I shelved the problem. Back in Muriel’s car, listening to Griff’s observations slip into their well-worn tracks, I decided that nobody could make this up, or even want to. His amnesia must be genuine. Unless I saw hard evidence to the contrary, I would continue to assume it so. I’d never thought of Freddie as malicious; but he was certainly upset. Poor Freddie, I thought. Poor Matt. Deceit in a relationship was a killer. I knew that much.
As Muriel dropped me off at Side Gates I murmured to her that Freddie had been seeing another man on that crucial afternoon.
“Well, that’s a relief of a sort,” she said. She didn’t sound relieved.
On reflection, I didn’t feel relieved either. If Freddie was innocent of Isaac’s death, that left me with even less idea of who might be guilty.
I trudged along the narrow leafy lane to Little Langdale, through gentle, spindly woodland which was beginning to crochet a fine net of green above my head. I only had to dive off the road three times to avoid on-coming cars; even in light drizzle it was a calming walk – or would have been, had my mind not been so full.
Unwillingly I began to go through a mental list of all the people who had been present at the dinner-party: all those who had heard me make my mid-day appointment with Isaac, who knew about my painted cards, and my love of mints, and who might have used that knowledge to try and frame me .
Hal and Sue had left early. In any case I didn’t think they had any connection with Isaac. I decided I could safely strike them off as suspects, along with Hunter.
Muriel and Griff too I thought I could discount. Quite apart from the fact that they’d never met Isaac before that week, Griff couldn’t have got to the farm on his own; and I couldn’t imagine Muriel hitting anyone over the head.
Selena next. Despite Matt’s assurance that he’d seen her shopping, I’d been vaguely thinking of her as the most likely to be guilty – until she produced the evidence of her receipt. Now they provided unwitting Keswick alibis for each other, while Freddie was out gallivanting in Manchester. It occurred to me that an unknown Manchester rent-boy, while a convenient alibi for Freddie, might not prove an easy one to verify.
Then what about Bryony? Although she hadn’t been at the dinner party, she could well have heard about it afterwards. Ruby said Bryony had left the farm at nine-thirty on that fateful morning. Four hours for a doctor’s appointment? Really? The queue must have been exceedingly long that day.
“No, no, no,” I said aloud. Bryony had no reason to murder Isaac. Even if she thought that Isaac disapproved of her, surely she cared too much for the farm to do away with its owner. And why would she try and frame me? She liked me. So did Freddie. He liked me and my paintings – more than he liked Russell, anyway.
That left Russell himself, and Ruby. Both of them had been close to the scene of the crime. Neither of them liked me very much. A flare of indignation fired through me at the thought of Russell tearing up my paintings: and at Ruby’s lack of interest in my rescue of the painting course. No thank you’s from either of them. Why did they even tolerate my presence at Raven How?
The indignation subsided into a faint sick feeling at the conclusion I was being dragged around to. Should I be afraid? How afraid should I be?
I really would have to find somewhere else to stay, I thought, and soon. Maybe I should just go back to my parents’ house.
Meanwhile my feet had brought me back up the lane to Raven How. I crept inside, avoiding everybody.
Over tea, however, emboldened by the presence of all four of us, I mentioned casually that I’d been up in Keswick visiting the bookshop; and waited for Russell’s reaction.
I didn’t get one. He tore at his leathery slab of home-made bread without reply. He wouldn’t even look my way. The embers of righteous anger at my ruined paintings fired up again within me.
Ruby began to complain about the shop’s cramped, overcrowded gloom. Freddie never displayed the pictures properly, she said. He didn’t do them justice. She didn’t seem to be aware that Russell and his work had both been banned.
“Well, what can you expect?” he growled. “His shop’s full of feeble maudlin rubbish. He knows even less about art than he does about books. Sentimental old queen.”
“Russell! I don’t like that expression. I must admit, though, that if it wasn’t for Matt–”
“Freeloading scum,” said Russell viciously. “Slimy little parasite.”
“Why do you call him that?” I said.
“Because that’s what he is. A jumped-up money-grubbing barrow-boy.”
Ruby pushed back her chair with dignity and picked up her plate. “There’s no point talking to you if you’re in that mood. Come along, Delilah.”
My appetite gone, I stood up too and scraped the remains of my meal into the bin. I needed to get away from Russell. He was jealous of Matt for making money, and jealous of me for making art. A sneering name-caller.
It was pointless to confront him with my ripped and trampled paintings. Russell was like Greta, I decided furiously. They ought to share the same motto: Never Apologise, Never Explain. People like that caused wars.
However, even Greta’s company seemed preferable to Russell’s just then. I lurked in my cold cell, painting cards, but I didn’t really want to be in the same building with him. So when Greta rang to scold me about neglecting my daughterly duties, I grabbed at her insinuations like a life-line.
It was time I paid a visit home. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to stay for a little while at my parents’ place, or even Greta’s at a pinch. At least I could check out how the land lay with my mum. Drop a hint or two in case.
So, making my excuses to Ruby, I explained that I hadn’t seen my family over Easter, and on Sunday morning took myself off to Penrith.
I knew exactly what to expect. Roast lamb and apple crumble; and Greta would harangue me about getting a proper job. My mother would enquire cautiously about my plans, and more hopefully about Hunter, whom she had never met but for some reason seemed to think was a suitable substitute for Nick. In vain I had told her that neither Hunter nor I had ever contemplated such a thing. Though contemplating Hunter now was painful. I was still stinging from our last encounter at the farm.
Still, at least my brother Allen was too easy-going and detached to quiz me about jobs or boyfriends. And my father would have no interest in my private life: nothing I did could compete with the latest renovations to the Mather and Platt, and he would probably endure half an hour of small talk before inviting me out to view his true love in the shed.
All these expectations were fulfilled.
“You can get call centre work in Carlisle, you know,” said Greta over the apple crumble. “It’s not difficult. Anyone can do it. And the Town Hall’s advertising for temporary data input clerks. They might take you even with your record.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“You’d be welcome to move back home,” said Dad.
“Thanks,” I said. “I might just take you up on that, for a little while, if I need to.”
“As long as you don’t mind a camp bed in the boxroom,” added Mum in warning. “I’m using the other for my stock.”
“Stock?”
“Personalised guesthouse toiletries. There’s a real opening there.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“It’s really just a one-woman show,” said Mum.
“You could use a little help with the deliveries, though, couldn’t you?” said Dad.
“Christ, don’t employ her as a delivery driver,” said Greta. “She’d swerve to avoid a sheep and total the van.”
“That’s unfair,” said Mum, “though I do hate the thought of you on that scooter, Eden. Did you ever hear from Nick?”
“No.” I thought I kept it indifferent. I must have betrayed something, though, because her face wrinkled up with sympathy.
“Well, maybe that’s for the best, love. Sometimes you can’t go back. You have to move on. How’s Hunter?”
“Not a hope in hell there, Mum,” said Greta scornfully. “He’s a policeman, for Christ’s sake. Why would he take up with a third-rate forger?”
“Excuse me,” I said. My phone was ringing. I escaped gratefully into the hall to answer it.
It was Muriel, asking if I could sit with Griff for an hour that evening. I agreed, and went back into the dining-room to explain her situation and impress my family with my community service.
“That’s noble of you, giving up your social life in a good cause,” Allen offered obligingly, although I knew his sharp brain would be perfectly aware that I had no social life to give up.
“Will you earn a baby-sitting fee?” asked Mum. “Now maybe there’s a job option for you.”
“Mum! Heaven forbid! I don’t suppose you bothered to tell this woman about your criminal record,” Greta said. “I hope you’re not thinking of becoming a carer. You’d never pass the checks.”
“I was thinking more in the dog-walking line,” said Mum.
“She’d lose them,” Greta said.
“Fancy a look at the Mather and Platt?” suggested Dad.
So we trooped out to the shed: me, him and Allen. I wouldn’t have minded a shed of my own. There was a lot to be said for a shed.
“You’ve polished it up nicely,” I said. “I like the new regulator.”
“Smashing, isn’t it?” said Dad, his face aglow. “Still needs a few tweaks before the Darlington Steam Fair next month.”
“Excellent. How’s business at the garage?”
“Not bad, but no jobs going there, I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right, I wasn’t actually fishing for one. I wish Greta would get off my back about jobs,” I said. “I am trying. But it’s all she can seem to think about.”
“Maybe that’s because she hates hers,” said Allen.
“What? She loves it! Teaching’s all she ever wanted to do.”
Allen shrugged. Dad said doubtfully, “I suppose we might be able to find you one day a week admin at the garage.”
“No, don’t worry. Dad, why would somebody keep a load of old blank MOT certificates?”
“They wouldn’t,” he said, frowning. “Do you mean the old style certificates? They’re obsolete, have been for years. Is this a garage you’re talking about?”
“No. Just somebody I know.”
“Blank? Sounds like a fiddle,” said Dad. “MOT fraud used to be rife a few years back. Your friend doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything like that. But they’d be useless now.”
“Okay.”
“Colour copiers these days, people try to forge anything,” ruminated Dad, with no obvious irony. “Got a fake V5 the other week. Spotted it straight away. You tell your mate to steer clear. Get rid.”
“Will do, Dad.”
“You’re all right, are you, lass?” This was unusually voluble for my dad.
“Yes, I’m good.”
“You’ve got to be careful now who you mix with. Got to toe the line.”
“Yup.” I was trying to toe the line. I knew I had to toe it, and not cross it. The trouble was, I didn’t know where the line was. Who did? Was there anyone who never caught a train without a ticket, or nudged up their expenses, or took home a few office envelopes? Or just tried out a V5 on the office photocopier. I knew my dad didn’t mention all his cash-in-hand jobs to the accountant. How could you avoid slipping across the line now and then, when it was so grey and wavering and well-trodden?
Allen winked at me. As we trooped back to the house, he said, “Got enough to live on, have you? I could sub you a bit if you like.”
“No, you couldn’t,” I said. “You’ve got a family to support.” Allen’s girlfriend, back in Middlesbrough, was pregnant.
“I got a promotion,” he said.
“Another one?”
“They must like me.” He was flippant, but I thought it was probably true. Everybody liked him. I wished I was Allen. He had a proper place in life, and wasn’t just dodging and scrounging round the edges. He was well away from that grey line.
Which reminded me.
“Allen? You might know something about this guy I’m babysitting tonight. He used to be a finance officer in a local council, the area next to yours–” I named it, and him– “and someone suggested he might have been involved in some dodgy business, maybe backhanders, a couple of years ago. There’s probably nothing in it, but I just wondered if you’d heard anything.”
“I’ve got an ex-colleague who works over there. Is it important?”
“Not really. I just wondered if any rumours had come through on the grapevine.”
“Rumours always abound,” said Allen. “Nothing office workers like better than a nice fat rumour to chew over. Keeps them happy. Doesn’t mean it’s true. But I’ll ask around if you like. Is this the same guy who’s keeping dodgy MOT certificates?”
“No. That person’s dead.”
Allen pulled a face. “A bit late to get rid, then,” he said.
I pondered on why Isaac had kept those certificates. He hadn’t got rid. Had they been his way of keeping costs down for his farm vehicles? Crossing that grey line. Well, I was prepared to forgive him that.
But what about the Wordsworth letter, buried deep inside his drawer? That still bemused me. Real or not, why was it hidden there? I felt Isaac recede further from me, increasingly unknowable. Even his weathered face was blurring in my mind now: I could not see him clearly. I no longer knew who I was grieving for.
“Eden? You all right?” said Allen quietly.
“Fit as a flea,” I said, although I knew full well that wasn’t what he meant.
Chapter Twenty-six