In every marriage, I expect, one partner sometimes contemplates the death of the other and wonders if it will leave them better or worse off. In most marriages, I suspect, one partner cannot wait, at least occasionally, temporarily, in dudgeon or resentment or anguish, for the other one to just pop off and let them be themselves. Like a counterfeit coin, the public profile doesn’t quite convince. Turn it over and there’s frustration etched deep into it. I’d seen it on my mother’s face. Not Dad’s; but then he had the shed.
With Nick, I never got as far as marriage. Yet had we ever married, doubtless Nick would be thinking that way now. I can’t stay with you. I can’t have children with you. When I tried to ring him, he had changed his number. When I tried to find him, he had moved.
I thought of him as I sat on the Keswick bus, staring out of the window at the glorious wastes of Thirlmere, but searching for the flick of his hair, the corner of his smile. I couldn’t seek his face for long. It hurt too much. I made myself study the landscape instead: the ghosts of mist that slept along the water. A long rank of brooding pines slid out of sight behind me. The past was dead and gone. Keep it that way.
But what about Selena’s past? What sort of marriage could she and Luke have had? Not having known Luke, I found it difficult to guess. A barren partnership that lasted barely eighteen months. A marriage that started at a funeral and ended with a lonely gunshot.
Selena wore Luke’s clothes. She must have been attached to him. But I imagined marriage to Selena would have been unsettling: unless she was a different person before Luke’s death, and it was only his suicide that had unsettled her.
Skiddaw loomed, a grey whale of a mountain stranded above us as the bus chugged slowly into Keswick. I’d lost my confidence for that long ride on the scooter, especially now that the traffic was worsening and the car parks filling up. When I got off the bus I felt the town stretch itself, shrugging off the winter, unfolding its new spring plumage of brightly beckoning signs. The streets were busy, if not quite thronged, for the Easter crowds were beginning to arrive.
Freddie’s bookshop was not exactly thronged either. As I entered with a clang of the doorbell, I saw that I was the only customer. My heart sank. This was useless. I’d have to find another outlet.
Freddie knelt in the middle of the floor, surrounded by piles of books. Matt, standing nearby, glanced over as I entered. I glimpsed a barely-contained exasperation in his face. It took him a second or two to clamp it down: it was with an obvious effort that he greeted me.
“Eden! How nice to see you. Come on in! I’ll get the coffee on. We need a break. Just watch out for – oh, never mind, I’ll pick them up later. Freddie’s in the middle of weeding the stock. You know what he’s like for putting things away. Or not.”
I piled the toppled books back up into their musty tower. “Hi, Matt. Hallo, Freddie. I’ve brought a few more cards. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to do many lately, what with one thing and another. I suppose you’ve heard about Isaac by now.”
“Terrible,” said Matt. “Poor man.”
Freddie got stiffly to his feet. Shadowed lines were drawn across his forehead as if with the finest of charcoal sticks, which had then smudged itself carelessly around his eyes.
“Very upsetting,” he said. “A dreadful thing. Ruby told us. She was most distressed. Are you really moving in to Raven How?”
“I’ve moved,” I said. “Though I don’t think I’m very welcome. Ruby doesn’t really want me there, and Russell isn’t interested.”
“Well, that’s the general problem with Russell, isn’t it? But why doesn’t Ruby want you?” Matt enquired, quickly back to his usual dry urbanity. “I would have thought she’d be glad of the company.”
“Not company with a criminal record. She doesn’t want a jailbird in the house,” I said glumly, “especially one who’s recently been pulled in for suspected manslaughter. I can see her point.”
“Manslaughter?” Matt stared at me.
“Did Ruby not tell you that?”
“She only said that you’d been questioned. What exactly happened?”
Briefly I recounted my discovery of Isaac’s body and subsequent overnight stay in the police cell. “I can’t blame Ruby for going off me in the circumstances, even though the police say I’m in the clear.”
Matt’s lip had curled in disapproval. “What a shame.”
“A shame?” said Freddie.
Matt shrugged. “It’s just that I would have expected Ruby to be more charitable. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what it’s like to fall under suspicion.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing serious,” said Matt, “but I believe there was some problem with the tax man a few years back. They hadn’t been declaring all their income.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Freddie. “How did you know that? Did Luke tell you?”
“No, you did, surely? Well, never mind. It was hardly major league, but then neither was your little enterprise in the art world, was it, Eden?” Matt said sympathetically. I liked that way of putting it. Not a fraud, not a crime, but an enterprise, something bold and original and dashing. “So you’re not under suspicion any more?”
“No. The police think it was an accident,” I said. “In any case, they’ve proved I reached the farm too late to be involved. I was too late to be of help as well, unfortunately. I think that’s the real reason Ruby’s so upset with me.”
“Poor Ruby,” Freddie said. “She was totally distraught.”
“Yes. She adored Isaac,” said Matt.
“I didn’t mean that,” said Freddie, glaring. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Matt quietly. He dived into the kitchenette.
“She was very fond of them both. Isaac and Carol. Carol’s death was horrible for Ruby,” said Freddie reprovingly, as if it was my fault. “I remember she looked absolutely shattered. Isaac’s death will have brought those feelings back.”
“What about when Luke died? Did that affect Ruby the same way?” I asked.
“She wasn’t close to Luke.” Matt’s words floated out mingled with the clinking of the mugs. “Different generation. And I don’t care what you say, Freddie, Ruby was very fond of Isaac for his own sake, not just Carol’s, though how far she took it I don’t know.”
“Why would you know anything at all about it?” asked Freddie peevishly. “You said you never went there.”
“I don’t think I said that,” said Matt, coming out with mugs of coffee. “Here you are, Eden.” His face was set as if the air had stretched tight round it. I didn’t know what was going on with him and Freddie, but I felt for him. As he handed me the mug I touched his fingers in a small gesture of pity; he flinched before giving me a brief, reluctant smile.
“So. They say that Isaac’s death was just a tragic accident?” he asked.
“Of course it was,” snapped Freddie.
“Unless the police change their mind,” I said.
Matt caught at something in my tone. “You’re not convinced?”
I shrugged.
“For God’s sake, Matt,” said Freddie, “she just said it was an accident. Leave the poor girl alone. She’s been through enough.”
Only the hardening mouth showed Matt had heard. “Why was there no-one else around at the farm?” he asked me.
“Bryony was at the doctor’s,” I said. “I suppose that’s easy enough for the police to verify.”
“And Selena?”
“Selena said she was shopping in Keswick, but she’s got no means of proving it. She says she’s lost the receipts.” I kept my voice as level as I could, although I doubted the existence of those receipts.
Matt stared at me. “But I saw her. She was just coming out of a shop on Victoria Street.”
“Was she? Which one?”
He ran a hand over his hair. “I’m not sure. About half way up: it might have been the sweet shop. But it was definitely her. That enormous coat of Luke??
?s, yes? And that must have been around eleven-thirty: no, about quarter to twelve.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No,” he said ruefully. “I waved, but she didn’t see me, and I didn’t have time to go chasing after her. I’d only popped out for some milk: I didn’t want to leave the shop for long because I was on my own. Freddie was out at that house clearance in Carlisle, weren’t you, Freddie?”
“Any good?” I asked Freddie.
“Not very,” he said dampeningly.
“No art materials for sale there, I suppose?”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“So Selena can’t have been involved,” said Matt. “You’d better tell your nice policeman friend. Or maybe I should go down to Ambleside and have a word with him myself? I do love a uniform.” He winked at me.
“For God’s sake,” muttered Freddie.
Matt rolled his eyes. “Freddie thinks all policemen are homophobes.”
“I don’t think that at all,” said Freddie crossly. “I just don’t see why you have to make that sort of stupid joke.” I felt the air pull tight again, and said hurriedly,
“I didn’t just come today about the cards, Freddie. Actually, I wanted to pick your brains. I helped Bryony clear out the farmhouse the other day and I found something that – well, I’m not sure what it is. Maybe you can tell me. Give me some advice.”
Reaching in my bag for a plastic wallet, I carefully took out the old, creased Wordsworth letter. I handed it to Freddie, who read it with a bored expression which quickly grew intent. He sat up with a jerk.
“Good Lord,” he said.
“It’s not genuine, though, is it?”
“Dear God,” said Freddie. “I think it could be. Dear God! The paper looks right.” He rubbed it between finger and thumb. “It has the right feel. The handwriting looks – feasible. What a pity it’s not dated.”
“May I see?”
Freddie handed the letter over and Matt held it up to the light. “Well. That’s interesting,” he said slowly. “I do seem to remember Luke mentioning a family tradition that Wordsworth visited the farm. Was there anything else with it?”
I remembered the sheep dip leaflet, the MOT certificates. “Nothing important. It was just stuck at the back of a drawer.”
“I wonder if Isaac knew what it was.”
“He must have known,” said Freddie. “For God’s sake, he wasn’t an ignoramus.”
“Then you think it’s genuine?” I asked. “Not a forgery?”
“I thought you were the expert,” said Matt with a sudden bitterness that shocked me. He drew a harsh breath, then slowly let it out again. “Luke wasn’t a forger. Not Luke. He didn’t do this.”
Recalling the clumsy scribble of the suicide note, I believed him: not a great one for handwriting, Luke.
“I doubt if Isaac did it either. But somebody else might have,” I said. “Would you have any signed Wordsworth editions in your stock, to compare?”
“I don’t know,” said Freddie. “Have we, Matt?”
Matt forced a smile. “If only.” He handed the letter back to me. “Our signed editions don’t quite aspire to those giddy heights.”
“If it’s genuine, how much would it be worth?” I asked.
Freddie pursed his lips. “A few hundred, I expect.”
“Surely more? I’d say at least a thousand,” Matt suggested.
“Maybe to the right collector,” said Freddie dubiously.
“Mind you, a thousand wouldn’t even cover the repairs to the farmhouse roof,” said Matt. “The place was a money pit, according to Luke. Anyway, my guess is it’s not genuine. Probably the work of some snobbish Victorian ancestor.”
“I don’t know why you assume that,” Freddie said.
“Because it seems the most likely solution. Otherwise Isaac would have done something about it.”
“I don’t agree. Why should he want to sell it off? It’s family history. I can’t authenticate it for you, though, Eden,” Freddie said, sounding put out. “You’d have to take it to the Wordsworth Museum for that.”
“If Selena permits,” said Matt. “I suppose it’s hers now, isn’t it? Along with everything else.”
“Probably.” With Freddie watching hungrily, I tucked the letter away in its plastic wallet. I was more inclined to believe in it now that Freddie at least had not dismissed it out of hand. It gave me a warm buzz: a piece of history nestling in my rucksack.
“If it turns out to be authentic, and you want to sell–” began Freddie.
“It’s not up to me. Here, I’d better give you these before I forget.” I handed over my pack of watercolour cards, which he took without relish, as a poor substitute for a Wordsworth letter. “By the way, Matt, do you remember any of the people who bought the last lot of my cards?”
He considered it. “Nobody especially. Tourists. Why?”
“Just trying to work out who my market is,” I said. “I’ll get some more done soon. I’d better go now, if I want to catch that bus.”
I thanked them for the coffee and departed. Matt followed me out of the shop onto the pavement. He still looked tense: as jumpy as a cat not knowing which way to pounce. “Eden? Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I ought to. What about you?”
“I will, if Freddie’ll let me.”
“I suppose if you both go, you’ll have to close the shop.”
“That doesn’t seem to bother Freddie. Unfortunately.” He hesitated, as if wanting to ask me something else. When he didn’t, I posed a question of my own.
“Matt? Don’t get this wrong, but… you know that house clearance in Carlisle. I assume you’re quite sure that’s where Freddie was on Monday?”
“Oh, yes,” said Matt gravely. “I’m certain. He brought a couple of crates of books back with him. Not a very inspiring lot, but still… Why?” He frowned. “Surely you’re not linking him with Isaac’s death? Do you really think it wasn’t just an accident?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m just being stupid.”
Matt studied me for a while, biting his lip. “Eden. Going back to that letter. There was nothing else there with it, then? Nothing…more recent?”
“Letters?” Matt winced, looking down. “Sorry,” I said compassionately. “Just old receipts and MOTs. I chucked them all away. And a book,” I added, remembering, “the poems of RS Thomas, an old school copy.”
Matt looked up, his mouth open. “My God,” he said, “Luke kept it? I’d forgotten all about it. He still kept that?”
“Inside, it said to Luke son of Iago somebody. Did you write that, then?”
Matt nodded slowly, disbelievingly. “Iago Prytherch. My God! I gave him that book, what? Twelve, thirteen years ago? I was studying it in sixth form. Luke had already left by then to work on the farm. I said to him, you must read this, it shows you everything you don’t want to be. Don’t slide into that trap of grinding drudgery: don’t be a servant hired to flog the life out of the slow soil. You’re better than that. You can do more.”
He was talking now to himself, gazing beyond me to read an invisible story written on the opposite wall.
“I wish he’d listened,” he said softly. “Ah, Luke. If only you had been different. A different sort of man, or not a man at all. You’d still be alive now.”
“Not a man at all?”
I saw Matt pull me back into focus. “If he’d been a woman… but the burden was on him, as the son, to carry on the family business, even though his heart wasn’t in it. He should have got out of there. He knew it: but he let his family pull him back again and again. He said he couldn’t leave his father in the lurch. He had too much of Isaac in him, too much conformity: too many scruples. His father’s son all right. That same deliberate, slow manner, that heavy grace…”
I had never before heard Matt reveal so much. I said, “You loved him.”
Matt’s head jerked back. His face closed, and it was a few seconds before he
answered.
“Luke was my friend. There was nothing between us in the way that Freddie suspects. And that was years ago – a lot has happened since those days.”
“Selena, for one.”
“Indeed. She meant more to Luke than I ever did.” He was trying to speak normally, and not quite succeeding.
I pitied him. “She said that you helped her and Luke to get together.”
“Selena said that?” Matt stared at me. “When?”
“That’s what she told Freddie at the dinner party.”
He was silent for a moment. “Well… I certainly didn’t stand in their way. I could see that it was what Luke wanted. He was spell-bound by Selena. She can be very charming when she chooses.”
“Was she spinning a bit of a yarn, then?”
“What, casting me as a farmyard pimp? One of her fairy stories. She was probably trying to keep Freddie happy. Which takes some doing at present. No, no, forget I said that.” Matt brushed the remark aside with his hands. “Take care, Eden. I hope it works out at Raven How. Will you be visiting Selena, do you think?”
“I’ll have to. I’ve promised to paint her.”
“Well, best of luck with that! Just don’t believe everything she tells you. She’s been through too much for someone of her age.” He studied me gravely. “But you’ll understand that. You’re sympathetic. You’ll go easy on her.”
I muttered a non-committal answer. I didn’t deserve such praise. I hadn’t been very sympathetic to Selena when I mentally convicted her of Isaac’s death.
However, I’d done her an injustice, I reflected on the walk back to the bus. My suspicions were unfounded, if Matt’s timings were correct. Selena was harmless: well, relatively. She might be weird, and a stalker, but at least she hadn’t biffed Isaac on the head. She’d been buying sweets in Keswick, nowhere near the place.
But then who had been near the place? Who’d scattered mints around the shed? Who had dropped my painting there?
My painting, lying in the dirt just metres from where a man had died a violent death. Maybe Isaac had bought one of my pictures and then dropped it or thrown it away. I was prepared to accept that, unpalatable though it was.
But what about the mints? At the memory of that white scatter, a tingle travelled down my spine. The conjecture that I’d been avoiding took sudden shape and leapt out like a highwayman waving pistols.
I’d been set up. I had to face the likely truth: that somebody had set the scene to frame me, with a long white minty trail to point towards my guilt. And I had no idea who.
I looked over my shoulder. There was no-one watching me, but the prickle of my skin remained. On the bus it grew stronger, despite the obvious innocence of the passengers. Who could have done it?
Bryony’s suggestion – that Selena might have lost her temper with Isaac – had not been a pleasant one. Yet it had been an idea that I could comprehend: Selena panicking on seeing Isaac fall, throwing clues around to put people off her scent. It was the sort of thing I could imagine some of the girls in prison doing.
But now that image was erased, as though a familiar if unloved painting had suddenly gone blank. It was oddly terrifying. The hair on my head was lifting: I felt haunted.
The bus was coming into Grasmere. I jumped up and got off, glancing round again, in vain, to see who might have accompanied me. Nobody. I set off to the Wordsworth Museum, where nobody followed me either, although I felt twitchy all the way.
I’d been in the Wordsworth Museum a few times before to see its Turner, which had walloped me around the head like a gallon of gold paint and left me speechless and breathless. This time, the girl who took my money said the Turner was no longer on display. Probably locked in a vault somewhere to dazzle the steel walls. I climbed the stairs, pausing to gloomily admire the Mervyn Peakes, and found myself alone in the long twilit upper room with only whispering headphones for company.
I scrutinised the letters and manuscripts beneath their glass and took out my own letter to compare them, trying to use my artist’s eye. The writing looked pretty much the same as that in Wordsworth’s early notebooks, before it became hurried and illegible. I was no expert; but it was definitely possible.
At last I put away the letter, more carefully than I had got it out, and went thoughtfully back downstairs. I lingered over the watercolour landscapes. Surely Abbott made his Helm Crag a little steeper than it was in reality? And Towne, my favourite, gave the rocks of Elterwater a stylish symmetry which I was sure they never had. Elegant fakers, the lot of them, I thought affectionately, as I went through to the shop.
“Um, do you have anyone here who could authenticate a Wordsworth letter?”
The girl’s eyes widened in alarm. “I expect it could be arranged. I could ring the Jerwood centre…” Her hand reached for the phone.
“No, no,” I said hastily. I wished I hadn’t asked. “It’s just on behalf of a friend, just in case…It’s hypothetical. Don’t worry.” I felt her eyes staring at me all the way out of the shop. What was I thinking of? A convicted forger waving a Wordsworth letter around, asking for authentication?
Asking for trouble. Ever since I forged those Holbecks, I’d been asking for trouble. No wonder it followed me around. It was getting closer all the time, waiting to ambush me. I stuffed the letter deep down in my bag, and went to stand and shiver at the lonely stop until the next bus home.
Chapter Twenty