columns that could have dated from the same era. It wasn’t hard to imagine men in wing collars and frock coats going about their business with the dead inside these four walls. River had loved this place the minute she’d clapped eyes on it. She just knew the TV team were going to feel the same. It would, she hoped, feel like a Sherlock Holmes drama, only for real.
The men loaded their burden on to one of the tables. River slowly unzipped the bag and exposed the body to the air. She gazed down at the stained skin, the wizened limbs and the dark hair and tried to conjure up a picture of what he must have looked like in life. Once those legs had carried him over the tracks of the fells; once, she wouldn’t mind betting, they had held his balance on the pitching deck of a sailing ship. Those arms had raised sail, climbed rigging, spliced ropes. They had held other warm bodies. That mouth had kissed as well as eaten, spoken as well as drunk. He had been a living, breathing human, just like her. Now it was her job to make him come alive all over again.
Three hundred miles away, Jane was wolfing a generous bowl of spaghetti in Trattoria Guido with Dan and Harry. The restaurant was Dan’s discovery; he’d found it tucked away in an alley off a side street near the university. It looked as if nothing had changed inside since the 1970s–checked red-and-white tablecloths, guttered candles stuck in Chianti bottles, badly executed murals of Sorrento all gave it that time-warp feel. The menu, too, had been untouched by culinary fashion. A diner would look in vain for balsamic vinegar, sundried tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala or rocket. Here, the staples were spaghetti, penne and tagliatelle, the favoured sauces Bolognese, carbonara, arrabbiata and marinara. But the food was tasty, the portions vast and the prices low, so it had clung to its clientele of office workers and the kind of students who favoured content over form. Jane ate there at least twice a week.
Harry spoke through a mouthful of lasagne. ‘Can’t believe Missy Elliott swallowed your tale, Jane. From what Dan’s said about her, I thought she was tough as old boots.’
‘She is,’ Dan said. ‘But she’s smart enough to want to be on board if Jane turns out to be on the money. So, Jane, what’s our plan of action?’
‘Start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘You’re teaching tomorrow and I’m going back to the Lakes to talk to Anthony Catto at the Wordsworth Trust to see if any other uncatalogued material has turned up lately. Meanwhile you can have a damn good look at the Wordsworth family tree and check out John’s descendants. The last thing we know about whatever it was that Mary found among William’s papers is that she sent it to John. For all I know, somebody in the family could have been sitting on it for the last hundred and fifty years.’
‘As if,’ Harry muttered.
‘Harry, this is a family that managed to keep William’s French lover and their illegitimate daughter secret for a hundred and twenty years,’ Jane pointed out. ‘There is no other poet in English literary history who made such a fetish out of the creation of his own image, and his family went along with that one hundred per cent. Nothing was ever said or done to contradict William’s picture of himself, even when that meant turning a blind eye to the most glaring omissions. The Prelude is an astonishing poetic achievement, but it’s also an early example of outrageous spin doctoring. It was Dorian Grey in reverse–the more time stripped William of his youth and powers, the more glossy The Prelude became.’
‘She’s right, you know,’ Dan said, filling up their glasses with Guido’s strong red wine that came to table without a label. ‘Wordsworth’s compulsive remaking of his life is one of the reasons why I think Jane might really be on to something. Of all the writers I can think of, Wordsworth is probably the only one capable of writing a major work only to decide nobody gets to see it because the circumstances of its composition reflect badly on him.’
‘Even so, you’d think somebody down the years would have been tempted to cash in on it, if it exists.’ Harry pushed his plate away, defeated by the final slab of pasta and meat.
‘Not this family,’ Jane said. ‘Reputation, reputation, reputation. It should be carved on their coat of arms.’
‘And you’re the woman to break the silence, Jane,’ Dan said confidently. ‘Now, where are we going to celebrate your mission?’
‘I was going to go home and pack.’
Dan made a dismissive noise. ‘Jane, Jane, what are we going to do with you?’
‘You’re getting middle-aged,’ Harry confirmed. ‘Dan’s right, we should go out on the razz.’
Jane groaned. ‘Oh, all right. But I’m not dancing till dawn like the last time. I’m going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight, and that is a promise.’
Three hours later, they were leaving a Soho pub, en route to a nearby club, tipsy but in control. The same could not be said of Geno Marley, whose senses quickened to alert when he heard the front door of the Marshpool Farm flat whisper open.
Tenille’s luck had just run out.
My friend fears for his safety, as who would not in his position. If he is taken, he will be hanged. Little doubt attends that. Although many years have passed since the sensational case of the mutiny on the Bounty & although few think of Captain Bligh now Admiral Nelson’s name is on the lips of all, there are still many who would smile even as the hangman slipped his noose over that tanned & sinewy neck. ‘Are we safe here from prying eyes?’ he asked. I told him that the garden at Dove Cottage is left to my exclusive use when I am working. There is what we call the New Door that gives on to the passageway, but none comes through it when they know I am at work. The garden itself is protected from the idle curiosity of passers-by with its thicket of rambling roses & honeysuckle. We are as isolate here as if we were on the very summit of Helvellyn.
The banging, Jane slowly realised, was coming from outside her head. She growled in her throat as she tried to force her eyelids open. ‘Slapper,’ she berated herself, realising she’d fallen into bed without bothering to take off her make-up. She rubbed her lashes free of mascara and groaned. She pushed herself into a sitting position, wishing immediately that she hadn’t done so. Her stomach roiled and an acid burp joined the staleness in her mouth in an evil brew. There was a pain in her sinuses and, inexplicably, her legs ached when she tried to move them.
Somehow, she dragged herself out of bed and lurched for the door, snatching at her dressing gown as she passed. She wrestled with the arms, calling, ‘OK, OK, I’m coming,’ to whoever was trying to break her door down. The sound of her own raised voice made her wince. Jane unfastened the locks and chain securing the door and yanked it open. ‘What the hell…’ she began, but found herself addressing empty air as Tenille pushed past her and dived into the front room. Jane rubbed a hand over her face. It didn’t make anything clearer. With a sigh, she closed the door and followed Tenille.
Jane leaned in the doorway for support and took in the picture of frightened misery curled in the bean bag. ‘Before you open your mouth, Tenille, I need to tell you that I have the hangover from hell. So this better be good.’
Tenille shivered and pushed a knuckle into her mouth. Jane could see her teeth biting down hard on it. It took her a moment to figure it out in her messed-up state, but eventually she realised the child was fighting tears with every ounce
