‘How recently?’
‘Oh, since she came back to Keswick. She phoned me one night, when she’d had a skinful. It was like rewinding the years, and trying to make sense of Niamh in her cups. After a few drinks, it was impossible to reason with either of them.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She insisted Callum wasn’t dead, said she’d never accepted that Philip was capable of harming a hair on his head.’
‘Did she explain herself?’
‘Not at all. She seemed to be on a high, and kept repeating, But he’s alive, you don’t understand, he’s alive. She was right, I didn’t understand. In the end, she rang off in disgust because I was being obtuse. Yet the next time we spoke, which was the last time I saw her, she’d changed her tune.’
‘In what way?’
‘She still maintained Philip was a scapegoat, but when I pressed her on why she’d said Callum was alive, she refused to give a straight answer. It was as if she’d suffered a massive disappointment. She seemed desperate to talk about something else, anything else.’
‘When was this?’
Kit Payne’s pale tongue passed over his lips. ‘Last Friday.’
Well, well. ‘As recently as that?’
‘Yes, she called at my house after finishing at St Herbert’s. Glenys had popped out for her weekly get-together with three old school friends; Orla preferred it when she wasn’t around. That pair never found much to talk about together. I made her a pot of tea, but she didn’t stop long. Twenty minutes, maximum.’
‘How did she seem?’
Kit Payne contemplated his bitten nails. What caused his habit, Hannah wondered, stress or bad temper?
‘Absurd as it seems, I think she had finally accepted that Callum was dead, though she still clung to her fantasy that Philip hadn’t killed him.’
‘Daniel! Just the man!’
A greeting that, in Daniel’s experience, never spelt good news. He turned at the door to the Old Library, and saw Professor Micah Bridge walking towards him. There was an ominous quality in the principal’s delight at catching his attention.
‘I hate to disrupt work on your magnum opus, but I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare me a couple of minutes?’
Plainly he meant ten minutes minimum, but Daniel believed in showing good grace when surrendering to the inevitable.
‘Glad to.’
‘Splendid, splendid.’
The principal accompanied him down the corridor to his suite of rooms in the wing at the far end. The charity’s published accounts showed that the salary of the man in charge was pitifully low. But his accommodation was luxurious if old-fashioned, and Daniel suspected Micah Bridge was so unworldly that he might have paid for the privilege of working here.
The bookshelves in the sitting room held the principal’s personal collection of first editions; oil paintings of his predecessors hung on the walls. No television, no sound system, this might have been the home of a nineteenth-century man of letters. Daniel submitted to the leathery embrace of a voluptuous old armchair while the principal rang a bell to summon Jonquil, a student who worked in the restaurant, and ordered Turkish coffee for two before making small talk about the challenges of preserving the De Quincey manuscripts in the Old Library. He was building up to something. Perhaps he’d got wind that Fleur had invited Daniel to become a trustee, and wanted to recruit an ally against the balance sheet barbarians knocking at the gates of Rome.
Turkish coffee was one of the principal’s vices. Jonquil served it piping hot, with glasses of water to freshen the mouth, and slabs of Turkish delight. As they took a taste, the principal murmured, ‘Did I ever mention that, traditionally, the grounds are used for fortune-telling?’
Only three or four times, but Daniel mustered an expression of polite enquiry.
‘It’s a form of tasseography, a discipline we associate more commonly with reading tea leaves. It’s bad luck to interpret grounds from the coffee you have been drinking yourself. An upturned saucer is placed on the cup, and … but you didn’t spare your valuable time to listen to an old man showing off his knowledge of trivial superstitions. As for fortune-telling, I am at present struggling to interpret events of the recent past, let alone look into the future. Daniel, I wish to seek your advice.’
Daniel inclined his head, and waited. The principal’s conversational style meandered like Lakeland lanes. He always took an age to reach his destination.
‘Thank you.’ The principal fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘I am troubled by the death of young Orla Payne.’
‘Uh-huh?’ Daniel tried to fight off a wild fantasy that he was about to hear some kind of confession. Had Professor Bridge and Orla become embroiled in an affair which led to the young woman’s decision to end it all in such a bizarre fashion? Even his inventive mind boggled.
‘Oh, I realise it’s a nine-day wonder. Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed is the inevitable verdict. Yet the truth is more complex. As so often.’
‘I don’t follow.’
The principal took another sip of coffee. ‘Orla found it hard to accept that her brother was dead. And, reflecting after her tragic demise, I have come to a conclusion which I wish to share with you before I speak to the police. If you don’t mind?’
Daniel moved forward in the armchair. ‘Feel free.’
‘In my opinion,’ the principal said, ‘Orla Payne believed that her brother was not only alive, but had turned up here, at St Herbert’s Residential Library.’
‘Seriously?’
‘It took me some time to realise what was going through her mind, and I found the notion equally unpalatable. But she was indeed serious. At least for a short time.’
‘But who …?’
Professor Micah Bridge stared at the stern faces of the men who had once lived and worked in this room, as if hoping for advice. After a few moments, he closed his eyes, unable to defer his revelation any longer.
‘Aslan Sheikh.’
Greg slurped some water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Why did Orla change her mind about whether Callum was dead?’
‘If I knew that,’ Kit Payne asked, ‘don’t you think I’d have mentioned it already? She was hugging secret knowledge to herself. A habit she picked up from Callum himself, long ago.’
‘The Madsens wouldn’t have been pleased, would they? The fuss when Callum disappeared was bad enough for business. Worse than an outbreak of foot-and-mouth.’
Hannah threw Greg a warning glance; Kit replied with sorrow rather than anger.
‘You do Bryan and Gareth a disservice. All they cared for was Callum being found safe and sound.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. And for what it is worth, our takings actually rose after all the publicity about poor Callum.’ Greg stared. ‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘I promise you, people flocked to Madsen’s that summer.’
‘Like they might slow down to gape as they pass a car crash on a motorway?’
‘Your analogy, not mine, Sergeant. But … yes.’
‘All right.’ Greg began to backtrack. ‘I only meant that there was huge pressure on everyone when Callum went missing.’
‘Stating the obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Kit Payne specialised in wounded dignity. ‘Bryan Madsen agreed that the park should be turned upside down in the efforts to find Callum. Some of our customers were very unhappy about it, but Niamh and I couldn’t have asked more of the Madsens. They knew my stepson, of course, and they did whatever they could to help. Not that I expected Callum to be found on the site. It was more likely something had happened to him at the farm.’
Hannah leant forward. ‘Such as?’
‘Farms are appalling death traps. And Mike Hinds was never exactly safety conscious. Slurry tanks, heavy plant, dangerous machinery.’