?
Chapter Seven
The morning mist was clearing as Daniel ploughed up the grassy track to the top of Castle Hill. On reaching the summit, he gazed over the lush fields of the Kent valley towards the northern fells on the horizon. A panorama panel named them, but he didn’t need it to recognise the flat-topped peaks of the Brackdale Horseshoe. Already he thought of the valley as home.
Kendal Castle was a ruin, with a tumbledown tower and fragments of wall scattered as artistically as if laid out by a heritage artist. There were peepholes and vaults and signs speculating about the precise design of the old fortress, but its defences had been down for half a millennium and now the stone remains enclosed a grassy expanse for recreation. Schoolchildren shouted, terriers barked, mothers with pushchairs gossiped. Tourists fiddled with camcorders, a teenage couple luxuriated in an endless kiss.
Daniel climbed the wooden steps and inspected the view from the top of the tower. Below sprawled the Auld Gray Town of Kendal, with its limestone houses and squat factories. The mountains in the distance would have looked the same to feudal barons eight centuries ago. Returning to ground level, he settled on a bench on the brow of the hill, soaking up the warmth as the sun came out to keep the forecasters’ promise.
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Why did Hannah Scarlett have this effect on him? He would never admit it to a living soul, but he couldn’t drive the woman out of his mind. It was as if he’d persuaded himself that she could unlock a door in his life. But he didn’t know what lay on the other side of the door.
At last he saw her, striding briskly up from the road that led back to the river. She always seemed full of purpose, a woman who knew where she was going. The colour of her hair was a shade lighter than he remembered. Catching sight of him, she gave a quick nod.
‘You’re early,’ he said, springing to his feet.
‘You’ve probably read about police officers spending too much time behind their desks. So I have an excuse for getting out and about. Not that I’m expecting to catch any criminals this morning, unless you confess to breaking the speed limit.’ She extended her hand. ‘How are you, Daniel?’
Her skin was cool to touch. He was seized by the urge to keep hold of her, but conquered it just in time. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’
‘You mean the hair?’ A suspicion of a blush. ‘It’s one of my vices. I can never quite make up my mind on what’s right for me. I haven’t got up the nerve to go blonde. One day, perhaps.’
‘It’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ She cleared her throat and jerked a thumb towards the castle. ‘So, what’s your professional verdict on our ancient pile? Not exactly Windsor, is it? Though there is a Royal connection, with one of Henry VIII’s wives. The last and the luckiest, Katharine Parr. Her family lived here, this was her birthplace.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve always loved wandering around old castles. In some ways, the less that survives, the better. Try to picture what life was like six or seven hundred years ago and there’s plenty of scope for the imagination. As for Katharine, the latest thinking is that she was born somewhere else. That’s what people don’t realise about history. It’s not set in concrete, it changes with time. Each time you find new evidence, you’re tempted to form a new theory.’
‘Like detective work. As you said in your TV series.’
‘Good training for a historian to be the son of a policeman.’
‘Ben was fascinated by the history of crime investigation, he told me that one of the earliest manuals about procedures for looking into suspicious deaths was compiled in ancient China. They called it Washing Away the Wrong.’
‘Washing away the Wrong? Easier said than done.’
‘You’re telling me.’ She eased herself on to the bench and he sat down beside her. Keeping a discreet couple of inches between them. ‘So how goes your cottage renovation?’
‘Three steps forward and two back, but the place is taking shape. I’m attacking the garden. Since I started digging out weeds and tree roots, I’ve discovered muscles I never knew I had — and all of them ache. Mind you, I’m allowing myself to be distracted by a puzzle.’
‘Last time we met, you told me there was something odd about the cottage grounds.’
He was glad she’d remembered the conversation. ‘Nobody would create a garden like that by chance. The answer may be in front of my eyes, but I’m too stupid to see it. Perhaps I ought to consult an expert in garden planning.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve looked in the directories. If you know anybody…’
‘There’s a company called Flint Howe Garden Design, on the way to Hawkshead. They’re supposed to be among the best.’
‘You’ve used their services?’
‘I know them by reputation.’
He laughed. ‘So long as there’s no criminal connection.’
She made as if to say something, then checked herself. ‘They are supposed to know their stuff.’