The Grave Tattoo Part 1, The Grave Tattoo Part 1 english novels online

The Grave Tattoo.

by VAL McDERMID.

The Prelude

September 2005.

All landscapes hold their own secrets. Layer on layer, the past is buried beneath the surface. Seldom irretrievable, it lurks, waiting for human agency or meteorological accident to force the skeleton up through flesh and skin back into the present. Like the poor, the past is always with us.That summer, it rained as if England had been transported to the tropics. Water fell in torrents, wrecking glorious gardens, turning meadows into quagmires where livestock struggled hock-deep in mud. Rivers burst their banks, their suddenly released waters finding their own level by demolishing whatever was vulnerable in their path. In the flooded streets of one previously picturesque village, cars were swept up like toys and deposited in the harbour, choking it in a chaos of mangled metal. Landslips swamped cars with mud and farmers mourned lost crops.No part of the country was immune from the sheets of stinging rain. City and countryside alike struggled under the weight of water. In the Lake District, it sheeted down over fell and dale, subtly altering the contours of a centuries-old landscape. The water levels in the lakes reached record summer highs; the only discernible benefit was that when the sun did occasionally shine, it revealed a lusher green than usual.Above the village of Fellhead on the shores of Langmere, ancient peat hags were carved into new shapes under the onslaught of water. And as autumn crept in, gradually the earth gave up one of its close-held secrets.From a distance, it looked like a scrunched-up tarpaulin stained brown by the brackish water of the bog. At first glance, it seemed insignificant; another piece of discarded rubbish that had worked its way to the surface. But closer inspection revealed something far more chilling. Something that would reach across the centuries and bring even more profound changes in its wake than the weather.My beloved son,I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your father's hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You, will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit.Your loving Mother

The way it rained that summer It would have broken your heart to see.

It smashed its sheets to smithereens And flowed down the corrugated roofs Of dismal railway stations.

And I would sit waiting for trains, Feet in puddles, My head starry with rain, Thinking of you miles from me In Grecian sunlight Where rain never falls.Jane Gresham stared at what she had written then with an impatient stroke of her pen crossed it through so firmly the paper tore and split in the wake of the nib. Bloody Jake Bloody Jake, she thought angrily. She was a grownup, not some lovestruck adolescent. Sub-poetic maundering was something she should have left behind years ago. She'd had insight enough to know she was never going to be a poet by the time she'd finished her first degree. Studying other people's poetry was what she was good at; interpreting their work, exploring thematic links in their verse and opening up their complexity to those who were, she hoped, an assorted number of steps behind her in the process. 'Bloody, bloody Jake,' she said out loud, crumpling the paper savagely and tossing it in the bin. He wasn't worth the expense of her intellectual energy. Nor the familiar claw of pain that grabbed at her chest at the thought of him.Eager to shunt aside thoughts of Jake, Jane turned to the stack of CDs beside the desk in the poky room that the council classified as a bedroom but which she called, with knowing pretentiousness, her study. She scanned the titles, deliberately starting at the bottom, looking for something that held no resonance of her...what was he? Her ex? Her erstwhile lover? Her lover-in-abeyance? Who knew? She certainly didn't. And she doubted very much whether he gave her a second thought from one week to the next. Muttering at herself under her breath, she pulled out Nick Cave's Murder Ballads Murder Ballads and slotted it into the CD drive of her computer. The dark growl of his voice matched her mood so perfectly, it became a paradoxical antidote. In spite of herself, Jane found she was almost smiling. and slotted it into the CD drive of her computer. The dark growl of his voice matched her mood so perfectly, it became a paradoxical antidote. In spite of herself, Jane found she was almost smiling.She picked up the book she had been attempting to study before Jake Hartnell had intruded on her thoughts. But it took her only a few minutes to realise how far her focus had drifted. Irritated with herself again, she slammed it shut. Wordsworth's letters of 1807 would have to wait.Before she could decide what to attack next, the alarm on her mobile phone beeped. Jane frowned, checking the time on her phone against the watch on her wrist. 'Hell and damnation,' she said. How could it be half past eleven already? Where had the morning gone?'Bloody Jake,' she said again, jumping to her feet and switching off her computer. All that time wasted mooning over him when there were better things to be passionate about. She grabbed her bag and went through to the other room. Officially this was the living room, but Jane used it as a bedsit, preferring to have a completely separate space to work in. It made the rest of her life even more cramped by comparison, but that felt like a small price to pay for the luxury of having somewhere she could lay out her books and papers without having to shift them every time she wanted to eat or sleep.The small room could barely accommodate even her Spartan existence. Her sofa bed, although folded away now, dominated the space. A table sat against the opposite wall, three wooden chairs tucked under it. A small TV set was mounted on a bracket high on the wall, and a bean bag slouched in the furthest corner. But the room was fresh, its soft green paintwork clean and light. On the wall opposite the sofa hung a series of digital colour photographs of the Lake District, blown up to A3 size and laminated. At the heart of the landscape, Gresham's Farm, where her family had eked out a meagre living as far back as anyone could trace. No matter what was outside her windows, Jane could wake up in the morning to the world she'd grown up in, the world she still missed every city day.She stripped off her sweatpants and fleece top, swapping them for tight-fitting black jeans and a black v-neck stretch top that accentuated generous breasts. It wasn't her first choice of outfit, but experience had taught her that making the most of her assets meant better tips from customers. Luckily her olive skin meant she didn't look terminal in black, and her co-worker Harry had assured her she didn't look as lumpy as she felt in the tight top. A glance outside the window at the weather and she grabbed her rainproof jacket from its hook, shrugging into it as she hurried towards the front door. She didn't care that it lacked any pretence of chic; in this downpour, she cared more about arriving at work dry and warm.Jane took her invariable last look at the Lakeland vista before walking into a completely different universe. She doubted whether anyone in Fellhead could conjure up her present environment even in their worst imaginings. When she'd told her mother she'd been granted a council flat on the Marshpool Farm Estate, Judy Gresham's face had lit up. 'That's nice, love,' she'd said. 'I didn't know you got farms in London.'Jane shook her head in amused exasperation. 'There hasn't been a farm there in donkey's years, Mum. It's a sixties council estate. Concrete as far as the eye can see.'Her mother's face fell. 'Oh. Well, at least you've got a roof over your head.'They'd left it at that. Jane knew her mother well enough to know that she wouldn't want the truththat Jane had so few qualifying points that the only accommodation the council was going to offer her was exactly the sort of place she'd ended up with. A hard-to-let box on a run-down East End estate where almost nobody had any form of legitimate employment, where kids ran wild day and night, and where there were more used condoms and hypodermic needles than blades of grass. No, Judy Gresham definitely wouldn't like to think of her daughter living somewhere like that. Apart from anything else, it would seriously impair her ability to boast about how well their Jane was doing.She'd told her brother Matthew, however. Anything to blunt the edge of the resentment he carried because she was the one who had got away while he'd been left, in his words, to rot in the back of beyond because somebody had to stay for the sake of their parents. It didn't matter that, as the elder, he'd been the first to fly the nest for university and that he'd chosen to come back to the job he'd always wanted. Matthew, Jane thought, had been born aggrieved.The irony, of course, was that Jane would have swapped London for Fellhead in the blink of an eye if it had held the faintest possibility of doing the work she loved. But there were no jobs for academics in the Lakes, not even for a Wordsworth specialist like her. Not unless she wanted to swap intellectual rigour and research for lecturing to schoolkids about the Lakeland poets. Nothing would kill her passion for the words faster than that, she knew. So instead, she was stuck in the worst kind of urban hell. Jane tucked her head into her chest as she walked along the galleried balcony to the stairs. By what she could only believe to be the evil whim of the architect, her block had been constructed so that the prevailing wind was funnelled down the walkways, rendering even a gentle summer breeze blustery and uncomfortable. On a showery autumn day, it drove the rain into every nook and cranny of the building as well as the clothes of any inhabitants who bothered to emerge from their flats.Jane turned into the stairwell and gained a brief respite. No point in even trying the lift. Ignoring the badly spelled graffiti, the unsavoury collections of rubbish blown into the corners and the stink of decay and piss, she trotted downwards. At the first turn of the stairs, her stomach flipped over. It was a sight she'd seen so often she knew she should have been inured to it, but every time she saw the tiny frame perched precariously in the lotus position on the narrow concrete banister three floors up, Jane's knees trembled.'Hey, Jane,' the slight figure called softly.'Hey, Tenille,' Jane replied, forcing a smile through her fear.With what felt like death-defying casualness, Tenille unfolded her legs and dropped down to the dank concrete next to Jane. 'Whatchu know?' the thirteen-year-old demanded as she fell into step beside her.'I know I'm going to be late for work if I don't get a move on,' Jane said, letting gravity give her momentum as she took the stairs at a faster pace. Tenille kept stride with her, her long dreads bouncing on her narrow shoulders.'I'll walk wi'chu,' Tenille said, her attempt at a swagger a pathetic parody of the wannabe gangstas that hung around the dismal maze of the estate learning their trade from older brothers, cousins and anyone else who managed to stay out of custody for long enough to teach them.'I hate to sound like a middle-aged, middle-class pain in the arse, Tenille, but shouldn't you be in school?' It was an old line and Jane mentally predicted the response.'Teachers got nothin' to say to me,' Tenille said mechanically, lengthening her stride to catch up with Jane as they hit street level. 'What they know about my livin'?'Jane sighed. 'I get so tired of hearing the same old, same old from you, Tenille. You're way too smart to settle for the crap that's coming your way unless you get enough of an education to sidestep it.'Tenille stuffed her hands into the pockets of her skinny fake leather jacket and raised her narrow shoulders defensively. 'Fuck dat,' she said. 'I ain't gonna be no mo'fo's incubator. None of that baby mamma drama for Tenille.'They cut through a walkway under the block of flats and emerged beside a stretch of dual carriageway where cars surged past, their drivers rejoicing at finally getting out of second gear, their tyres hissing on the wet tarmac. 'Hard to see how you're going to avoid it unless you harness your brain,' Jane said drily, keeping well away from the kerb and the spray of the passing vehicles.'I wanna be like you, Jane.' It was a plaintive cry that Jane had heard from Tenille more times than she could count.'So go to school,' she said, trying not to let her exasperation show.'I hate the useless stuff they make us do,' Tenille said, a lip-curling sneer transforming her unselfconscious attractiveness into a mask of scorn. 'It's not like what you give me to read.' Her speech had shifted from street to standard English, as if leaving the confines of the estate allowed her to slip from persona to person.'I'm sure it isn't. But I'm not where I want to be yet, you know. Working part-time in bars and seminar rooms while I get my book finished so I can land a proper job is not what I had in mind when I started out. But I still had to go through the same crap to get even this far. And yes, mostly I did think it was crap,' she continued, drowning whatever Tenille had been about to add. She wished there was something she could offer apart from platitudes, but she didn't know what else to say to a thirteen-year-old mixed-race orphan who not only adored but also seemed to grasp the significance of the writings of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and De Quincey with an ease that had taken Jane herself a decade of close study to achieve.Tenille sidestepped to avoid a buggy containing a moon-faced toddler, chocolate smeared across its cheeks, a dummy jammed in its mouth like a stopper designed to keep the chubby child inflated. The pram pusher didn't look that much older than Tenille herself. 'I'm not going to make it that way, Jane,' Tenille said despondently. 'Maybe I could use the poetry another way. Be a rapper like Ms Dynamite,' she added without conviction.They both knew it was never going to happen. Not unless someone invented a self-esteem drug that Jane could pump into Tenille's veins ahead of the heroin that kept what seemed like half the estate sedated. Jane halted at the bus stop, turning to face Tenille. 'Nobody can ever take the words out of your head,' she said.Tenille picked at a chewed fingernail and stared at the pavement. 'You think I don't know that?' she almost shouted. 'How the fuck else do you think I survive?' Suddenly she spun round on the balls of her feet and she was off, scudding down the uneven pavement like a gazelle, long limbs surprisingly elegant in motion. She disappeared into an alley and Jane felt the familiar mixture of affection and frustration. It stayed with her on the ten-minute bus ride and it still nagged her as she pushed open the door of the wine bar.Five minutes before noon, the Viking Bar and Grill felt hollow with emptiness. The blond wood, chrome and glass still gleamed in the halogen spots, evidence that nobody had been in since the cleaner finished her shift. Harry had put Michael Nyman's music from The End of the Affair The End of the Affair on the CD player, and the strings seemed almost to shimmer visibly in the calm air. In twenty minutes' time, the Viking would be transformed as the city slickers piled in, desperate to cram as much food and drink into their short lunch breaks as they could. The air would thicken with conversation, body heat and smoke, and Jane wouldn't have a second to think about anything other than the press of bodies at the bar. on the CD player, and the strings seemed almost to shimmer visibly in the calm air. In twenty minutes' time, the Viking would be transformed as the city slickers piled in, desperate to cram as much food and drink into their short lunch breaks as they could. The air would thicken with conversation, body heat and smoke, and Jane wouldn't have a second to think about anything other than the press of bodies at the bar.For now, though, it was peaceful. Harry Lambton stood at one end of the long pale birch curve of the bar, leaning on his forearms as he skimmed the morning paper. The light gleamed on the spiky halo of his short fair hair, turning him into a post-modern saint. He glanced up at the sound of Jane's feet on the wooden floor and sketched a wave of greeting, a smile animating his sharp, narrow face. 'Still raining?' he asked.'Still raining.' Jane leaned in and planted a kiss on Harry's cheek as she passed him on her way to the cubbyhole where the staff hung their coats. 'Everybody in?' she asked as she returned to the main bar, corralling her long dark corkscrew curls and pushing them into a scrunchy.Harry nodded. That was a relief, Jane thought, slipping past Harry's tightly muscled back and checking everything was where she needed it to be for her shift to run as smoothly as possible. She'd landed this job because Harry's boyfriend Dan was a friend and colleague at the university, but she didn't want anybody accusing her of taking advantage of that relationship. Besides, Harry claimed that managing the bar was only a stopgap. One day he might decide what he wanted to do with his life and Jane didn't want to provide her co-workers with any excuse to grass her up to a new boss as lazy or incompetent. Working at the Viking was demanding, exhausting and poorly paid, but she needed the job.'I finally came up with a title,' she said, tying the long white bistro apron round her waist. 'For the book.' Harry cocked his head interrogatively. 'The Laureate of Spin: Politics, Poetics and Pretence in the Writings of William Wordsworth. 'The Laureate of Spin: Politics, Poetics and Pretence in the Writings of William Wordsworth. What do you think?' What do you think?'Harry frowned, considering. 'I like it,' he said. 'Makes the boring old bastard sound halfway interesting.''Interesting is good, it sells books.'Harry nodded, flicking over a page of his paper and giving it a cursory look. Then his dark blue eyes narrowed and frown lines appeared between his sandy brows. 'Hey,' he said. 'Isn't Fellhead where you come from?'Jane turned, a bottle of olives in her hand. 'That's right. Don't tell me somebody finally did something newsworthy?'Harry raised his eyebrows. 'You could say that. They found a body.'

I am minded tonight of the time we spent at Alfoxden, & the suspicion that fell upon Coleridge and myself, viz. that we were agents of the enemy, gathering information as spies for Bonaparte. I recall Coleridge's assertion that it was beyond the bounds of good sense to give credence to the notion that poets were suited for such an endeavour since we see all before us as matter for our verse & would have no inclination to hold any secrets to our breasts that might serve our calling. In that important respect, he was correct, for the events of this day already ferment within me, seeking an expression, in verse. But in the more important respect of maintaining our own counsel, I pray he is mistaken, for my encounter within the secluded bounds of our garden has already laid a heavy burden of knowledge on my shoulders, a burden that could yet bear down heavy on me and on my family. At first, I believed myself to be dreaming, for I hold no belief in the ghostly manifestations of the dead. But this was no apparition. It was a man of flesh and blood, a man I had thought never to see more.

Matthew Gresham gulped his last mouthful of coffee and dumped the mug in the sink. Members of staff were supposed to do their own washing up, but Matthew reckoned there had to be some advantages to rank so ever since his promotion to head teacher he'd left his dirty crockery for someone else to deal with. Besides, he had more important things to occupy him. So far nobody had commented on his presumptuousness, though he'd noticed disapproving glares from Marcia Porter more than once. But Marcia was a busted flush. When he'd leapfrogged her into the top job, she'd stopped trying to get the world to bend to her will. It was as if she'd thrown in the towel. She might not like what Matthew did, but she didn't attempt to challenge him. Not like before, when they were theoretically equal except for her constant assertion of her seniority. These days, she gave him as wide a berth as was possible in a village school with a staff of five teachers and four teaching assistants.Teaching assistants. That was a joke. Mothers with time on their hands and the misplaced notion that somehow, merely by giving birth, they had the inside track on how to educate kids. But they'd gone through the school system before SATs and the National Curriculum. They didn't have a bloody clue about the pressures that real teachers like him had to live with on a daily basis. Matthew missed no opportunity to remind them of how much the world had changed. The main result was that, as with the rest of his staff, they spent as little time as possible slacking in the staffroom. That suited Matthew fine; his office was, to his way of thinking, barely adequate for his needs. He much preferred working in the staffroom, where he could brew himself a coffee whenever he felt like it.He had to stoop to glance in the mirror above the sink which had been placed to suit the stature of female teachers rather than six-foot headmasters. Dark blue eyes stared back at him from olive skin a couple of shades darker than the local norm. The legacy of his Cornish grandfather, passed on to Matthew and Jane from their mother. He ran a hand through the dark mop of mutinous curls, inherited from the other side of the family. They looked glorious on his sister but simply made him feel like a poor man's Harpo Marx. He smiled wryly, thinking of the lesson he was about to teach the top two classes. Genealogy and genetics, those twisted strands that wrapped around each other like the double helix of DNA, complete with the kinks that could have all kinds of unforeseen consequences. There was no doubting his relationship to his sister nor his parentage. Their father had the same corkscrew curls, as had his father before him.The bell rang for afternoon classes and Matthew hurried out of the staffroom. As he approached the classroom, he heard a low murmur of conversation which stilled when the fifteen children saw him appear in the doorway. One of the benefits of small rural schools, Matthew thought. They still learned manners along with the National Curriculum. He didn't envy the poor sods who had to teach the kids on the estate where Jane lived. 'Good afternoon, children,' he said, his long legs quickly covering the short distance to his desk.'Good afternoon, Mr Gresham,' the class chorused raggedly.He opened up his laptop and hit the key to take it out of slumber mode. Immediately the interactive whiteboard behind him showed a screen which read Family Trees. Family Trees. Matthew perched on the edge of his desk, from where he could easily reach the keyboard. 'Today we're beginning an important new project which will form part of the village Christmas celebrations. Now, one thing every one of us has is ancestors. Who can tell me what an ancestor is?' Matthew perched on the edge of his desk, from where he could easily reach the keyboard. 'Today we're beginning an important new project which will form part of the village Christmas celebrations. Now, one thing every one of us has is ancestors. Who can tell me what an ancestor is?'A small boy with a thick mop of black hair and a face like a baby spider monkey shot a hand into the air. He bounced on his chair with eagerness.'Sam?' Matthew said, trying not to sound weary. It was always Sam Clewlow.'It's your family, sir. Not your family that's alive now, but all the ones that came before. Like, your grandparents and their grandparents.''That's right. Our ancestors are the people who came before us. Who made us what we are. Every one of us is who we are and what we are because of the way our genes were combined down the ages. Now, does anyone know what a family tree is?'Sam Clewlow's hand rose again. The others looked on in indifference or satisfaction that Sam was doing all the work and saving them the bother. This time, he didn't wait to be asked. 'Sir, it's like a map of your family history. It's got everybody's birthdays, and when they got married and who to, and when they had children and when they died and everything.''You've got it, Sam. And what we're going to do over the next few weeks is to try to map our own families. That'll be easier for some of you than othersthose of you whose families have lived locally for generations will be able to track them from parish records. It will be harder for those of you whose families are relative newcomers to the area. But one of the things we'll be doing during this project is exploring the many different ways we can go about mapping our past. The thing about this project is that it's one where you'll have to work with the other members of your family, especially the older ones such as grandparents and great-aunts anduncles.' Again, Matthew felt grateful that he wasn't stuck in some inner-city sink school. A project like this would be impossible to contemplate there, with its fragmented lives and alternative views of what constituted a family. But in Fellhead, either they'd lived in extended families for generations or else they were incomers from the sort of nice middle-class family where, even when they pretended to be New Age, marriage certificates were still the order of the day more often than not.'To show you the kind of thing we'll be doing, I'm going to show you my own family tree.' He clicked the mouse button and his name came up on the screen. Underneath it was his date of birth. He clicked again and this time his name was linked to Diane Brotherton with an 'equals' sign. 'Can you guess what that sign means? Jonathan?' he asked a chunky red-haired boy, ignoring Sam's eager hand.Jonathan Bramley looked faintly startled. He frowned in concentration. 'Dunno,' he finally conceded.Trying not to show his exasperation, Matthew said patiently, 'It means "married to". Mrs Gresham was Diane Brotherton until she married me.' He clicked again and a vertical line appeared, connecting them to Gabriel Stephen Gresham.'That's your baby,' one of the girls piped up unprompted.'That's right, Kylie.' Matthew clicked again. Now little thumbnail pictures appeared beside each of the names. 'We can even add photos. That way, we can see how family resemblances move between generations. Now, we can all start our family trees with what we know already.' He tapped the keyboard and brought up another screen. This showed his parents and his sister, complete with photos, places of birth and occupations.'But we're going to do more than that. We're going to delve into the past and trace our family trees as far as we can.' This time, the family tree he displayed included his grandparentsone grandfather an incomer, a refugee from the Cornish tin mines who had come to the Lakes to mine slate, the other a Cumberland shepherdand his aunts, uncles and cousins.'And one of the things we are going to learn about is the way a community like ours has grown through the years. We'll find all sorts of connections between families that you might not even have known about yourselves. You may even discover common ancestors, and you'll start to get a sense of how people's lives have changed over the centuries.' Matthew's gift for sharing his enthusiasm was working on the children now. They were hanging on his words.'We're going to begin with your immediate family. Look at my family tree on the board so you know how to lay it out on the page. And tonight, when you go home, you can ask the rest of the family to help you fill in the gaps. As we continue, we'll explore different ways of discovering more information about your history and your ancestors. Now, find a fresh page in your workbooks and make a start.'Matthew waited till they had all got going, then he sat down behind the desk. He pulled a pile of maths workbooks towards him and started marking the children's work. His absorption was disturbed by a muttering and sniggering that ran round the room. When he looked up, Sam Clewlow was flushed, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Jonathan Bramley looked gleeful.'What's going on?' Matthew demanded, getting to his feet. Nobody met his eye. 'Jonathan? What's going on?'Jonathan's mouth compressed in a tight line. He didn't know it yet, but he would spend the rest of his life being caught out by his own stupidity and the concomitant inability to dissemble. 'Nothing,' he muttered eventually.'You can tell me now or you can stay after school and tell me then,' Matthew said, his voice hard. He'd never understood the complaints of teachers who claimed they couldn't control the kids. You just had to show them who was boss, and keep on showing them.'I just said...' Jonathan's voice trailed off as he looked around desperately for support that was not forthcoming.'You just said what?''I said we all knew who Sam's ancestor was,' he mumbled.'I'm fascinated to hear it,' Matthew said. 'And who exactly did you have in mind?'Jonathan's ears were scarlet and his eyes were fixed on the floor. 'The Monkey Man up on the moor,' he said in a voice barely above a whisper.'You mean the body in the bog?' Matthew guessed. The grisly discovery had been the talk of the village for the past few days.Jonathan nodded and gulped. 'It was just a joke, like.''Jokes are meant to be funny,' Matthew said repressively. 'Insults aren't a joke. And it's not appropriate to make jokes about the dead. When that man was alive, he had friends and family who loved him, just like you. Imagine how you'd feel if someone you loved died and some thoughtless person made a joke about it.''But, sir, there's nobody alive to care about the Monkey Man,' the irrepressible Kylie said.Matthew groaned inwardly. It was going to be one of those conversations, he knew it. He believed in his job, but sometimes he wished he hadn't done quite such a good job of helping them develop enquiring minds. 'Why do you call him the Monkey Man?' he asked.'Coz that's what they look like,' a boy piped up. 'There was a programme on the telly about that one they found down in Cheshire. He looked like an ape.''So that's why we call him the Monkey Man,' another chipped in.Sam Clewlow snorted. 'That's stupid,' he said.'Why is it stupid, Sam?' Matthew asked.'Because the man they found in the peat in Cheshire died back in the Stone Age. That's why he looks the way he does. But the one on the fell isn't that old. So he doesn't look like a monkey, he looks like us,' Sam said firmly.Snorts of derision met his words. 'He don't look like me,' Jonathan blurted out. 'Our Jason said he looked like an old leather bag with a face. And he should know, he plays darts with Paul Lister that found the body.' Jonathan leaned back in his seat, his earlier humiliation forgotten as he basked in their attention.'So maybe he is one of our ancestors,' Sam chipped in.'Yeah,' Kylie said enthusiastically. 'Maybe he got murdered and buried on the fell.''That's right. Coz how else would he have ended up in the peat?' another said.'He might simply have had an accident when he was out on the hill,' Matthew said, trying to dampen down their ghoulish enthusiasm. 'He might have gone out to tend his sheep, taken a tumble and died out on the fell.''But then somebody would have gone looking for him and they'd have found his body,' Sam pointed out reasonably. 'The only way he could have ended up under the peat is if somebody buried him there because they didn't want anybody to know what had happened to him. I think Kylie's right. I think somebody murdered him.''Well, until the scientists have done their tests, we won't know anything for sure,' Matthew said firmly.'It'll be like Silent Witness,' Silent Witness,' Kylie said. 'The doctor will figure out how he died and then the police will have to find out what happened.' Kylie said. 'The doctor will figure out how he died and then the police will have to find out what happened.'Matthew couldn't help grinning. 'I don't think it'll be quite like that, Kylie. From what I hear, if the body in the bog was murdered, his killer will be long dead too. But until we have some facts, I suggest we all get back to what we do know about.' He held up a hand to silence their chatter. 'And who knows? Maybe one of you will discover an ancestor who went missing at the right time.'Sam Clewlow gazed at him, open-mouthed. 'That would be fantastic,' he breathed.

I was engaged in my poetical labours upon the long Poem on my own life, pondering how best I might find apt illustration of those matters I hold dear when I saw a figure at the gate. At first glance, I took him to be one of those travelling or wandering men who from time to time arrive at our door in search of sustenance. My sister is accustomed to provide them with food & drink, before setting them on their way. On occasion, she has gleaned tales from them which have provided me with matter fit to be translated into poems & so I do not discourage her in this small charity. The man at the gate seemed to be one such, with travel-stained, clothes & a large-brimmed hat to shelter him from sun & rain alike. I was about to direct him to the kitchen door when he spoke. To my astonishment, he greeted me by my Christian name, addressing me with some warmth & familiarity. 'William, I see you are hard at it. I was told, you had become the Poet of the, Age & now I see it for myself.' 'William, I see you are hard at it. I was told, you had become the Poet of the, Age & now I see it for myself.' I still had no notion of who the man was, but he opened the gate without further ado & walked across the garden towards me. His bow-legged gait had a nautical flavour to it, & as he drew closer an impossible suspicion grew large in my mind. I still had no notion of who the man was, but he opened the gate without further ado & walked across the garden towards me. His bow-legged gait had a nautical flavour to it, & as he drew closer an impossible suspicion grew large in my mind.

By three thirty, the Viking had almost returned to its default state of vacant tranquillity. A couple of the rear booths were still occupied by pairs of men talking business over their espressos. They'd already paid their bills; the staff were invisible to them now. Jane loaded the washer with the last of the glasses then hitched herself on to a stool at the end of the bar to give her aching feet some relief. Harry emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of leftover sandwiches.Jane reached for a sandwich as Harry pulled up a stool and sat down beside her. 'Where did you put the paper?' she asked.'I'll get it.' Harry jumped off his stool and went behind the bar. He pulled the paper out from one of the shelves and handed it over.Jane went straight to the story she'd not had time to read properly before the lunchtime rush.RIDDLE OF BODY IN LAKELAND BOGThe body of a man found in a peat bog in the Lake District may be hundreds of years old, police said yesterday.At first, it was thought the remains might have lain undiscovered for thousands of years, like Stone Age corpses recovered from similar sites.But initial forensic examination indicates that the body is far more recent. Detective Chief Inspector Ewan Rigston said, 'We believe the body has been in the ground for a very long time, perhaps hundreds of years. But we don't think it's anything like as old as some of the remains unearthed in other places.'We will know more after the forensic specialists have done their work.'When asked how the man had died, DCI Rigston said it was too early to tell.The body was discovered by a local shepherd searching for a lost sheep. Police believe the heavy summer rain had eroded banking within the ancient peat deposits at Carts Moss near the village of Fellhead.Paul Lister, 37, of Coniston Cottages, Fellhead, spoke last night of his gruesome discovery. 'I was following my dog over Carts Moss, looking for a stray lamb. I slipped on the wet grass and fell down into one of the channels between the peat hags.'My hand slipped on something and I looked down. At first, I couldn't figure out what I was looking at. I thought it was a cow hide or something. Then I realised it had a human face.'I couldn't believe it. It was like something out of a horror movie.'While he was waiting for the police to arrive, Mr Lister had the chance to look more closely at his grim find. 'He had black hair, and it looked like he had black tattoos on his arms and his body. But I don't know if that was just the effect of being in the peat for so long.'Forensic anthropologist Dr River Wilde from the University of Northern England has been called in to work with local scientific experts in a bid to unlock the mystery of the body in the bog. DCI Rigston said, 'Until Dr Wilde has completed her investigations, there is nothing more we can say.'Jane almost choked on her sandwich. 'Look at that, Harry,' she said when she had recovered herself. She pointed to the penultimate paragraph.Before Harry could respond, a hand landed on each of their shoulders. A shaved head insinuated itself between theirs. 'What's so fascinating?' a familiar voice asked.Jane swivelled round to kiss Dan Seabourne's smooth cheek. 'Dan! What a lovely surprise. Harry didn't say you were coming.''Harry didn't know,' Harry said, a trace of acid in his tone.'My three o'clock cancelled on me, so I thought I'd sneak away and pick you up,' Dan said, ruffling his lover's hair.'Checking up on Harry and the new Italian chef, more like,' Jane teased. 'I knew we'd never get rid of you once you'd seen Giaco in his chef's whites.'Dan pretended to clutch his heart in shock. 'So insightful,' he sighed. Then he reached round her and grabbed a stool. 'Jane, I haven't seen you in a week. Are you hiding from me?'Jane groaned. 'It's the book. I'm supposed to have it finished by the end of the year and right now I think the only way I'm going to manage it is if Mephistopheles walks through the door with an offer I can't refuse. When I signed the contract, I thought it would be a piece of piss to turn my thesis into a book.' She snorted derisively. 'How wrong can one woman be?''Maybe you should get out of town for a while, get your head down and get it finished,' Dan said. 'I could cover your teaching for you.'Jane grinned. She and Dan were both sailors in the same boat; post-doctoral researchers, scrabbling for any teaching that might lead to the elusive grail of a permanent lecturing job, desperate to make an impression on their professor and to make ends meet. They should have been rivals, but a friendship dating back to undergraduate days forestalled that. 'And pick up my wages too? Nice try, Dan,' she teased, digging him in the ribs with her elbow. 'You have no scruples, you know that? You should be getting off your arse and writing a book of your own.'Dan spread his hands, feigning innocence. 'Hey, I'm just trying to help here. You could benefit from less distraction, right?'Harry pulled the paper towards him. 'From the looks of this, Fellhead's got distractions of its own.' He pointed to the article, passing it over to Dan. 'Death stalks the fells.'Harry and Jane carried on eating while Dan read the piece. 'Well, at least you wouldn't have to worry about a mad axeman on the loose,' he said. 'If this is a murder victim, his killer will have been in the ground almost as long.''Never mind murder,' Jane said, pointing to the penultimate paragraph. 'I'm more interested in his tattoos.''His tattoos?' Dan asked.'Black tattoos. What does that say to you?'Dan shrugged. 'Apart from David Beckham, nothing at all.''Eighteenth century, sailors, South Sea islands. Lots of them got native tattoos when they went there. Like Fletcher Christian.'Dan grinned. 'Your favourite rural legend.''What are you two on about?' Harry asked.'What do you know about the mutiny on the Bounty?' Bounty?' Jane said. Jane said.Harry shrugged. 'Mel Gibson. Very cute in those tight trousers.'Jane groaned. 'Good to see you were paying attention.''Hey, I'm only joking. I'm not just a bimbo, Jane,' Harry protested. 'I remember the bit where Mel stages the mutiny and casts the evil Captain Bligh adrift in an open boat then sets sail for Tahiti.''Very good, Harry. Except it wasn't actually Mel Gibson, it was Fletcher Christian who led the mutiny. And what I'm interested in isn't the mutiny as such, it's the aftermath. After Bligh made his epic voyage to safety and finally got back to London, the navy was alerted to look out for the mutineers and to bring them back to London for court martial. Years later, a group of them were found on Tahiti and shipped back. But the fate of Fletcher and the other hard-core mutineers remained a mystery for a long time. They actually ended up on Pitcairn Island with some of the native women and men and settled down there.'Harry nodded. 'Pitcairn...They had that child sex scandal a couple of years ago, didn't they?''Right. Featuring direct descendants of some of the mutineers. But that wasn't the first trouble in Paradise,' Jane said. 'Basically, there weren't enough women to go round. The official version is that the mutineers had a falling-out with the natives and there was a massacre. Supposedly Fletcher Christian was the first white man killed. End of story.''But...? I mean, there has to be a but, right? Otherwise you wouldn't be getting excited about some dead body with a bunch of black tatts,' Harry said.'This is Jane's fantasy bit,' Dan chipped in.Jane looked faintly uncomfortable. 'There's always been a rumour in the Lake District that Fletcher Christian didn't die on Pitcairn. That the massacre was just a cover-up. Somehow he managed to flee the island and make his way back to England, where he lived out the rest of his days hidden from justice by his family and friends. It was a pretty risky enterprise for everyone concerned. If Fletcher had been betrayed or discovered, he would definitely have been hanged for leading the mutiny. And so would anyone who had knowingly had contact with him without handing him over to the authorities.'Harry's expression shifted through surprise to incredulity. 'You're kidding, right? I mean, this is just gossip?''Like I said, it's Jane's favourite rural legend,' Dan said, lighting a cigarette.Jane shook her head, her long curls catching the light. 'It's not just gossip. John Barrow's book raises the question as far back as 1831.''As conspiracy theories go, you have to admit it's a goodie,' Dan said. 'Mr Christian staged a massacre and sailed off into the sunset. Oh no, wait a minute. How did did he get away, Jane? They burned the ship, didn't they?' he get away, Jane? They burned the ship, didn't they?'Jane leaned on the bar. 'They did. But the Bounty Bounty had two ship's jolly boats on board and they've never been satisfactorily accounted for. Also, there's the matter of the missing log.' She grinned. 'That's where you're supposed to say, "What missing log?"' had two ship's jolly boats on board and they've never been satisfactorily accounted for. Also, there's the matter of the missing log.' She grinned. 'That's where you're supposed to say, "What missing log?"'Dan inclined his head and held up his hands in mock astonishment. 'What missing log?''Fletcher Christian was an officer of the watch. He was accustomed to keeping a log. It would have been second nature to him.''Makes sense,' Harry said.'It would be extraordinary if there was no record kept of how they settled Pitcairn. There was no shortage of paper and pens. They were still using them years later in the school they set up for their kids. But the only documentary account ever seen was written by one of the other mutineers, Edward Young. And it doesn't start until after the massacre, which implies someone else was keeping notes until that point. Who else but Fletcher? If he'd died, it stands to reason that the journal would have survived him. But if he took to the sea...' Jane's voice trailed off.'He'd have taken it with him, right?' Harry concluded. She could see he was interested too, in spite of his perpetual assumption of cool. 'OK, I'll grant you that that's suggestive, if nothing else. But, as you say yourself, it's all circumstantial.''Not quite all of it. Let me tell you about Peter Heywood. He was one of the mutineers who came back. But unlike most of the others who were court-martialled, his family had the cash and connections to secure their blue-eyed boy a pardon. Instead of being hanged, he went on to have a glittering naval career. But the really interesting thing about Peter Heywood is that he was a distant cousin of Fletcher Christian. He grew up on the Isle of Man, where Fletcher spent a fair bit of his own youth. So, as well as sailing with him, Heywood was personally connected to Fletcher. He knew him well,' Jane said. 'And in 1809 or thereabouts, Peter Heywood saw Fletcher Christian in Plymouth.'Harry frowned. 'But Plymouth was a naval base, wasn't it? Surely he'd have had to have been insane to walk around Plymouth in broad daylight? Here's the most notorious mutineer in the history of the British navy. I mean, even somebody like me with no interest in history has heard of him. And according to you, here's a man who went to extraordinary lengths to stay out of harm's way after the mutiny, a man who'd be a cert for the hangman's rope if he'd ever been caught. And yet here he is taking an afternoon stroll in a city that's awash with naval officers and ratings. And who does he bump into but his old mucker Peter Heywood.' Harry spread his hands in the manner of a man making an unanswerable case. 'And even supposing it did happen, if Heywood and Christian were as close as you say, why would he admit to having seen Christian? It makes no sense.''He didn't admit it, Harry. Not publicly anyway. It never came out until after his death. And I can speculate,' Jane said, her voice mild. 'What if he'd arranged to meet Heywood then, at the last minute, Heywood couldn't disentangle himself from one of his colleagues? And when Fletcher saw Heywood wasn't alone, he took to his heels.'Harry shook his head. 'But why would Fletcher Christian leave Pitcairn in the first place? He was safe there, surely? Why throw that away?''I'm not so sure that he felt safe,' Jane said. 'It's clear there were deep divisions between the mutineers themselves as well as the problems with the native men. There's also some evidence that the other mutineers resented his authority as the only officer left among them. And he was a decent man, remember? Maybe he wanted to make his peace, like the Ancient Mariner. Maybe he wanted to explain why he'd been driven to mutiny in the first place,' Jane argued. 'Only, when he got back, he discovered that Bligh had not only survived, he'd become a hero thanks to his amazing navigation of the Pacific. Not to mention the fact that he'd had plenty of time to get his version of the mutiny out there. Whatever Fletcher's motives were for inciting the crew against Bligh, it was too late for him to make his case.''But what case could he have made?' Harry asked. 'Mutiny's mutiny, isn't it?''There was one defence to mutiny that Christian could have relied on,' Dan said.Harry's eyebrows shot up. 'Suddenly you're the expert on naval law?''No, but I do know something about the history of gay oppression, sweetheart,' Dan said. 'What if Christian alleged sodomy against Bligh? That was a hanging offence back then, wasn't it? If he could demonstrate that Bligh had forced him to have sex against his will, wouldn't that have mitigated the mutiny?' He paused, his brows furrowed, teeth gnawing his lower lip. 'Of course, he would have needed a third-party witness to make it stand up. Back then, because it was such an easy allegation to make and so hard to substantiate, the courts martial insisted on more than one man's word against another. And Christian must have known that.''Maybe there was a witness,' Jane said slowly. 'And maybe part of the reason Fletcher led the mutiny was to protect the witness...' her voice trailed off and she stared dreamily across the empty bar.'What do you mean?' Harry was still intrigued.Jane held up a finger, giving herself a pause to consider her position. 'Let's go back to Peter Heywood,' she said, her eyes focused inward as she searched through the knowledge she'd amassed over years of fascination. 'Fletcher had sailed previously with Bligh and it's on record that he was the captain's favourite. Same story during the Bounty's Bounty's voyage as far as Tahiti. Then Fletcher spends six months ashore, takes himself a native concubine...' voyage as far as Tahiti. Then Fletcher spends six months ashore, takes himself a native concubine...''Concubine, I love that word,' Dan said, rolling it on his tongue.'Anyway,' Jane said forcefully, 'when the ship leaves Tahiti, Fletcher doesn't want to go back to being Bligh's...''Catamite. That's the word you're looking for. Another lovely one,' Dan interrupted.'Whatever. And Bligh starts treating him like shit. And Fletcher's decision has also put him on the horns of a dilemma. He feels he owes a duty of care to young Peter Heywood, his kinsman. Because it was also well documented that Heywood was Bligh's second-favourite after Fletcher. So Fletcher wants to protect Heywood, but not at the expense of submitting again to Bligh.''And so he leads a mutiny, knowing he faces certain death if he's ever caught? All to protect the honour of Peter Heywood?' Harry sounded dubious.'Maybe he's also protecting himself,' Dan said. 'If Bligh had made a move on Heywood too, then he was Christian's witness. Then Christian could argue that mutiny was the only way to stop a sexual predator exploiting his crew far from their home port. Wouldn't that work?''It might, I suppose,' Harry said grudgingly. 'Man, you've changed your tune. You were the one calling this Jane's fantasy. Now you're defending her ideas and I'm the one not seeing evidence of anything except Jane's imagination.'Jane got to her feet and headed behind the bar to finish clearing up. 'That's my womanly powers of persuasion, Harry. And besides, you're wrong. There is something a little more concrete. The mutineers who ended up being court-martialled were the ones who asked Christian to take them back to Tahiti, Peter Heywood among them. Those guys never made it as far as Pitcairn. When the two groups were parting company, Fletcher took Heywood to one side. And when Fletcher said his private farewell to Heywood, he asked him to pass some information to the Christian family back home. But Heywood never disclosed what Fletcher had said. Why would he keep shtum, unless the message was something that would have been viewed as shameful, presumably to himself as well as to Fletcher? That something might have been Fletcher's underlying reason for the mutinyBligh's sexual abuse of Christian and Heywood.'Harry laughed out loud. 'Jane, you should be writing fiction, not criticism. Is this what passes for intellectual rigour in the English Department?' He joined her behind the bar, taking glasses from the dishwasher and replacing them on the shelves.Jane leaned on the counter and grinned. 'Maybe I should turn to fiction. And if I did, I'd start with William Wordsworth's lost epic''Wordsworth's lost epic?' Harry said, sounding bemused.'She's kept the best till last, Harry,' Dan said. 'This is the "woo-woo" moment. You're going to love this one.'Jane carried on regardless. '"Innocence and Corruption; the True History of the Mutiny upon the ship the Bounty Bounty in the South Seas." Or something similarly Wordsworthian.' in the South Seas." Or something similarly Wordsworthian.''Huh?' Harry said.'They were at school together, Harry. William Wordsworth, the Lakeland Laureate and head honcho of the Romantic poets, and Fletcher Christian, Bounty Bounty mutineer, were contemporaries at Hawkshead School. Fletcher's brother Edward was their teacher. He went on to become Professor of Law at the same Cambridge college where Wordsworth took his degree. And he represented the Wordsworth family in an important lawsuit. So who else would Fletcher choose to tell his version of events to but his old schoolfriend? The friend of his family who went on to become a famous man of letters. And even if he knew he could never publish it because of the potentially dire consequences, Wordsworth couldn't have ignored a story as big as that, could he?' mutineer, were contemporaries at Hawkshead School. Fletcher's brother Edward was their teacher. He went on to become Professor of Law at the same Cambridge college where Wordsworth took his degree. And he represented the Wordsworth family in an important lawsuit. So who else would Fletcher choose to tell his version of events to but his old schoolfriend? The friend of his family who went on to become a famous man of letters. And even if he knew he could never publish it because of the potentially dire consequences, Wordsworth couldn't have ignored a story as big as that, could he?'

Although I offered him no response, he continued to approach me. The man seemed entirely at ease as he made himself at home on the bench that sits nearby my work table. He stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles. 'Do you not know me yet, William?' 'Do you not know me yet, William?' he said, a note of amusement in his tone. As he spoke, he pushed his hat to the back of his head, allowing me to see his face fully for the first time. Many years had passed since I had last cast my gaze upon his countenance, but I knew him at once. The vicissitudes of time & experience had left their marks upon him, but they were not sufficient to blunt his essential characteristics. My suspicion turned to certainty & my heart leapt in my breast. he said, a note of amusement in his tone. As he spoke, he pushed his hat to the back of his head, allowing me to see his face fully for the first time. Many years had passed since I had last cast my gaze upon his countenance, but I knew him at once. The vicissitudes of time & experience had left their marks upon him, but they were not sufficient to blunt his essential characteristics. My suspicion turned to certainty & my heart leapt in my breast.

Tenille knew all about choices. She understood that although teachers loved to lay out their holier-than-thou shit about creating options for their pupils, deep down they believed that people like her didn't have choices. Not really. Not like the teachers and their own middle-class brats. In their hearts, they thought kids like Tenille were stuck without hope in the life they already had. So whatever their mouths might say, the way they acted shouted something different. The way they acted said, 'You're going to do drugs, go shoplifting, get pregnant in your teens and have a shit life on a scummy council estate till you die a premature death from smoking or drinking or drugs or deprivation. So why am I bothering trying to teach you anything?'But they were wrong. She did have choices, even though they weren't as obvious or as wide-ranging as most thirteen-year-olds'. But Tenille was damn sure she had more going for her than any of the rest of the no-hopers from the Marshpool Farm Estate. That was why she didn't hang out with the other truants. She wasn't interested in dodging the Attendance Officers or the security guards in the shopping malls and the amusement arcades. Joining the gangs shoplifting tatty clothes and cheap make-up held no charms for her. Not that she was above nicking stuff. Just not the crap that interested them. She couldn't imagine talking Aleesha Graham and her crew into raiding Waterstone's for books of poetry. Apart from anything else, you put them in a bookshop and they'd stick out like a three-piece suit in the mosh pit at a hip-hop gig. Just the thought of it made her roll her eyes back in her head and curl her lips in a sneer. Nor did she have any desire to spend her days holed up in some shithole of a flat watching nicked DVDs with a bunch of losers who just wanted to get out of their heads on weed or extra-strong cider and alcopops.It hadn't been so bad when Sharon had been unattached and working down the cafe. With her aunt safely out the door by ten, Tenille would sneak back indoors, curl up under her lumpy duvet and read until school kicked out and she could colonise one of the computers in the library to get online and hang out in chat rooms. There she could find other weirdoes who read poetry and wanted to talk about it. If she got desperate for the sound of another human voice, she would sneak downstairs and check out Jane Gresham's flat. If Jane was home, she'd usually let Tenille in to raid her bookshelves, and if she wasn't too busy, they'd sometimes sit drinking coffee and talking. Except when Jane got one on her and decided to deliver her lecture about how Tenille shouldn't be dogging it. Like anybody in that dumping ground called Marshpool Comprehensive was ever going to teach her anything that would make her life one single step easier.It was Jane who had told her about the chat rooms, even letting Tenille use her computer occasionally when Jane was reading and not needing the machine herself. Now they'd become Tenille's lifeline, providing her with a retreat where she could be the person she knew she was deep inside. By most people's standards, it wasn't much. But it was enough to allow a narrow chink of optimism into Tenille's life.But all that had gone to shit a few weeks before. It had started when Sharon had left the cafe to take a job in the works canteen of a local plastics factory. Instead of regular days, she was on shifts, so two weeks in three, Tenille lost a substantial chunk of her daytime sanctuary. That had been bad enough, though Tenille was resourceful and soon found ways around the problem. But then Sharon had found herself a new boyfriend.In the seven years she'd been in the nominal care of her aunt, Tenille had grown accustomed to the steady stream of unsteady men who pitched up at the flat for indeterminate lengths of time. She'd learned early to stay out of the way when they were around. Sharon didn't want her dead junkie sister's bastard putting them off, and she'd made it clear that Tenille should be neither seen nor heard when she was entertaining. So Tenille shut herself in her room for hours on end, tuning out the animal noises that seeped through the walls and under the door, sneaking out when the coast was clear to raid the fridge and kitchen cupboards for whatever she could find to kill the hunger that gripped her. Sometimes she felt like the invisible child, a phantom who slipped into the cracks and corners nobody else wanted to occupy. It wasn't a notion she enjoyed, but recently she'd begun to yearn for that invisibility.Of course, it had occurred to her before the arrival of Geno Marley in her life that there were distinct advantages to slipping under other people's radar. It made truanting and shoplifting so much easier. But as far as Sharon's boyfriends were concerned, she'd believed the only benefit she gained from remaining unnoticed was to avoid Sharon's wrath if she inadvertently got in the way of her aunt's love life. Although she knew in theory about men who preyed on kids like her, she'd never experienced it first hand. The kind of men who had been attracted to the overripe charms of her aunt had thus far shown no inclinations in her direction. After all, there was nothing childish about Sharon, a tough mixed-race woman who exuded a mature and knowing sexuality that promised the delights of experience rather than the temptations of innocence. She wasn't one of those women who fought a doomed rearguard action against time; Sharon accepted she was past the first flush of youth and understood that mutton can be a far tastier meat than lamb. And so her men tended to be those who wanted a woman who had a firm grasp of the pleasure principle.If she'd confined her neediness to the sexual dimension, Sharon's relationships would likely have lasted longer than they did. But so far she'd failed to find a man who could put up with the constant nagging demands of her insecurities for more than a few months. Tenille was accustomed to bearing the unreasonable blame for the departure of yet another browbeaten lover and, every time it happened, it reinforced her desire to stay out of the way next time.She hadn't been fast enough to avoid Geno Marley, mostly because she hadn't been expecting him. Usually, she was already safely closeted in her room when a new man tumbled into Sharon's bed for the first time. But Tenille hadn't factored shift work into her calculations. Sharon had been due to finish her shift that day at two, so Tenille had cleared out in good time. She'd been unlucky at the library that afternoon; a quartet of wrinklies had commandeered the computers and a greasy-haired grandson was teaching them the basics of websurfing. Like they were going to be downloading MP3s and hanging out in chat rooms any time soon, Tenille thought scornfully. She hung around for a while, but it was clear that grey power wasn't about to concede in the foreseeable future.She'd been surprised to return to an empty flat. Sharon should have been home two hours ago. Tenille assumed her aunt had gone shopping. Hell, she hoped so, because there was fuck all to eat or drink in the place. She'd turned on the TV and slumped on the sofa, too pissed off and hungry to read. The sound of the front door opening barely registered, but the sound of muffled giggling and the deep rumble of a man's voice set her senses on alert. She scrambled to her feet, ready for flight, but there was nowhere to run to.The living-room door opened on Sharon weaving in an unsteady shimmy, a man's arms locked around her waist, the silly smile of drink plastered on her face, her cafe-au-lait skin flushed scarlet. Seeing Tenille, a scowl wiped the cheerfulness from her face. 'Whatchu doing here?' she demanded.'I live here,' Tenille muttered.A face appeared over Sharon's shoulder, the expression a mix of curiosity and impatience. 'Who's this?' he said, a slur in his voice and the seeds of lechery in his smile.'My niece. I told you, remember?' Sharon was pissed off, there was no mistaking it.The man dropped his hands from Sharon's waist and sidestepped her so he could fully enter the room. Tenille recognised an expression she'd seen directed at others but not so far at herself, probably because the anonymous clothes she chose for the street hid rather than flattered her recently developed figure. But here in the privacy of her own home, she was stripped down to T-shirt and hip-hugging jeans. And this man was drinking it in as deep as Sharon had obviously drunk in some afternoon shebeen. Tenille didn't like it one little bit.'So, little niece, you got a name?' He stepped closer, one hand carelessly draped on Sharon's hip.'Tenille,' she muttered reluctantly.'Pretty name for a pretty girl.''What's yours?' Tenille demanded abruptly.He grinned, revealing a gold canine. 'I'm Geno,' he said. 'Like Geno Washington.'Tenille wondered if she was supposed to be impressed by a name she'd never heard before. She raised her eyebrows in a faint gesture of contempt. 'Who he, man?'He faked astonishment. 'You never heard of Geno? Girl, you know nothing. Geno was only the greatest soul singer this godforsaken country ever produced.'Sharon, impatient at so much attention directed away from her, butted in. 'Donchu got some shit of your own to be getting on with?' she said petulantly.Grateful for the chance to escape, Tenille edged nearer the door. But Geno wasn't for moving. Tenille had to go round him, Sharon moving to one side and kissing her teeth in irritation. Then she was free, out in the hall and suddenly aware of the heightened rhythm of her breathing.That had just been the start of it. Discomfort and unease attended Tenille whenever Geno was around and she couldn't make a quick getaway. Generally she managed to keep out of his way, but that was getting harder and harder as the weeks passed and it became clear he wasn't about to abandon Sharon any time soon. After three weeks, he had virtually moved in, always around when Sharon was there and sometimes hanging out even when she was at work. Tenille's life came to be lived more and more outside the flat; at Jane's when she could manage it, or on the windswept galleries and dank stairwells of the estate when she couldn't. She pretended even to herself that her actions were the result of choice; it was better than naming the fear she didn't want to acknowledge.But she couldn't kid herself for ever. Sharon had to do nights sooner or later, and when that week rolled around, Tenille felt no surprise when her aunt announced that Geno would be sleeping over to keep an eye on her. No surprise, just a hot spurt of fear in her stomach. 'I never needed no minder when you did nights before,' Tenille had protested.'You think it felt right, me leaving you on your own?' Sharon challenged.'I'm not a baby, I don't need no babysitter.''You still not legal alone, girl. It make me feel happier knowing there's somebody here with you.' Sharon gathered her make-up, shovelling it into the fake Louis Vuitton bag Geno had presented her with. He'd preened like a peacock while Tenille had looked on with contempt, knowing he'd picked it up on some market stall for buttons.'It never bothered you before. You been leaving me shut up in here since I was eight year old.''And I was wrong. Geno made me see that. He tol' me about bad things happening lately to girls round here.'Tenille shivered. 'Nothin' goan happen to me. I don't need Geno to protect me. I don't like Geno,' she tried desperately, feeling somehow ashamed to articulate what really bothered her about him.'He's a good man,' Sharon said. 'So donchu piss him off, you hear?' There was an air of finality in her voice that Tenille knew better than to argue with. She swept her coat off the chair and made for the door. 'He'll be round later. Donchu mess with his head. You hear me, girl?' she added, whirling round with a look of dark suspicious anger on her handsome face.Tenille scowled. 'I hear you,' she mumbled. The door had scarcely closed behind her aunt before she was on her feet, pulling on her own coat, throwing her MP3 player and a couple of books into her backpack and heading out into the early evening gloom. She made straight for Jane's flat, but the lights were out and her knock met with no response. Tenille thrust her hand in her pocket and fingered the uneven contours of the key. She'd 'borrowed' the spare from the kitchen drawer months before, had it copied and returned it before Jane even noticed its absence. But she was cautious about its use. It would only be an insurance policy for as long as Jane didn't know she had it. When that useless wanker Jake had still been on the scene, she'd never dared to sneak in, unsure of his comings and goings. She'd only chanced it a couple of times since, both occasions when she'd seen Jane off on the bus and known for sure she'd be at the Viking for the next four hours. Tonight, she had no idea where Jane was or when she'd return. It was too risky.With a sigh, Tenille turned away and trudged back to the stinking stairwell. A scatter of rain caught her in the face as she turned off the gallery and she swore under her breath. For once, she wished she didn't despise everyone in her peer group. Tonight, the idea of watching some stupid DVD with Aleesha Graham and her crew almost made her wistful. Tenille turned out her pockets. Enough for a couple of regular Cokes. If she carried on past the local Burger King to the one a mile or so away, the chances were there would be nobody she knew inside. With luck, it would be quiet enough for them to let her skulk in a corner for a few hours, nose in a book.Lost in Byron's Childe Harold Childe Harold, the time raced away, and Tenille was surprised when the skinny, acned counter boy leaned on his brush opposite her table and said, 'We're closing.' She grabbed her stuff and made for the door, checking her watch. Half past ten. And the rain had stopped, which meant she could dawdle home, hoodie pulled tight round her head against the wind.It was quarter past eleven when Tenille inched her key into the lock and opened the front door without a sound. She slid into the darkened hall silent as a shadow, her senses sharpened by the prickle of fear. A cone of faint flickering light spilled into the hall from the half-open living-room door. She could hear the muted drawl of American accents from the TV. Her nose screwed up in a grimace, identifying the sweet of dope smoke and the sour of beer. She risked a quick peek round the door frame. Geno lay sprawled on the sofa, legs apart, one hand lying along the inside of his thigh, the other dangling towards the floor. His head lay back against the greasy mock velvet, his mouth open, a trickle of drool glistening at one corner. Pissed and passed out Pissed and passed out, she thought, relief and contempt mingling satisfactorily.Tenille crept to her room and silently pulled her chest of drawers across the closed door. Without taking her clothes off, she slid under her lumpy duvet and eased herself to sleep with dark fantasies of a razor-sharp blade making a second red mouth in the invitingly exposed throat of Geno Marley.

'I know you, sir,' I said when I had overcome my surprise enough to speak. I told him that I had believed him either dead or else many hundreds of miles from these parts & that I had thought never to see him more. He said that he was as good as dead if any of His Majesty's men should clap eyes upon him & that he hoped he could count himself safe in my mercy. I gave him assurance that the good offices of his brother had placed me in his family's debt & that I would keep his confidences close in my own breast. He thanked me & shook. Me by the hand so that I could not fail to notice how yet he suffers the profound perspiration of the palms that so afflicted him as a boy & into his early manhood. Any-final doubts of mine were cast to the four winds at that pressing of the flesh.

Dr River Wilde tapped the end of her pen against the pad of paper on her desk. 'Look, I appreciate you're busy, but you're not the only one. I've been shunted from pillar to post today. I doubt you have any idea how many people are employed to keep the likes of me from talking to a man in your position. All I'm asking for is a decision. How hard can that be?'The voice on the other end of the phone sounded exasperated. 'I've already explained. To get a network commission, we have to jump through a series of hoops. I don't have the authority to make that sort of decision on the hoof.'River made a wicked grimace at the phone. 'Phil, you told me you're Head of Factual Programming for Northern TV. Surely that means you have some say over what appears on our screens?''I only have autonomy over a limited amount of regional programming. Anything else has to go through the process.'River tried to control her desire to shout at the man. She was gradually coming to realise that the bureaucracy of television made university administrators look like amateurs. She stabbed her pen savagely into the paper. 'But this won't wait. I need to begin work on the cadaver as soon as possible. I'm not asking for a fortune. I already emailed you a rough breakdown of costs.' He tried to interrupt but she bulldozed on regardless. 'Look, this is cheap telly, Phil. Cheap as chips. All you need is a camera crew. You shadow my investigation into the body. Your team is present at all the initial work. Trust me, the ambience is fantastic. I've made arrangements with the local funeral parlour to do most of the work on the body thereit's one of those wonderful old Victorian-style facilities, all mahogany and tiled walls, very Conan Doyle, very atmospheric, and a great contrast with all the modern stuff. You can film in the labs where the technical stuff gets done, no problem. You can film at the site where the body was buried. You get my expertise and top expertise from the other disciplines that we'll be bringing to bear on this cadaver, all at bargain basement prices. Come on, Phil. You know your viewers love this kind of thing. Reality TV meets the History Channel. Bog bodies don't turn up that often. And this one's got some really unusual featuresthose tattoos are remarkable. I'm convinced we're going to get some really fascinating stuff as we go along. This isn't some drunken local who fell into a bog. This is something special. I think we could be talking the South Seas. Just think how much more interestingand how much cheaperit will be to shadow the course of a real forensic investigation rather than relying on reconstruction all the time.' She squeezed as much reasonable persuasion into her voice as she could manage.'Dr Wilde, I agree that what you're proposing would make gripping viewing. But there's no way to short-circuit the commissioning process.'River snorted. 'What about those instant documentaries that get whipped out of the hat whenever there's some major disaster or political scandal? You find a way of circumventing protocol then.'Phil Toner sighed. 'A body in a bog in the Lakes isn't a matter of major national significance. Now, if you'd like to come in some time next week...''Not good enough. Look, Phil, why don't you go out on a limb and make the damn thing anyway? What's the worst outcome? You end up with a riveting regional series that's cost you next to nothing. And if it turns out as good as we both know it should, you can present the network with a great coup that cost peanuts. Come on, you know it makes sense.' She sensed the hesitation on the other end of the line. 'Phil, did I mention I'm bloody gorgeous? And that the camera loves me?' she added, a bubble of laughter in her voice.She was rewarded with a low rumble of mirth. 'Not to mention that you've come up with a great title. Let me think about it,' he finally said. 'I'll get back to you.''When?' River knew she had a reputation for bloody-mindedness; she preferred to think of it as tenacity.'Close of business today. I'll have an answer for you.''Thanks, Phil. I'll look forward to your call.' River put down the phone and punched the air. 'Yes!' She jumped to her feet and hurried out of the glorified cupboard the University of Northern England, in a rare display of wit, described as her office. Ten seconds later she was back through the door, grabbing a folder from her desk and almost running out again.She found her head of department peering dubiously at a human jawbone. Donald Percival was a man given to doubt. He distrusted certainty unless it was backed up with impeccable scientific data. His small mouth was permanently pursed in disapproval and River would have been prepared to swear that every time she entered his presence, his knitted brows grew ever more tortured. When she bounced into the lab, his shoulders seemed to hunch protectively around his artefact and he made her wait impatiently for a full minute before he turned his watery blue gaze on her. 'Good afternoon, Dr Wilde,' he said.'Marvellous news, Professor,' River said. 'It looks as if I've got Northern TV on board to make a documentary of the investigation into the Fellhead cadaver. That means we'll be able to go well beyond the basic work you've already granted me funding for.'Percival frowned. 'Television? Is that a good idea? Do we want the cameras looking over our shoulder as we work?'River brushed the objection aside with a sweep of her hand. 'They won't get in the way.''Is it sending the right message about this department to the wider world?''I think it's showing the wider world that we do this well. Which in turn means more outside projects coming to us, bringing money into the department,' River said, shrewdly going for the Achilles heel of all contemporary academics. 'More money means better equipment and more students,' she added, never one to shrink from over-egging the pudding. 'And as far as this project goes, it means we can afford full-body CAT scanning, stable isotope analysis, cemental annulation. The full bells and whistles. And we can get the palaeo-botanists and archaeological sciences people on board without them taking fright over their budgets. Just think of the benefit to the students of such cross-discipline teaching. Great practice for working in the field.'Percival looked peevishly at the jawbone, turning it over in his gloved hands. 'You're here to teach and research, Dr Wilde, not to use this department as a springboard for personal aggrandisement.'It was a low blow, but it told River that Percival couldn't come up with a decent professional objection to her proposal. She grinned. 'I'm not pitching to become the next telly don,' she said. 'What I care about is the work. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to serve the work best.'Percival gave a weary sigh. 'I know that, Dr Wilde. That is why I chose to employ you here. Very well. You may proceed with this. But make no firm agreement with these people until I have seen the terms and conditions of the arrangement.''Thank you, Professor,' River said, resisting the urge to punch the air again. 'You won't regret it.'He sighed again. 'Let's hope not. Now, before you rush off to make-up, perhaps you could cast your eyes over this.' He held out the jawbone to her in what she recognised as a gesture of reconciliation. 'I find myself somewhat puzzled by the nature of the wear on these molars.'***Her own work beyond her, Jane Gresham was attempting to bring her mind to bear on the undergraduate seminar she was supposed to be conducting the following week on the role of the pathetic fallacy in Romantic poetry. So devoid of inspiration had she been that she'd resorted to dredging the bound volumes of the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association for anything that might remotely help shape her session. She was engrossed in a particularly dull article about Coleridge's early work when Dan's head appeared over the top of her library carrel.'Thought I'd find you here,' he said, sounding faintly smug.'It's hardly rocket science,' Jane said repressively. 'Considering I always sit in the same carrel.'He came round the side of the partition and pulled a face when he saw what she was doing. 'My God. If PMLA comes, can despair be far behind?'Jane pushed the book away. 'It's already here.''So let me take you away from all of this and buy you a coffee.''I shouldn't, really. I need to prepare this seminar.'Dan raised his eyebrows and pulled down the corners of his mouth. 'Trust me, you'll feel better about it after a swift injection of caffeine and half an hour in my company.'Having put up the pretence of a fight, Jane stood up and pocketed her pen. 'I'm leaving my notes here,' she said, warning him that there were limits to the extent of her willingness to be distracted.Without further negotiation they walked out of the building and round the corner to the Bear and Staff. The pub served decent coffee and, unlike the student refectory, still allowed smokers to indulge their vice. Jane perked up as soon as Dan returned to their corner booth with two large mochas topped with a pyramid of whipped cream. 'You are such a bad man,' she teased.'I don't believe in half measures.''I don't know how you stay so slim,' Jane complained, eyeing the washboard stomach beneath the white T-shirt.'Lots of exercise, darling. And cigarettes. They kill the appetite, you know.''Not to mention those of us who have to put up with your smoke.' Jane took an appreciative sip of her drink, savouring the contrast between the cool cream and the hot brew beneath. 'Mmm. Just the ticket. So, Dan, why am I here?'He feigned an expression of innocence. 'Jane, I'm surprised at you. It's not like I've never invited you out for coffee before.'Jane rolled her eyes. 'You've never gone to the trouble of tracking me down in the library and hauling me off to the pub before. I've got work to get back to, so don't make me drag it out of you.' With a shrug he spread his hands in a gesture she recognised. Small boy playing the cute innocent card Small boy playing the cute innocent card, she thought. You're getting too old for that one, Danny Boy. You're getting too old for that one, Danny Boy.'What can I say? You nailed me, babe. Yes, I do have an ulterior motive.''Well, you better tell me what it is, because I don't have time to play twenty questions. Spill.'Dan smoothed his eyebrow in a gesture she found familiar from watching him in seminar groups. It was his way of buying time. 'What we were talking about the other dayChristian and Wordsworth? It's been kind of bugging me,' he said.'Bugging you how?''We've been friends for a long time now, Jane. I think I know you pretty well.' He nodded to himself for emphasis. 'I don't think I realised until the other day how much weight you place on the Fletcher Christian story. And I'd say, of all the people I work with, you are the least likely to be taken in by a baseless rumour.'Jane felt a sudden tension in her neck. 'Very flattering, Dan. But we've all got our blind spots. Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. Hugh Trevor-Roper believed in the Hitler Diaries. I believe in Wordsworth's lost epic. It's really not worth losing sleep over.''Good try, Jane, but no cigar. I don't believe you. I think there's more to this than you told me. And I want to help you.'Jane stared into her cup. She'd held this secret to herself for so long, there had been times when she had wondered if she had dreamed it. She'd told no one, not even Jake, in spite of the fact that she loved him and, if anyone could authenticate what she'd seen, he was the one. Or at least, he would know someone who could. And having denied it to Jake, how could she offer it to Dan? Though it was hard to deny that he might be helpful to her. His own postgraduate work on the linguistic congruences among the Lakeland Romantics could well help to verify anything she found as being typically Wordsworthian in its use of words and grammatical structures. Still, her reluctance held out. 'Please, Dan. Take my word for it.''Jane, look at me,' he said, his voice concerned and serious. She lifted her head. 'Dreams are for chasing. How are you going to feel if there is something to be found and somebody else finds it?'The question she had asked herself so many times. She pushed her curls back from her face and made a decision. 'How well do you know the Dove Cottage archive?'Dan looked surprised. Whatever he'd been expecting, she thought, that hadn't been it. 'I've done some research there, when I was doing the linguistic comparisons between De Quincey's early work and Wordsworth's prose. It's a vast archive. More than fifty thousand items, or something like that.''So many that it's never really been definitively catalogued. Anyway, they're about to open a new library and study centre, so a lot of the material has been boxed up waiting for the move. More or less inaccessible to anyone needing to study it.' Jane paused, shaking off the last traces of doubt.'So,' she continued, 'I wanted to look over some family letters and, typically, what I needed was packed away. But I've known Anthony Catto, the centre director, since I was at school. I worked there a couple of summers when I was an undergraduate. So I persuaded Anthony to let me go foraging. And in among all the stuff that I expected to find, I came across something that I'd never seen referred to anywhere in the literature.''Dramatic pause,' Dan said drily. 'Come on, Jane, you're killing me here.''It had been tucked into the wrong envelope, along with the letter that should have been there. I don't expect anyone had even noticed it. The letter it was with is of no particular significance, you see. It probably hadn't been touched for years.''Jane,' Dan said loudly.She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the image from her memory. 'It was a letter from Mary Wordsworth to one of her sons. John, I presume, since she refers to children but not a wife and John was a widower. "My beloved son, I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your father's hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit."' Jane opened her eyes and looked seriously at Dan. 'You see what that could mean?'Dan frowned. 'It could mean almost anything, Jane,' he said gently.'Well, no, Dan. William and Mary had an extraordinarily intimate marriage. They didn't have secrets from each other. Nevertheless, they were good at keeping secrets as a family. Look how long it was before the world got to know about William's affair with Annette Vallon and their illegitimate daughter. Whole generations went by and not a whisper of scandal emerged.''OK, OK, I grant you that. But all the same...'Jane swept on regardless. 'For William to have kept something from his wife, it must have been a really big deal. Life and death sort of stuff. That's one point. The other is the bit about how this matter closely touches the son. Now, John was married to Isabella Christian Curwen, who was the daughter of Henry Christian Curwen. And he was Fletcher Christian's cousin. By the time of Wordsworth's death, Isabella was dead. And the marriage had been a pretty miserable one for the most part. She was a spoiled little rich girl who enjoyed poor health. And I mean enjoyed. John had already suffered plenty at the hands of the Christian Curwens. I've racked my brains to come up with an alternative, but the only thing I can think of that explains both the secrecy and the possible occasion of pain for John is if I'm right and Fletcher not only came back but also told William the whole story.''It's still pretty tenuous,' Dan said. 'I mean, it could have been something discreditable about Isabella that William had found out about.'Jane looked disappointed. 'See, I told you it was just a bee in my bonnet,' she said shakily, trying to make light of it.'No, don't get me wrong. I think it's more than that. Whatever Mary was referring to, it's something nobody else has dealt with and that in itself is interesting from a scholarly point of view. I think you need to follow this up. And soon, Jane.''I've sat on it for more than a year now, Dan. It'll wait till I have some time to pursue it properly through the new archive.' She drained her coffee and pulled her coat round her, preparing to leave.'You think so?''Why wouldn't it?''Jane, you're the one who pointed out the bog body had what sounded like South Sea tattoos. What if that body does turn out to be Fletcher Christian? After we spoke the other day, I did some basic research online. And one of the things I read was that Fletcher was supposed to have set up as a smuggler after he came back. That's exactly the sort of career that could lead to a mysterious death out on the fells. It really could be him. And if it is, the whole world and his wife will be all over every Lakeland archive. And it'll be too late. Somebody else will have stolen your dream.' He gripped her hand tightly. 'You need to move fast. And you need help. Help with expertise. And that would be me.'

'I knew I could place my trust in. You, Willy,' he said. he said. 'My brother spoke of your kindness in defending me against those calumnies published against me in the public prints.' 'My brother spoke of your kindness in defending me against those calumnies published against me in the public prints.' Indeed, I had written to the Editor of the Indeed, I had written to the Editor of the Weekly Entertainer Weekly Entertainer denouncing the pack of lies that had been published under my old friend's name, as a personal kindness to his brother Edward. denouncing the pack of lies that had been published under my old friend's name, as a personal kindness to his brother Edward. 'How came you to be here?' 'How came you to be here?' I asked him. He said it was a long tale & one that he would be happy to share with me. I asked him. He said it was a long tale & one that he would be happy to share with me. 'There, have, been vile lies spread about me & I would have the truth told. I can think of no man better fitted to render my story fit for the public than you, my old friend.' 'There, have, been vile lies spread about me & I would have the truth told. I can think of no man better fitted to render my story fit for the public than you, my old friend.' I will confess I found myself astonished at the notion of becoming his amanuensis, but the more I pondered, the more it seemed to me a fitting subject for verse. The composition of my long Poem on my life has given me a taste for the epic over the lyric, & epic this tale will surely be, encompassing as it must the best and worst of man's nature. I will confess I found myself astonished at the notion of becoming his amanuensis, but the more I pondered, the more it seemed to me a fitting subject for verse. The composition of my long Poem on my life has given me a taste for the epic over the lyric, & epic this tale will surely be, encompassing as it must the best and worst of man's nature.

Jake Hartnell paused for a moment in the warm shade under the corrugated portico of Koutras's mini-market, hefting the heavy plastic bags in one hand. It had been three weeks since he'd left England, three weeks since he'd heard a news broadcast or read anything beyond a casually glimpsed headline in a British newspaper. The sun might have darkened his olive skin to the point where he could almost pass for a southern Mediterranean native, but he knew differently. Catching sight of the familiar mastheads, he felt a sudden unexpected stab of homesickness.He crossed the narrow road and dumped the shopping in the back of the open 44, then walked back to the rack of foreign-language newspapers. He reckoned the papers would be a few days out of date, but cast adrift as far as he was, it made no odds. He pulled The Times The Times and the and the Guardian Guardian out of their slots and went back into the chill air conditioning to pay the extortionate prices the overseas editions commanded, then set off on the short drive back with a curious lightening of the spirit. out of their slots and went back into the chill air conditioning to pay the extortionate prices the overseas editions commanded, then set off on the short drive back with a curious lightening of the spirit.When Caroline Kerr had invited him to escape from London to her place on Crete, he'd imagined a sumptuous villa complete with terrace and olive grove, in spite of her use of the qualifier 'little'. After all, her London home was a three-storey house five minutes' walk from Hampstead Heath, exquisitely furnished with the sort of antiques that quietly stated their viewer was in the presence of money old enough to have taste as well. Besides, people of her class never boasted about what they had. Their 'little' places in the country were generally massive Georgian rectories or cottages whose sizes had been trebled over the passage of time. So his expectations had been high.The twenty-minute drive from the airport across the burnt red and dusty sage green of the Akrotiri peninsula had promised little, but when the turquoise sea came into view, his heart had lifted. Caroline had barrelled the 44 down a steep road past a tiny white chapel carved into a rock escarpment to a half-moon beach dominated by a wooden taverna with tables spread over the sand. She'd stopped abruptly behind the taverna to pick up her keys. Jake had looked around, appreciatively noting the presence of several imposing houses in the hinterland of the bay, wondering which would play host to his new life in the sun.To his surprise, Caroline had driven past the houses, up a track by a small concrete boat slip to a trio of cottages perched on a narrow ridge overlooking the bay and the wider sea beyond. 'Here we are,' she'd said with a tone of deep satisfaction. Jake could hardly hide his disappointment as he followed her across a small paved patio into the tiny interior. He hadn't walked away from his life for this, he heard himself curse inside his head. The door opened straight into a small living room, furnished with a couple of armchairs, a plain table with four dining chairs and an expensive sound system. Along one wall was a rudimentary kitchensink, fridge, oven, hob, two cupboards and a work surface. The cool tiled floor was bare of rugs. On a shelf above an open fireplace a group of small Minoan figures clustered. They were the only decoration in the room. Caroline made a soft noise of satisfaction. She crossed the room in a few strides and opened one of the two doors leading off. 'This is the bedroom,' she said. 'Just dump the bags in there.'It was another plain room, dominated by a wide, carved wooden bedstead. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling. The only other furniture was a simple wardrobe. All that lifted it above the most basic backpacker accommodation was a pair of magnificent silk Bokhara rugs, one on either side of the bed. Christ, he thought, this was a scant step above bloody peasant life. Jake had dropped their suitcases on the floor and returned to the living room. Caroline gestured to the other door. 'The bathroom,' she said. 'A little better than primitive Greek, I think you'll find.'Curious, he'd opened the door. He knew from Caroline's London house that she was serious about her ablutions, but he'd experienced Greek plumbing before and had no high hopes. To his astonishment, he found himself in a smaller replica of the Highgate master bathroom. Marble floors, a deep bathtub, a two-person shower cubicle, twin washbasins; all the luxury modern design could provide. 'Bloody hell,' he said, backing out. 'How did you manage that?'Caroline tossed her dark blonde hair away from her face in a familiar gesture of indifference. 'Contacts, darling, contacts.' She walked into the bedroom and unfastened her suitcase. 'Clean clothes, then a very big drink.'Sounded good to Jake. 'It's wonderfully simple,' he said, following her lead and raking through his case for some shorts. 'But how on earth do we work here?'Misunderstanding, Caroline laughed. 'I know. It's so tempting. The sea, the beach, the taverna. It's hard, but I have to remind myself that the only way I can justify spending two months a year here is to keep the wheels turning.''No, I meant practically. You don't have a computer, a fax, a phone line as far as I can see.'Caroline straightened up, shorts and T-shirt in her hand. 'Honestly, Jake, you're so twentieth century sometimes. Laptop, Blackberry, wireless internet connectionthat's all I need. I get the auction catalogues online, and if there's anything I want to bid for, I do it by phone. And I have good contacts locally who keep an eye out for anything they think might interest me. Believe me, there's some extraordinary stuff to be had over here. Wonderful illuminated texts from the monasteries, beautiful sheet music from the Middle Ages that is so lovely one wants to weep. I promise you won't be disappointed with what we find on this trip. It never fails to astonish me. Reminds me of the sheer joy of having this wonderful stuff passing through my hands. You'll see.''I thought they were pretty strict about antiquities not leaving the country?' Jake asked idly as he stripped off jeans sticky from the plane and the drive.'They are. But there are always ways,' she said, her tone repressing further questions.He'd realised by now what she meant by that. For someone whose principal business lay in the buying and selling of bits of paperholograph letters, manuscripts ancient and modern, illuminated sheet musicit was easy to send irregularly acquired material back to the UK. As long as the envelope looked like an innocuous piece of business posta brochure for a villa, say, or a prospectus for a new commercial developmentnobody in the Greek or British post office was going to look twice at it. 'In a dozen years of doing this, I've only lost one item in the mail,' Caroline had told him matter-of-factly the first time they'd visited the main post office in Chania. 'And it wasn't especially valuable. People only take an interest if you start dressing it up as recorded delivery and insuring it. Otherwise, it gets taken for granted.'Their days had quickly assumed a pattern. They'd sleep late then Jake would drive up to Horafakia for fresh bread, fruit and yoghurt. Breakfast on the terrace, then down to the beach for a swim. Sometimes they'd go into Chania so Caroline could meet one of her Greek contacts who would occasionally produce some piece of work that would take his breath away; otherwise, Caroline would write emails and make phone calls while Jake read auction catalogues or lounged in the sun with a book. From time to time, they would immerse themselves in a manuscript, discussing the hand of the scribe, the likely origins and, finally, its potential value. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he was learning from Caroline. Lunch at the taverna was followed by sex and sleep then drinks and backgammon. In the evenings, they'd drive out for dinner. The day would end with another bout of sexual activity. Jake was gradually beginning to understand why Caroline preferred younger lovers; men of her own age, he'd been led to believe, generally didn't have the stamina to meet her demands. Not that he minded. He enjoyed sex and she was an enthusiastic and imaginative partner.What he did mind was the worm of boredom that was working its way to the surface of his mind more and more frequently. Like most men in their late twenties, he'd fantasised about a life like this. Sun, sea, sex and a sugar momma to pay for it all. Caroline was a sardonically amusing companion, never clingy, seldom anything other than equable in temper and open-handed with her knowledge. But still dissatisfaction niggled at Jake.It wasn't that he felt guilty. He'd convinced himself he was right not to tell Jane the whole truth about Caroline. It would only hurt her. Instead, he'd explained that there were good practical reasons why he and Jane should loosen the bonds of their relationshiphe'd have to travel for work, he'd be away in Greece for a couple of months, it wouldn't be fair on Jane to hang around waiting for him. He'd said that Caroline was in her early forties, but had omitted to mention her lean, lithe frame, her shapely legs, her swatch of dark blonde hair or her dancing green eyes. Or that sex with Caroline had been a breathtaking adventure, right from the first cocaine-fuelled fuck at Tom D'Arblay's party. The party Jane had had to miss because she was giving a paper at some stupid bloody symposium in Cardiff.He'd thought it was a one-shag stand. Nobody had been more surprised than he when Caroline had texted him the next day to suggest they meet for a drink. Over cocktails in a chic Soho bar, Caroline had been bright and brilliant, showing him an autograph letter from John Keats that she'd bought only that afternoon. Then she'd put a proposition to him. She was tired of being a one-woman band. She wanted an associate in her business buying and selling rare documents. He was, she said, the one she wanted. He knew enough of the technical aspect of what they would be buying and selling to avoid the pitfalls of obvious forgeries and faked provenances. He was clearly smart and ambitious. 'And you're a pretty good fuck too,' she'd added, smiling wickedly over the rim of her glass.She'd given him a week to think it over. He'd made his decision by the next morning. His boss had been furious, Jane had been appalled at his abandoning the supposed purity of museum life for the cut-throat world of collectors and high rollers, and his father had warned him about what happens when beautiful women get bored. None of it had mattered. For the first time in a long time, Jake was having fun. Crete had merely seemed the icing on the cake.Until reality had replaced the fantasy and he found himself bored for the first time since the age of thirteen.Jake drew up outside the cottage. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, wondering whether Caroline would read the meaning in the newspapers. He grabbed the shopping and added the contents of his bags to the food already arranged on the patio table. Caroline emerged with a jug of freshly squeezed juice just as he slumped into a chair, clutching the papers like a shield in front of his chest.A smile quirked one corner of her mouth. 'Well done, Jake,' she said, filling the tumblers.'What?''You held out longer than anybody else I've ever brought here. Three weeks and two days. That's a record.' She leaned over and kissed him, rumpling his hair with one hand and running the other over the front of his shorts.'You don't mind?' Jake said, wrong-footed.'Why would I mind? I'm not an ostrich. I'm not here to escape.' She slid elegantly into her chair and tipped her sunglasses from her hair to cover her eyes. 'I'm here because I love it and it's possible for me to be here without fucking up my life or my business. The only reason I don't have you buy a paper every morning from Koutras is that I read the bloody things online, sweetie.'They settled into their papers, Jake smarting at Caroline's condescension. He was beginning to wonder how seriously she took his expertise; too often, he was left feeling like a gigolo, appreciated only for his bedroom skills and not for the quality of his mind. He was only half taking in what he was reading, but when his eyes stumbled over a familiar name he stopped short and returned to the beginning of the story. 'Fuck me,' he breathed softly.Caroline glanced up. 'I rather thought I had,' she teased. 'What is it, darling?'Jake shook his head. 'Nothing, really.' He passed the paper across the table, pointing to the story. 'It's just that I know the place where it happened.'Caroline skimmed the story. 'Fellhead,' she said, her voice clipped and her face unreadable. 'Would that be where the lovely Jane hails from?'Neither of them had spoken much of their past by tacit agreement, but Jake had mentioned spending time in the Lakes with Jane when Caroline had been thinking of buying a bundle of Robert Southey's letters. 'That's right,' he said. Then he grinned. 'I hope she's seen that story.''Why? Because Fellhead doesn't hit the headlines often?''No...' He leaned across and pointed to the penultimate paragraph. 'Because she'll be convinced this is evidence of one of her hare-brained theories.''I don't understand,' Caroline said in a tone that indicated this was seldom her chosen state.'The black tattoos. They're the sort that sailors used to get in the South Seas back in the old days when sailing ships put in at the islands to take on stores and trade with the natives,' Jake explained. 'For example, most of the sailors on the Bounty Bounty had tattoos done while they were in Tahiti collecting the breadfruit they were supposed to be bringing home.' had tattoos done while they were in Tahiti collecting the breadfruit they were supposed to be bringing home.''What an arcane piece of knowledge.''Jane lectured me so often on her pet theory that it stuck.' Jake leaned back in his chair, pleased to be in the driving seat for once. 'She believes that Fletcher Christian didn't die on Pitcairn. That he came back to the Lakes where he was sheltered by his family. It's a rumour that's been going the rounds up there for the best part of two hundred years.''Amusing,' said Caroline. 'And amazing how urban legends sprang up even before the urban sprawl itself.'He grinned, sharing her enjoyment. 'But Jane has taken it one step further. That's the hare-brained part. She's convinced that, if Christian came home, he would have been burning to tell his story, to set the record straight.''She's probably right,' Caroline said, languidly reaching for her cigarettes and lighting up. 'In his shoes, who wouldn't want to get their side of the story out there?''Well, Jane believes that he looked up his old schoolfriend William Wordsworth and told him his version of events. And that William wrote it all down as a long narrative poem, which of course he could never publish without dire consequences for himself and for the entire Christian family.'Caroline was sitting up straight now, yanking her sunglasses off and fixing him with a hard stare. 'Fletcher Christian was at school with Wordsworth?' she demanded.'Apparently. Jane says that part of the story is incontrovertible fact. But the rest of it is rumour, gossip and Jane's fantasy.''Jake, do you have any idea what such a poem would be worth, supposing it really existed?' Suddenly, the cloak of Crete had fallen back to reveal the sharp London dealer that he had first met.He frowned, uneasy and wrong-footed. 'I'd never given it any thought. A hundred thousand?'Caroline shook her head in disbelief. 'At least ten times that. Probably more. I'd estimate between one and two million, depending on how long the poem is.'Jake whistled. 'Pity it's not for real,' he said firmly.Caroline stared at him with an unreadable expression. 'How do you know it's not for real?'Jake spluttered. 'There's no evidence that it exists. That it ever existed. Just Jane's crazy idea.''That would be the same Jane who is a Wordsworth scholar?' Caroline said, acid behind the sweetness.'Yes, but...''So she presumably knows what she's talking about.''You can't be taking this seriously,' Jake protested, anger simmering below the surface as he felt himself being dismissed yet again.'You're at the start of your career in this business, Jake. Can you afford not to take it seriously?'

I told him I was willing to consider his request favourably, except that I feared there would be unpleasant consequences if I were to publish such an account. 'You are, a wanted man & if I were to claim for my Poem the name of truth, I would be tarred with the same brush. Harbouring a known felon is an offence against His Majesty and I should be loath to deprive my wife of a husband and my children of a father even to defend the honour of an old friend such as you. Further, it would incite a manhunt against you in this place where you feel most safe.' 'You are, a wanted man & if I were to claim for my Poem the name of truth, I would be tarred with the same brush. Harbouring a known felon is an offence against His Majesty and I should be loath to deprive my wife of a husband and my children of a father even to defend the honour of an old friend such as you. Further, it would incite a manhunt against you in this place where you feel most safe.' This was not a concern that had occurred to my friend, but he was quick to see its force. This was not a concern that had occurred to my friend, but he was quick to see its force. 'It is not for myself that I care what is said, but for my family,' 'It is not for myself that I care what is said, but for my family,' he said. At length, we agreed that if I were to forge a Poem from his tale nobody should be made privy to it until we both were dead. Thus would we protect ourselves and clear his reputation in one fell swoop. he said. At length, we agreed that if I were to forge a Poem from his tale nobody should be made privy to it until we both were dead. Thus would we protect ourselves and clear his reputation in one fell swoop.

Professor Maggie Elliott looked over the rimless glasses perched on the end of her nose. 'It seems to me, Jane, there are two discrete elements here. One is the letter from Mary Wordsworth which alludes to something that, as far as we can tell, has not been elucidated by any other scholar. The second is the discovery of a body in the Lake District which may or may not have tattoos typical of the South Sea Islands during the period of the mutiny on the Bounty. Bounty. Would you agree with that analysis?' Would you agree with that analysis?'Jane shifted slightly in her seat. 'Well, yes.''But you have it in mind that these two elements could be inextricably woven together? Based on little more than a rumour you heard as a child?''A rumour that has persisted for the best part of two hundred years,' Jane said, a cast of stubbornness settling on her face.'But a rumour nonetheless.'Jane hated the way Professor Elliott assumed the pedantry of an Oxbridge don in spite of having acquired all three of her degrees at redbrick universities. Given her age, she should be a laid-back egalitarian, not some fogey acting twenty years older than her age and several gradations above her class. 'A rumour that is backed by a significant amount of circumstantial evidence,' she said, determined not to be worn down. 'As I outlined to you. And there is one other detail...'Professor Elliott raised her eyebrows interrogatively. 'Yes?''The notebooks of Samuel Taylor Coleridge are in the British Museum and one of them contains the entry: "Adventures of Christian, the mutineer". The same notebook he was using during the period when he composed The Ancient Mariner. The Ancient Mariner. And when you read the poem in that light, it's not hard to spot links to the And when you read the poem in that light, it's not hard to spot links to the Bounty's Bounty's voyage.' voyage.''Such as?''The terrible storms they endured going round the Cape. The way they were driven south towards the ice before making it through into the South Seas. And the albatross. It's a matter of record that the Bounty's Bounty's crew shot and ate albatross during their voyage. As far as I know, there was no superstition attached to killing those particular birds at that time. But for his poem to work, Coleridge had to invent a metaphor for sin. And killing a beautiful wandering bird suited his romantic soul right down to the ground.' Jane's hands wove a sensuous pattern in the air as she described the bird. 'However, what we also know from contemporaneous accounts is that it was Wordsworth who came up with the idea of the albatross on one of their walks together. I don't think it's reaching to suggest that the notion had already been planted in his mind by what he knew of the crew shot and ate albatross during their voyage. As far as I know, there was no superstition attached to killing those particular birds at that time. But for his poem to work, Coleridge had to invent a metaphor for sin. And killing a beautiful wandering bird suited his romantic soul right down to the ground.' Jane's hands wove a sensuous pattern in the air as she described the bird. 'However, what we also know from contemporaneous accounts is that it was Wordsworth who came up with the idea of the albatross on one of their walks together. I don't think it's reaching to suggest that the notion had already been planted in his mind by what he knew of the Bounty.' Bounty.'Professor Elliott shook her head. 'Your timing's wrong, surely. Coleridge was working on The Ancient Mariner The Ancient Mariner when he and Wordsworth were in Dorset. It's much too early for Fletcher Christian to have been back in England. And certainly there's no reason to suppose he was in Dorset.' when he and Wordsworth were in Dorset. It's much too early for Fletcher Christian to have been back in England. And certainly there's no reason to suppose he was in Dorset.'Jane nodded. 'I'm not suggesting Wordsworth knew the story at first hand from Fletcher at that point. But I think it's indicative of an existing interest in the mutiny. And in Edward Christian he had the perfect source to satisfy his curiosity. Edward would almost certainly have heard about the killing of the albatross from the mutineers who were brought back or from Bligh's accounts. It's exactly the sort of detail that would have struck Wordsworth. And if William had already shown an interest in the mutiny, all the more reason why Edward would send Fletcher to him when he finally came home.'Professor Elliott gave a smile that was hard not to take as condescension. 'That is even more tenuous a theory than this putative concatenation of body and letter. What leads you to the belief that there is some urgency attached to the exegesis of the letter?'In the three hours since she had left Dan, Jane had taken the opportunity to marshal her arguments. 'It's not just the body that makes the matter more urgent. The Jerwood Centre is about to open at the Wordsworth Trust. Sooner rather than later, every scrap of paper in that archive is going to be scrutinised, and it's likely that whoever comes across that letter from Mary will know enough about what they're looking at to realise it needs to be followed up. I found that letter. I want to be the one who gets on the trail of whatever it means.'Professor Elliott sighed. 'This can scarcely be news to you, Jane. You say you encountered this letter a year ago. Why did you not pursue it earlier? During the long vacation, say? Why wait till term has begun and you have a teaching load?'Jane could feel anger rising and tried to keep her voice level. 'Maggie, it may have escaped your notice, but I don't earn enough from my teaching here to support myself. I spent a large part of the summer working behind a bar and the rest of it trying to turn my thesis into a book for which I have miraculously got a publishing contract. But even supposing I had had the time to follow this up, much of the Wordsworth archive has been inaccessible because of the renovations and building work. I couldn't have done anything about it even if I had wanted to. Yes, the body does add urgency in my mind, but it's far from the only consideration.'Her department head smiled, this time without any air of patronage. 'I do appreciate that, Jane. Believe me, if I could find a way to pay you and your fellow teaching assistants more, I would do it. I fully understand the negative impact it has on your research. And in spite of the conclusion you appear to have leapt to, I do not discount the potential significance of the bog body. If it proves to be that of Fletcher Christian, or indeed any other of the Bounty Bounty crewmen, it would increase exponentially the chances of there being a manuscript such as you posit.' She pulled her computer keyboard towards her and flashed Jane a look over the top of her glasses. 'Strange though it may seem to you, I do remember the excitement of academic discovery. It hasn't been entirely subsumed by the weight of departmental administration.' She clicked her mouse and studied the screen. 'You're teaching two seminars a week, and you're supervising three students, is that right?' crewmen, it would increase exponentially the chances of there being a manuscript such as you posit.' She pulled her computer keyboard towards her and flashed Jane a look over the top of her glasses. 'Strange though it may seem to you, I do remember the excitement of academic discovery. It hasn't been entirely subsumed by the weight of departmental administration.' She clicked her mouse and studied the screen. 'You're teaching two seminars a week, and you're supervising three students, is that right?''That's right. But'Professor Elliott raised a finger to demand silence as she navigated her way around the departmental timetable. 'Let me see,' she drawled.'Dan Seabourne has volunteered to take over my teaching load for a couple of weeks, provided we can rejig the timetable so the two seminars are on the same day.' Jane risked interrupting the process.Eyebrows raised across the desk. 'Really? How unlike him to burden himself with more work.'Jane grinned. 'He's not as lazy as he sometimes looks. It's just that he hasn't quite figured out where he's going next, workwise.'Professor Elliott harrumphed. 'And you're confident he has the expertise in your area to manage the work?''I think so. They're undergraduate seminars. It's not that hard to stay one step ahead of the group. Not these days, with seminars the size lectures used to be,' Jane added with a tang of acerbity.'Again, not something over which I have a deal of control,' Professor Elliott said. She studied the screen again. 'That should be manageable. Very well. Mr Seabourne it is. I'll email him to make sure he knows when and where he is supposed to be. You have' she glanced at the timetable again'two weeks and three days before you need to present yourself for duty. I trust that will be long enough.'Jane got to her feet. 'If I've not started to make some headway by then, it's not going to be susceptible to easy unravelling.''And if you have?'Jane reached for her bag. 'Then I might be back here begging.'Professor Elliott gave her a sharp look. 'I do hope not. I don't want your record looking like that of someone who is not committed to the department. One never knows when cuts will be demanded.'It was, Jane thought as she walked down the dingy corridor, the nearest she was ever likely to get to a wholehearted endorsement from Maggie Elliott. It wasn't exactly an enthusiastic encouragement to get cracking and find what she was looking for, but it was a damn sight better than nothing.Dusk had already fallen over the towering fells and dark waters of the Lake District when the hearse pulled up at the discreet rear entrance of Keswick Memorial Hospital. The doors swung open to reveal a black body bag on a hospital trolley, a porter at one end. River Wilde supervised the loading of the precious cargo into the hearse then arranged to meet the undertaker's men back at the funeral parlour.We make a pretty strange cortege, she thought to herself as she eased the bulk of her Land Rover out of its car park space and into the wake of the hearse. Talk about the odd couple. A body with no one to mourn it and a forensic anthropologist who wants to steal all its secrets. A limo and a Landie. Hell, I could just have loaded the body in the back and not bothered the guys from Gibson's.It would have been much simpler to have left the body in situ in situ at the hospital, but the administration had been adamant that their mortuary was for the use of the recently dead, not those who had been in the ground long before the hospital had even been dreamed of. She had reminded them that they had already agreed to rent her time on their equipment, which would mean bringing the body back, 'like a large and inconvenient parcel,' but they were not to be moved. Unlike Pirate Peat, as she had privately dubbed him. She wondered if that was the sort of human touch the TV team would appreciate. at the hospital, but the administration had been adamant that their mortuary was for the use of the recently dead, not those who had been in the ground long before the hospital had even been dreamed of. She had reminded them that they had already agreed to rent her time on their equipment, which would mean bringing the body back, 'like a large and inconvenient parcel,' but they were not to be moved. Unlike Pirate Peat, as she had privately dubbed him. She wondered if that was the sort of human touch the TV team would appreciate.She was feeling pretty pleased with herself. An hour before, Phil Toner had called to say he had decided to go ahead with the project. A researcher would be with her in the morning to discuss the schedule and arrange filming. Not only that, but they'd also accepted her figures at face value and agreed to the fee she'd suggested. She pulled a rueful face. 'You sold yourself too cheap, girl,' she muttered under her breath. But at least she would be able to afford all the techniques required to paint the fullest picture possible of her mystery man. It was an unusual luxury, since the practical side of her job normally involved the minimum required to identify human remains. Mostly, her work was about bringing closure to the living; the relatives of soldiers, of civilians lost in massacres, of victims of natural catastrophe, of climbers lost on mountains, of bodies buried in shallow graves. Identity was all. This, however, would be a different matter altogether. This was about unravelling one man's story. Identification would be a bonus.She followed the hearse into the car park behind the imposing Victorian villa that housed Gibson's Funeral Services and waited patiently while the men shifted the body on to a trolley then wheeled it inside to the embalming room. According to Andrew Gibson, the thirty-something great-great-grandson of the first Gibson, it had been installed when the house had been built in 1884 and little had changed since except for the installation of more modern plumbing. The walls were white, brick-shaped tiles, the faint craquelure of age lending them warmth. The embalming tables were solid mahogany, their original ceramic liners replaced with stainless steel. The counter-tops and the cabinets were all of the same wood. Through their glass doors she could see beakers and measuring 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 1970schecked 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 The Prelude is an astonishing poetic achievement, but it's also an early example of outrageous spin doctoring. It was Dorian Grey in reversethe more time stripped William of his youth and powers, the more glossy is an astonishing poetic achievement, but it's also an early example of outrageous spin doctoring. It was Dorian Grey in reversethe more time stripped William of his youth and powers, the more glossy The Prelude The Prelude became.' 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 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. & 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?' '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. 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 of strength she possessed. That was shock enough to restore Jane to something approximating a normal state of awareness. In all the time she'd known Tenille, she'd seen her angry, frustrated, smarting under injustice, defiant and outraged. She'd never seen her anywhere near the verge of tears. She'd also never seen her look so young. Her eyes were wide, but the rest of her face seemed to have shrunk round the bones. The prettiness that threatened future beauty was in abeyance, replaced with a taut fragility.Jane crossed the room and squatted down next to Tenille. She put a cautious arm round her shoulder. Physical contact wasn't something they did usually, but she'd worried needlessly. Tenille slumped against her, body rigid. Jane said nothing, just let her free hand rhythmically stroke the girl's arm. Then suddenly the barriers broke. Tenille burrowed into her side like a lamb butting up against its mother and the crying began. It started as a quiet weeping, then rose to a desperate, gulping sobbing that shook them both under its force.Jane felt completely at a loss. She couldn't remember any adolescent trauma that had reduced her to this state. She'd shed her share of tears, but never in this abandoned, helpless way. She found herself mouthing the traditional platitudes'there, there,' and 'it's OK, Tenille, you're OK with me.' But they seemed helpless against this tide of anguish.At last, the terrible sobs subsided and Tenille pulled away, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. Her eyelids were swollen and she was breathing hard through her mouth. 'I'm sorry,' she said thickly.'It's OK. That's what friends are for,' Jane said, despising herself for finding nothing but cliche. 'You want to tell me what all that was about?'Tenille looked away. 'You was out last night,' she said accusingly. 'I came round, but you was out.''I went clubbing with some friends,' Jane said.'So I went back down the flat. I didn't want to, because I knew he'd be there, but you was out so I didn't have no choice.''Who was there?' Jane wondered if the drink had induced short-term memory loss. She seemed to be missing crucial logical steps in the conversation.'Geno.' Tenille spat the word as if trying to rid her mouth of a bad taste.'Sharon's boyfriend?' The cold hand of apprehension took hold of Jane's chest.'Sharon's fucking bastard boyfriend.'Oh shit, oh no, oh shit. 'Wasn't Sharon there?''Sharon's on nights. She says he has to stay over to make sure nothing bad happens to me.' She gave a bitter laugh. 'She's too fucking stupid to see he's the bad thing waiting to happen.'Jane rubbed her back. 'Has he been...bothering you?''He looks at me. You know?'Jane knew. 'What else?' She dreaded the answer.'He's said things, when Sharon's out the room. How he likes sweet young flesh, that sort of shit talk. Man, I knew knew he was just waiting his time till she was on nights.' he was just waiting his time till she was on nights.''What happened, Tenille?'She began picking compulsively at the zip on her jacket. 'First couple of nights, he was pissed and passed out on the sofa. But last night he was waiting. Soon as I came through the door, there he was, standing in the doorway, undoing his trousers.' She shuddered. 'Told me it was time I tasted some real loving.' Her lip curled in contempt. 'Bastard. I tried to get back out the door, but he was too fast. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the living room and threw me down on the sofa.' She shook her head, as if to shake off the memory. 'Then he got his cock out. Man, I never been so scared my whole life. I thought for sure he was going to rape me. Then I realise he wants me to blow him. Just the fucking idea made me want to throw up. So I grabbed the lamp off the table and I smashed him over the head with it.'Jane felt her heart contract in fear and pity. 'You did the right thing, Tenille.''I didn't hit him hard enough. I should have fucking killed him. But he was just stunned, like. So I jumped up and ran for my room. I pulled the drawers and the bed across the door so's he couldn't get in. I was shaking, man, fucking shaking. The next thing is he's hammering on the door and screaming like a fucking animal. Jane, I didn't know what to do. He was like a crazy man. The door was shaking, I thought he was going to break it down.' She gave a shaky laugh. 'Then I got salvation.''What happened?''You know that asshole lives next door to us? Big fat greasy biker geezer?'Jane nodded. 'I've seen him. Ugly bastard, right?''Ugly and mean. Next thing I know, he's at the front door, telling Geno to keep the noise down or else he'll break the fucking door down and rip Geno's liver out. And suddenly it all goes quiet. Last thing I hear is Geno standing outside my door, saying, "You can't stay in there forever, bitch." I nearly pissed myself. I tell you, I never closed my eyes all night. I waited till I heard Sharon come home, then I was out the door and down here. Man, I was praying you were home.''You did the right thing, Tenille.' Jane gathered her woolly thoughts around her. She was going to have to do something about this. Tenille couldn't be left at the mercy of Sharon's sick bastard boyfriend. 'You can stay here for now,' she said. 'I'm supposed to be going away today for a couple of weeks, but I'll get this sorted before I go.'Tenille looked incredulous. 'You? Whatchu gonna do? Geno's not going to listen to you. And there's no point telling Sharon, she'll just twist it round so it's my fault, like usual.'Jane got to her feet. Tenille might be the streetwise one of the pair of them, but Jane knew something the girl didn't. It might just be estate gossip, but she had a feeling it was more than that. And if she was right, it would give her a weapon that would make Geno head for the hills faster than a speeding bullock. Jane straightened her shoulders, trying to look like someone who could take care of business. 'Trust me, Tenille. I'm going to fix this.'Jake slipped off his sandals and let the cool marble work its magic. He felt overheated, which was crazy, given the pitch of the air conditioning inside Chania airport. He suspected the dark blue, grey and white decor was meant to be soothing, but it wasn't helping him feel any less out of sorts. Funny to think that only the day before he'd been indulging himself with dreams of home. But now that he was in the departure lounge with a ticket for London in his pocket, he felt a curious mixture of apprehension coupled with determination to prove to Caroline that he could cut the mustard.It had all happened so fast. Within minutes of their initial conversation, Caroline had been online, searching the bucket shops for a plane ticket for him. When he'd tried to ask her what she had in mind, she'd shushed him with an impatient, 'We'll talk, Jake. Now let me sort this out.'Long minutes had passed before she exclaimed, 'Perfect.' She clicked the wireless mouse a couple of times then sat back, a smile of satisfaction neatly in place. 'There you go, Jake,' she said, turning the screen to face him. Apparently, he was now booked on a flight from Chania to Athens, with an onward connection to Heathrow. The following day.'You're not coming too?'Caroline gave him a puzzled look. 'This is your show, Jake. I'd only cramp your style. You surely don't think Jane is going to be thrilled to see you if I'm hanging on your arm?''I don't understand what you want me to do, Caroline.' He tried to sound casual, but it came out petulant.'It's very simple. You've just opened up the possibility of a fascinating and valuable find. I want you to track it down. And if you can't manage that yourself, I want you to be glued to the side of the person who does.'He pushed his hair back from his face in a gesture of exasperation. 'But, Caroline, we've no evidence that the bloody thing exists.''According to you, Jane seems to think so,' she said, sweet reason in a sundress.'It's just a crazy theory.''Believe me, I've made some great finds chasing wilder geese. Look at it this way. Jane is in a unique position. She's a Wordsworth scholar. And she comes from Fellhead. Now, in my experience, serious scholars don't get worked up about things like this unless there is some spectacularly good reason. Bear in mind, Jane may not have told you everything she knows.'Doubt chased surprise across Jake's handsome face. 'Why would she hold back? Are you saying she didn't trust me?'Caroline chuckled. 'When academics have something they think might give them an edge, they trust no one. Sweetie, no matter how much Jane loved you, you can bet your bottom dollar that if she had knowledge that might be parlayed into professional stardom she'd have hugged it to her bosom. And this body in the bog could be the catalyst that gets things moving in a more urgent way.''This is insane,' Jake said.'No, Jake, this is business. If you seriously want to make a career of this, you're going to have to be prepared to exploit your contacts and find ways to make sure that when something good turns up, you're standing at the shoulder of whoever has their sticky hands on it.''I get that,' he said, feeling patronised and belittled but unable to find a way through to asserting himself. 'What I don't get is what you expect me to do. In practical terms.'Caroline exhaled a thin stream of smoke. 'Go and see Jane. Mend as many of your fences as you need to get alongside her. Be contrite. Tell her you read the story in the paper and it made you realise you were wrong not to take her theories seriously. Persuade her that she is the one and only person who can track down this bloody manuscript, and make her do it. That's what I want you to do.' She turned her head to look out across the bay, as close to irritation as he'd ever seen her.'I don't think she'll be very pleased to see me,' he muttered.'Of course she won't. You walked out on her. But you'll do what it takes to get back in her good books, Jake.''What do you mean, "what it takes"?''Do I have to spell it out? Tell her you want to find this manuscript to spite me, if that's what works.' She smiled serenely. 'I'll leave it up to you.''It won't be easy.''Use your charm, Jake. There's not much point in having it otherwise, is there?'As he remembered her words, fresh determination surged through Jake. He'd show Caroline he could be much more than a toyboy. He would make her take him seriously, whatever it took.The shower had helped a little but Jane still felt raw and tender. She made them both coffee, swallowing a couple of painkillers while she waited for the kettle to boil. She wasn't sure if what she was planning was the right thing, but she couldn't see any alternative and she wanted to be as close to firing on all cylinders as she could manage. She took the mugs through and perched on the edge of her bed. 'There's someone I've got to go and see,' she said. 'I want you to wait here.''Who you going to see?' Tenille demanded. Having unburdened herself, her usual demeanour seemed to be reasserting itself.'Someone I think will be able to help.' Jane hoped her tone would head off further questions.Tenille stared into her coffee. 'My dad,' she said expressionlessly.Jane tried to hide her surprise. Not long after Tenille had started hanging round with her, Jane had fallen into conversation at the bus stop with one of her neighbours, a young mother from a couple of doors down. 'It's none of my business,' the woman had said, 'but I noticed that Tenille hanging round your place. You want to watch yourself there.''Why is that?' Jane had bristled. 'She seems like a bright kid.''She's bright, all right. But it's her old man you want to worry about.'Jane frowned. 'I think you're mixing her up with someone else. She hasn't got a dad. She says she doesn't know who her father is. Her mother always refused to tell her, and Sharon says she's got no idea.'The woman gave a contemptuous little snort. 'If Tenille doesn't know, she's the only one. Everybody else round here knows the Hammer is her dad.'Jane felt her eyes widen in shock. 'John Hampton?''That's right. He's always kept an eye out, but from a distance, like. Sharon doesn't want her to know, see? I mean, you can see why, can't you?'Jane could certainly see why. She'd learned very early on that John 'Hammer' Hampton was the criminal equivalent of the mayor of Marshpool Farm. He was a serious gangsta, not some teenage wannabe. Drugs, sex and violence were his stock in trade and there was no doubting his grip on the illegal activities on the estate. Jane had heard stories of punishment beatings meted out to those who thought they could freelance on the wrong side of the law without giving the Hammer his due.And now, here was Tenille openly acknowledging something Jane had thought was deeply buried. 'You know about your dad?' Jane said, stalling for time to get her head round this.'That he's the Hammer?' Jane nodded. Tenille shrugged. 'I've sort of known for years. Somebody at school told me. I didn't believe them at first. I didn't want to, I suppose. But one day when Sharon was out, I went through her things. And stuffed right down the back of one of her drawers, I found a photo of my mum with the Hammer. He had his arm round her. They was smiling into each other's faces, like they was in love or something. And then I knew for sure.' She took a deep breath. 'He's never said a word to me, like. He's always walked straight past me without a look. I figured he don't want to know.''Or else he wants to protect you,' Jane said, reaching for a gloss that might give Tenille a more positive image of her father. 'He must have enemies. By not letting on to you, it's like he's saying, "I could give a shit", which means you're a less attractive target to someone who wants to get at him.'Tenille looked sceptical. 'Or else he just don't want anything to do with his bastard now the baby mother's gone. It's not like he hasn't had his pick of other women since my mum died. He's probably forgotten all about her by now.'She was probably right, Jane thought wearily. But right now, talking to the Hammer was the only thing she could imagine restoring Tenille to safety. It wasn't a comfortable thought. Her skin crawled with apprehension and revulsion. The things she'd heard laid at the Hammer's door were not calculated to inspire a desire to spend time in his company. 'We'll see about that,' she said, half to herself.'You gonna talk to him about Geno?' Tenille looked at her with incredulity.'Of course I am.' Jane finished her coffee and stood up.'Respect,' Tenille said, sounding surprised at herself. 'You're pretty spicy for a white girl.'Or pretty stupid. 'Stay here till I get back. Don't let anybody else in, OK?' 'Stay here till I get back. Don't let anybody else in, OK?''You know where to find him?' Tenille asked.'I've got a tongue in my head. I can ask.''No need. This time of the morning, he'll be at home. D Block, far end. Flat 87.'Jane acknowledged the information with a nod and grabbed her coat. 'Don't worry, Tenille. We'll get Geno sorted out.'

We are agreed that he will return in three days when we are both free from encumbrance or obligation. I will confess that I am eager to hear his story. So much has been written and said about the destiny of this ship but only one of the principals has been heard from. It is certain that my friend's account will provide us with much fresh insight into the mutiny itself & solve the mystery of what happened subsequent to the Bounty Bounty, & to those who took her. Aside from my friend, I think there is no man living on these islands who has an inkling of the fate of the Bounty Bounty after she sailed away from Otaheite with her crew of mutineers & Natives. I am eager to comprehend these events & to translate them into a Poem. I am limbered up for such a long work with my great Poem. It will be a remarkable undertaking. after she sailed away from Otaheite with her crew of mutineers & Natives. I am eager to comprehend these events & to translate them into a Poem. I am limbered up for such a long work with my great Poem. It will be a remarkable undertaking.

Jane closed the front door behind her and paused, taking a deep breath. She was probably mad to do this. Whatever the unwritten rules were, she was almost certainly breaking an unconscionable number of them by turning up unannounced on the Hammer's doorstep to tell him it was time to take care of his unacknowledged daughter. But Tenille didn't have anyone else to look out for her. There was so much promise there, Jane knew she couldn't just walk away and leave the child to sink or swim.She turned up her collar against the wind and made her way across the estate to D Block, the tallest of the eight L-shaped buildings that comprised Marshpool Farm. It stood at the north side of the estate, a couple of storeys higher than the other blocks. To her surprise, the far entrance lobby was free from rubbish and graffiti. There was even the faint smell of pine disinfectant. She thought she'd chance the lift since she was going to the eighth floor. Not only did it arrive when summoned, but its interior could not have been cleaner if it had been in one of the towering office blocks at Canary Wharf. If she needed evidence of the power of John Hampton, it was here before her eyes.Flat 87 was opposite the lift. The door was painted a deep burgundy, in sharp contrast to the scruffy grey-blue of the other doors on the landing. Vertical blinds on the windows obscured the interior. Jane squared her shoulders and pressed the doorbell. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door swung open, revealing a massive mixed-race man in his early twenties dressed only in a pair of jogging pants. His broad torso could have served as a living diagram in an anatomy class, the muscles large and well defined. He glared down at her. 'Wassup?' he demanded in a mid-Atlantic drawl.'I need to see John Hampton,' she said, her voice half an octave higher than normal, her accent scarily middle-class even to her ears.The man looked amused. 'He's not expecting you.' He began to close the door.Jane put out a hand to stop him, knowing she didn't have a cat in hell's chance against the power of his shoulders but making the gesture anyway. 'I do need to see him,' she said. 'It's a family matter.'He gave her a disbelieving look. 'I don't think so.''Please, just tell him Jane Gresham needs to see him about a family matter. I'll wait.''You might be here for a long time, Jane Gresham.' He pushed gently against the door and she dropped her hand. She was banking on the woman at the bus stop having told the truth when she said the Hammer kept an eye on Tenille. If that were true, he could not fail to know about Jane's place in her life. It might be enough to gain her admission.She paced to and fro between the door and the lift for what felt like a very long time but was probably only a couple of minutes. When she heard the door open, she whirled around to find the same young man beckoning her. 'Your lucky day,' he said. 'Mr Hampton's a very busy man, but he can give you five minutes.''That's all I'll need.' She followed him into the flat, whose interior was unlike any other she'd seen on Marshpool Farm. The thick carpet in the hall matched the burgundy of the front door, and the pale walls were decorated with framed photographs of performance cars. The man gestured to her to enter the living room, then closed the door behind her. The room smelt faintly of sandalwood. Sitting opposite her on a cream leather sofa beneath a huge gilt-framed reproduction of one of Jack Vettriano's film noir film noir paintings was a short, square black man wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His head was as bald as a bowling ball, his brown eyes deep-set like finger holes. Jane had never been this close to John Hampton, but she'd seen him in the distance. It didn't prepare her for his charisma. Afterwards, she couldn't have described the room; his presence dominated her consciousness. She understood at once how John Hampton had come to wield the power he did. paintings was a short, square black man wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His head was as bald as a bowling ball, his brown eyes deep-set like finger holes. Jane had never been this close to John Hampton, but she'd seen him in the distance. It didn't prepare her for his charisma. Afterwards, she couldn't have described the room; his presence dominated her consciousness. She understood at once how John Hampton had come to wield the power he did.'Dr Jane Gresham,' he said, his voice a bass rumble. 'What brings an English teacher to my door speaking of family?''I want to talk to you about Tenille,' she said, trying not to show how unnerved she felt. 'May I sit down?'He waved towards a matching armchair in the corner. 'Be my guest. Tenille?' he said, making a show of racking his brains. 'One of the kids on the estate, right?''People say she's your daughter.''People say a lot of things, Dr Gresham. A lot of them are bullshit.' His face was impassive, his body still.'It's true she doesn't take after you in looks,' Jane said. 'But I suspect she's inherited your ambition. And your toughness. And your intelligence.''Flattery won't get you child support, if that's what you're after.''There's more than one kind of child support, Mr Hampton. And right now, Tenille needs something from you.' She couldn't quite believe her nerve.He sighed and rotated his head, as if loosening a stiffness in his neck. 'You're bold, I'll give you that. But you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit.'Jane pressed on regardless. While she was still in the room, she had a fighting chance to break through his apparent indifference. 'Her aunt has a boyfriend called Geno Marley. He's been sniffing around Tenille. And last night he tried to rape her.' Now she sensed she had his full attention, though she could not have said quite what had changed.'I don't understand why you're telling me this, Dr Gresham. This Marley character isn't one of my people.''Tenille is, though. And a word from you would take him out of her life.''And why should I do that?'Jane shrugged. 'If she's your daughter, the answer's obvious. And if she's not, well, it would be the right thing to do anyway, wouldn't it?''You think I'm some kind of social worker? Here to solve people's problems?'She sensed he was playing with her, but she didn't know how to enter his game. She got to her feet. There was nothing to be gained by staying. 'You must do what you think best,' she said. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do.'He nodded. 'I'll have a word, Dr Gresham. I don't like scumbags who molest young girls any more than you do. You can tell Tenille she'll be safe.''Thank you.' She turned to go, then paused, her hand on the door. 'Whoever Tenille's father is, he should be proud of her. She's remarkable.''Goodbye, Dr Gresham. I don't expect we'll meet again,' he said. He sounded so much like a Bond villain that the spell broke.Jane grinned. 'You never know,' she said.When she emerged from the flat, she felt elated. In spite of the Hammer's feigned indifference, she was certain that she had achieved what she'd set out to. She could leave for Fellhead with a clear conscience, secure in the knowledge that nothing bad was going to happen to Tenille.One of the best things about living and working in Carlisle was the stunning scenery on her doorstep, River thought. She'd discovered it was hard to drive for long in any direction without finding herself in a landscape of breathtaking beauty, whether it was the bleak rolling uplands of Northumberland, with Hadrian's Wall the crossbeam to the Pennine spine, or the grandeur of the Lake District National Park with its fells, forests and moody waters. She'd grown up near Cambridge in a landscape of unrelenting flatness that exhibited a limited range of variety. Up here in the north, the changing seasons were somehow nearer the surface, with every day bringing some subtle alteration to the world around her. It was, she thought, a landscape as susceptible to analysis for its history as the human body itself. Recently, she'd joined a group of university staff who went hill-walking every Sunday, and only the previous week she'd been brought up short by a casual comment from one of her fellow walkers. As they'd made their way up the eastern side of Great Gable, he'd remarked that if Wordsworth were to return to England now, he'd find more changes in his native Lakes than he would in the quadrangles of his Cambridge college.'We think of the landscape as unchanging, but we're wrong,' he'd said. 'Here, everywhere we look we see the handor rather, the foot of man. Look at the erosion on these paths. Look at the roads,' he added, waving his hand in the general direction of Buttermere and Derwent Water where the sun could be seen glinting on the metal roofs of cars. 'Choked with traffic every decent summer's day. In Wordsworth's time, there were meandering drover's tracks, not roads carved out of hillsides like chunks cut off a cheese. And they were mostly empty. This landscape tells the history of the last two hundred years more clearly than any urban sprawl.''Not to mention the history of the tearoom,' another colleague had commented darkly. 'I'm surprised there isn't one waiting for us on the top of Great Gable.'River had tucked the initial idea away for further consideration and this morning, as she drove out of Carlisle on the old Roman road towards Bothel, she reflected on it again. Nearly two thousand years had passed since this road had been built by legionaries miles from their home, forced to eat unfamiliar food and accustom themselves to the often hellish winters of the northernmost part of the empire. She wondered how much of what she was seeing now would have awakened memories in their ghosts. Perhaps the skyline, perhaps the colours. But not much else.She loved the place names too, with their echoes of another wave of invaders. The Vikings had left their mark on the places they occupied with suffixesIreby, Branthwaite, Whitrigg. And there were other wonderful names whose origins she knew nothing ofBlennerhasset, Dubwath and Bewaldeth. Driving from Carlisle to Keswick wasn't just pretty, it was poetry in motion.She turned left on to the winding road that led between the forested massif of Skiddaw and the long finger of Bassenthwaite. All around her, the trees were changing colour. On the hills, the bracken was turning brown against rough upland grass that the summer rains had left a more vivid green than usual. The lake spangled dark sapphire in the autumn sun and River felt lucky not only to be alive but to be moving through nature at her most glamorous.She wondered how it had been for Pirate Peat on his last journey on the hill above Coniston Water. With luck, the palaeobotanists might be able to tell her what time of year he had died. But what none of them would ever know was whether he had made that final trip by day or night, in sunlight, rain or mist. Had he been alive to the beauty that surrounded him, or was he one of those who seem unmoved by their surroundings? Was this his home, or was he merely passing through? That at least was something she would probably be able to answer eventually. And once they had established how old the body was, she would be able to track down contemporary drawings and paintings that might reveal something of what her cadaver had seen when he had walked these hills. All of this would only enrich the TV programme, as well as satisfying her own urge for knowledge.Her speculations dissipated into the ether once she hit the outskirts of Keswick and had to concentrate on getting where she was going. She pulled into the visitors' slot in the police station car park and hurried inside, composing herself in her professional demeanour for her meeting with DCI Rigston. She was almost sorry that they wouldn't be working together; she'd liked him when he'd first briefed her, something which hadn't happened too often in her encounters with police officers.The civilian on the front desk directed her to the canteen, where she found Rigston tucking into a bacon roll. He got to his feet immediately and shook hands, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin first. 'Can I get you something to eat? Early call-out, I missed breakfast,' he said, gesturing apologetically at his plate.'Don't mind me, I'm fine,' River said, sliding into the seat opposite him. 'I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, but this won't take long. I thought you'd like to know that my preliminary investigations lead me to believe this body is well outside your remit.'Rigston grinned, showing a row of even white teeth. 'Thought as much,' he said. 'But I'm glad to have it formally confirmed all the same. Do you know how long he's been in there?''Hard to be precise at this stage. But, ballpark, I'd say somewhere between 1785 and 1815. That's a very rough guesstimate,' she added hastily. 'Don't hold me to it. I'll have a better answer once we've completed the work-up.''You're giving him the full monte, then?' Rigston looked mildly surprised.'All the bells and whistles. And the best of it is, I've got someone else to pay for it.' As she spoke, she watched him eat. You could tell a lot about someone by the way they ate. Ewan Rigston took small bites, chewing carefully with his mouth closed before he swallowed. He paused between mouthfuls, considering his next point of attack. So, not the kind of man who charged at things like a bull at a gate. Measured, thoughtful, and maybe a little bit repressed, she thought.'How did you manage that?''Northern TV's going to film the whole process. They're making a documentary series about my Pirate Peat.''Good for you. Maybe I could get them to sponsor my armed robbery investigation,' he added wryly. 'But what's with the "Pirate Peat"?''They like a nice catchy tag. We found him in a bog, hence the "Peat" part. And his tattoos are typical of a sailor, so I let my fancy run away with me. Besides, it sounds better than Seaman Peat.''You're right about that. Good luck with it.''Thanks. Would you like me to keep you posted?'He nodded. 'That would be great. In fact...' He hesitated briefly, then said very quickly, 'I don't suppose you'd fancy meeting up for a drink?'It wasn't an idea that had so much as crossed River's mind until that moment. But the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. She smiled. 'Yes, actually, I think I would. And you can give me the benefit of your expertise.''How so?''Well...' And she broke off with an embarrassed laugh. 'I just realised I don't know your first name.'He laughed with her. 'It's Ewan. So does that mean I get to ask you where your name comes from?'River winced. 'Hippie parents.''Must be hard to be taken seriously with a name like that. I have to admit I thought somebody was taking the piss.''No kidding.' She flashed him a smile that didn't make it as far as her eyes. 'But hey, it breaks the ice.' The smile was gone. 'And I do expect to be taken seriously.'Her determination not to be discounted prompted the image of his daughter, the twelve-year-old Rigston saw less and less frequently as her own concerns had become more pressing than the need to see a father who hadn't lived under the same roof for five years. Like Marnie, River Wilde had the air of someone with something to prove and an absolute determination to succeed. He reminded himself this woman wasn't a child, no matter how young she seemed. She was accustomed to sights he hoped his daughter would never have to negotiate. 'Naturally,' he said. 'I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise.' His expression was friendly and open. River felt herself relax again. 'So why do you need the benefit of my expertise?' he continued.'Because if he hadn't been dead for such a long time, I think he definitely would be one for you. I won't know for sure till we've done the full body X-ray and CAT scan, but, at this point, I'm inclined to think our Pirate Peat did not die from natural causes. I think somebody caved his head in.'For Tenille, being left alone in Jane's flat was almost worth the reason for the boon. Jane had come back cheerful from her meeting with the Hammer, but had said little about it except that she was convinced Tenille would have no more trouble with Geno. 'Huh,' Tenille snorted.'I understand why you might feel dubious,' Jane had said. 'But my gut feeling is that the Hammer doesn't say things he doesn't mean. Now, I'm sorry, but I've got to go, Tenille. I've got a train to catch. I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks. You can hang out here for the rest of the day if you want, just close the door behind you when you leave, OK?''Yeah, OK. Can I use your computer?'Jane pondered for a second or two then nodded agreement. 'But you have to go home tonight. I don't want you holing up here indefinitely. Promise?'Tenille had made a pretence of sulkiness, but she'd promised. She would check out the flat later and, if Geno was there, she'd simply come back to Jane's. She had the key, and knowing Jane was gone, she had the freedom to treat the place as her own for a fortnight. One way or another, things would be sorted out by then, she told herself. No matter what Jane thought, she had no conviction that the Hammer would deal with Geno. He wasn't the sort to take orders from any woman, never mind a middle-class white one.Tenille waited patiently while Jane packed a bag with clothes and books, then as soon as she left, she headed into the study. She sat down and her finger hovered over the power switch. She felt too weird and too wired to go online. She'd taught herself over the past few years to think of herself as alone in the world, a single particle spinning through the constellations of other people's lives. Since her mum had died, she hadn't allowed herself to feel like she belonged anywhere. Sharon didn't want her, she knew that. Her aunt was acting out of obligation, not love. Without her mum, Tenille was disconnected from the world, unstrung and free. She'd tried to make herself believe that was the best way to be, and mostly she succeeded. When first she'd been told that the Hammer was her real father, that self-contained part of herself had not wanted to believe it. She couldn't have put words round it at the time, but it was something to do with not wanting that kind of connection with anyone because to be connected was somehow to render herself vulnerable.What had made her feel almost comfortable with the idea was the recognition that, even if he was her father, the Hammer wanted nothing to do with her. He had never acknowledged her existence, far less any relationship between them. He had never done any of the things that even the most hopeless of absent fathers occasionally managed. Never turned up on Christmas Eve with an armful of badly wrapped, expensive but inappropriate presents. Never slipped in to the back row of a school nativity play. Never taken her to a movie or McDonald's. The long and short of it was that he'd never shown the slightest interest in her.And that made it all the more unlikely that he'd do anything to defend her from Geno. After all, what would it say about him if he did? It would be as good as shouting from the top of D Block that she was his daughter. He might suddenly decide he wanted to start doing the rest of the things that a father was supposed to do, like making sure she went to school and all that shit. Tenille really didn't think she wanted that pressure in her life.On the other hand, she sure as hell didn't want Geno in her life either. And if the Hammer didn't do something about it, she wasn't sure how she was going to manage that. It wasn't like she knew anybody who would weigh in against Geno, and she couldn't afford to hire any of the local thugs to sort him out. She swore under her breath and turned on the computer, determined not to think any more about it.

I set this down as it was told to me, in the words of my friend:I had sailed with Lieutenant Bligh before I signed on the Bounty Bounty and found him a man whose moods were impossible to predict. When all was going well with the voyage, he would be charm itself. I had reason to know this more than most, for on that first voyage he kept me close, often inviting me to dine with him in his cabin. But if anything chanced to go wrong on board ship, he was choleric and intemperate, always seeking around to cast the blame on another. Never was any occasion of blame laid at his own door. He was also jealous of his position, demanding as of right that respect which a captain needs must earn. Bligh squandered his opportunities to command the good opinion of the men by reason of his vitriol. Sailors are not known for their nicety of expression, but even below decks in the most vile conditions I have never heard language so foul as Bligh would pour out in his expressions of scorn and rage. But he was a fine navigator, and I knew that I could learn much at his side, and so I was willing to forgo my misgivings & to accompany him again, most particularly on such a long voyage. and found him a man whose moods were impossible to predict. When all was going well with the voyage, he would be charm itself. I had reason to know this more than most, for on that first voyage he kept me close, often inviting me to dine with him in his cabin. But if anything chanced to go wrong on board ship, he was choleric and intemperate, always seeking around to cast the blame on another. Never was any occasion of blame laid at his own door. He was also jealous of his position, demanding as of right that respect which a captain needs must earn. Bligh squandered his opportunities to command the good opinion of the men by reason of his vitriol. Sailors are not known for their nicety of expression, but even below decks in the most vile conditions I have never heard language so foul as Bligh would pour out in his expressions of scorn and rage. But he was a fine navigator, and I knew that I could learn much at his side, and so I was willing to forgo my misgivings & to accompany him again, most particularly on such a long voyage.

The air even tasted different, Jane thought as she swung down the platform at Oxenholme. She caught sight of her father near the exit and waved cheerily. Allan Gresham raised his hand slightly in response, the small gesture of a modest man more at home on the fell with his Herdwick sheep than he would ever be where people congregated.Jane dropped her bag and threw her arms around him, brushing a kiss against his rough cheek. 'Thanks for coming, Dad,' she said.'You can't rely on the buses,' he said, picking up her bag with a surprised grunt as he felt the weight. 'What've you got in here? Gold bricks?''I wish. It's books, papers. A few clothes.' Jane fell into step beside him as they made for his Land Rover in the car park.Once they were clear of the station lights and their faces were obscured by early evening darkness, Allan cleared his throat. 'You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?''Why would I be in trouble?' Jane's voice betrayed astonishment.Allan hefted her bag into the back of the Land Rover and gave a helpless shrug, hands spread at his sides. 'I don't know. It's just...It's the middle of term. You've got a job to do. Students to teach. I didn't think you could up sticks with no warning.''I haven't, Dad. This is official. Study leave. Something's come up that I need to pursue right away, and my boss has given me a couple of weeks off.'They climbed aboard and Allan started the engine. He raised his voice to be heard above the rhythmic grunt of the diesel. 'I thought you did dead poets? How can that be urgent?''It's the body in the bog, Dad,' Jane said.He chuckled. 'Fletcher Christian, eh? I wondered how long it would take you to convince yourself this was your man.''It might not be him,' Jane protested. 'I never said it was. And chances are it's got nothing to do with him or the Bounty. Bounty. But it's given me a peg to hang my theory on, and that's good enough to buy me some time to look properly into something I turned up last summer.' But it's given me a peg to hang my theory on, and that's good enough to buy me some time to look properly into something I turned up last summer.''You've always had a talent for persuasion,' Allan said, resigned echoes of old conflicts in his tone. 'So if this is your man, how did he end up dead in a Cumberland bog?''I haven't a clue. And to be honest, that's what interests me least. I'll leave that to the historians.'Her father nodded. 'Any road, I'm glad there's no trouble.' He snatched a quick sidelong glance at her. 'We cannot help worrying about you, all the way down there.'It was, she knew, a coded way of asking about Jake. The familiar familial habit of talking about things without actually mentioning them. 'I'm all right, Dad. What can't be cured maun be endured. And I'm good at enduring.''Some folks can't tell the difference between sugar and shite, right enough.' They fell silent, an easy quiet broken only by the swish of the wipers on the windscreen.'How's Gabriel?' Jane asked as they turned off for Fellhead.'He's grand,' her father said proudly. 'A big strong babby. Started crawling. Your mother said to Diane, "Now your life's really over."' He chuckled. 'I mind when you got going. You would set your heart on getting somewhere and nothing would stop you. Funny, you were that different from Matthew. He was into everything. You couldn't take your eyes off him. But he never had that single-minded determination you had, even when you were tiny. So I reckon we'll get a taste of what Gabriel's going to be like now he's off.'Jane knew the story. It was one of many that always made Matthew scowl. 'It'll be nice to see Gabriel. They change so quickly when they're that small. Does he still look like Granddad Trevithick?''Aye. Your mother says it's only because he's bald and round in the face, but I reckon she's only saying that to keep Diane's mum happy. She reckons he looks like her brother at the same age. He'll end up looking like himself, whatever.''I wonder if he'll get the Gresham curls?' She reached over and rumpled her father's thick hair.'He won't thank us if he does. It's all right for lasses, but us lads don't like looking as if we've spent all day at the hairdressers.'Jane peered out of the window as they reached the outskirts of the village. Every cottage was imprinted on her memory. She could have picked any of them out of an identity parade. Most were picture perfect, but there was always the odd one whose owner either didn't care or couldn't afford to keep it in good repair. Locals dreaded the death of those inhabitants more than any other because the houses always went to outsiders who were taken with the romance of having a holiday cottage in the Lakes and loved the idea of a bargain they could remake in their own images. Their wallets had pushed even semi-derelict properties out of the reach of most of those who had to subsist on Lakeland wages. Jane's heart sank at the sight of a new For Sale sign. 'What happened to Miss Forsyth?' she asked.'She had another stroke. Couldn't manage the house any more so she's gone into a home in Keswick,' her father said succinctly as he swung the Land Rover into the narrow lane that led up to their farmhouse on the edge of the village.'So I suppose that'll be another holiday cottage,' Jane sighed. In the short span of her life, she'd seen almost a third of the homes in the village change hands from families who could track their ancestors back hundreds of years to incomers who did their shopping in distant supermarkets and had no interest in village life except as a curiosity pickled in aspic.'I don't think anybody round here's got the money for it,' Allan agreed. 'Mind, the house by the Post Office, the couple that bought that live here year round. She does something with computers and he publishes a magazine for ramblers.' He shook his head. 'Doesn't feel like proper jobs to me, but at least they're not just weekenders.'Allan pulled off into the gateway leading into their yard and parked by the lambing shed. The low farmhouse seemed to crouch against the hillside, its weathered stone blending seamlessly into the landscape. Buttery yellow light spilled out of the kitchen windows, their outline blurred in the heavy drizzle. They hurried through the rain to the back door, shaking themselves like dogs when they were inside the flagged hallway. The glorious aroma of lamb combined with rosemary and garlic wafted round them in a welcoming miasma.Judy Gresham appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her jeans. 'Jane,' she exclaimed, satisfaction written on her face. In spite of the hard life of a hill farmer's wife, Judy wore her years lightly. She looked more like a woman in her forties than her mid-fifties, her dark brown hair as thick and luxuriant as it had been when Jane had loved to wind it round her fingers as a child. Jane relished the look of surprise on the faces of university friends she'd brought back here when they met her mother. Her father was exactly what they expectedweather-beaten face, stocky frame dressed in overalls over jeans and plaid shirts. But her mother confounded them. Instead of an apple-cheeked woman in pleated skirt and apron stirring jam for the WI stall to the tune of 'Jerusalem', they were confronted with a slender, well-kempt woman in jeans and stylish shirts, never seen in public without make-up, earrings and nail varnish. The features in her oval face were small and neat; Jane wished she'd inherited those rather than her father's deep-set eyes, wide cheekbones and very definite nose. Beside her mother, Jane always felt a big and frumpish disappointment. That was her projection, however; Judy had never indicated by word or look that she was anything other than delighted in her daughter's appearance.Now she folded Jane in a tight embrace then held her at arms' length for a critical scrutiny. 'You're a sight for sore eyes,' she said. 'It feels like ages since you were home.''It's only been a few weeks, Mum,' Jane protested.'Months, more like.' Her mother turned into the kitchen, confident daughter and husband would follow. The scrubbed pine table where the family had eaten countless meals was laid for dinner, water glasses gleaming in the soft light. 'Perfect timing,' Judy continued. 'The joint's just ready. Sit yourselves down.'Five minutes in the house and London felt like a foreign country, Jane thought as she watched her mother pile roast potatoes and parsnips round the thick slices of lamb. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, this was where she belonged. This was where she felt most alive. Impossible to imagine that only that morning she'd been confronting a London gangsta in his own living room. If she told her parents, their mouths would fall open in shock, their eyes agleam with concern and incomprehension. And they'd be right And they'd be right, she thought, reaching for the plate and setting it down in front of herself.A couple of melting mouthfuls into the lamb, Jane heard the back door open. 'Only me,' her brother's voice called from the hall through the rustle of an outdoor jacket being removed.Judy looked faintly guilty. 'Matthew, what a lovely surprise,' she said as her son walked in, pushing damp curls away from his forehead.Matthew Gresham took in the scene and gave a bitter little smile. 'Very nice,' he said. 'I brought that magazine Diane said you wanted,' he said to Judy, tossing a rolled-up copy of a gardening monthly on the table as he dragged a chair back and plonked himself down like a sulky child. Jane watched it uncurl, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 'What are you doing home in the middle of the week in the middle of term?' he said, his voice deceptively pleasant. 'You blotted your copybook, Sis?''Study leave,' Jane said. 'It's good to see you, Matthew,' she added, trying to appear pleasant.'All right for some,' Matthew said. He sniffed the air. 'Nice bit of lamb. You been slaughtering, Dad? I'll look forward to something more exciting than pasta arrabbiata for Sunday lunch.'Judy's lips tightened but she said nothing. Jane wondered how differently her brother might have turned out if her mother hadn't been so willing to let him rule the roost as a child.'Your mother makes very good pasta,' her father said. 'You can't beat home-made tagliatelle. And it takes a lot more time to prepare than a joint. Which you'd know if you ever turned a hand in the kitchen.'Matthew flicked his eyebrows upwards. 'So what's this study leave all about, then? Time out to mend a broken heart?'Jane shook her head, a rictus smile plastered on her face. 'I see the charm and diplomacy is still a work in progress. No, Matthew, this is nothing to do with Jake. There's some documentation I need to look for up here and my professor agrees with me that I need to do it sooner rather than later.''Documentation you need to look for? You're not still banging on about Wordsworth's lost masterpiece?' Matthew stretched across and picked a fragment of lamb from the serving plate, popping it into his mouth with a murmur of appreciation. Then suddenly he snorted with laughter. 'Oh, I get it. You've convinced your gullible boss that the body in the bog ista da!none other than Fletcher Christian.' His face soured again. 'God, you've got it so easy down there. Fancy a few days in the Lakes with a bit of home cooking? I know, come up with some daft notion and sweet-talk the world into dancing to your tune.''Give it a rest, Matthew,' Allan said. 'Your sister's not in the door five minutes.''And it's not as if you've got much to complain about,' Judy said brightly. 'A beautiful baby boy, a lovely wife and a good job. There's millions would be happy with your lot.''So is that it, Jane?' Matthew continued relentlessly, ignoring his mother. 'You're going to waltz back in here and find Willie's epic on the Bounty Bounty and make your fortune?' and make your fortune?'Jane swallowed her half-chewed mouthful and glared at her brother. 'I'm pursuing a line of research. But if I do find anything, it won't be me getting rich, it'll be Wordsworth's heirs. Or whoever has title to whatever it is I find.'Matthew looked scornful. 'Let's not be naive here, Sis. OK, you're the only person in the world who believes in the magic manuscript. But if you do find it, it'll be the making of you. A brilliant career, all off the back of the Lakes.''And how do you think people would make a living round here if it wasn't for heritage tourism?' Jane countered. 'There's other parts of England just as beautiful, but they don't have anything like the tourist income we have. The history of literary connections with the Lake District is one of the main reasons people come here. Whether it's Wordsworth, Beatrix Potter, Ruskin or Arthur Ransome. Their legacy has given back much more than they ever took out of the area.''But this? This won't be something that generates money and jobs in the tourism industry, will it? This is not going to help create jobs for the kids I teach and their families. It'll be a handful of outsiders getting rich.' He shook his head. 'I never thought you'd be one of the ones treating this place like a cash cow.''There's a long and noble tradition of that, Matthew. Wordsworth and his friends were a part of it too. Do you despise them as well?' There was an edge to Jane's voice now. She knew it would be enough to make Matthew back down.He threw his hands up in surrender. 'You've always got an answer, Jane.' He pushed his chair back, the feet screeching on the stone-flagged floor. 'I better be getting back. I've got lessons to prepare. Nearest I'm likely to get to study leave.' He stood up. 'How long are you here for?''A couple of weeks. When's the best time to catch Diane on Saturday?'Matthew shrugged. 'Pretty much any time, if it's raining. Which it looks like it's set on for the next few days.''Tell her I'll drop in. I'm dying to see Gabriel.''Sure you can spare the time to play aunties and nephews? I mean, you are supposed to be studying, right?''Grow up, Matthew,' Allan said wearily.Matthew snorted. 'I'm not the one playing hunt the metaphorical slipper, Dad. If anybody needs to catch the boat from Fantasy Island, it's Jane. Wake up and smell the coffee, Sis. There's no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Time to join the rest of us in the real world.'

Modifications were made to the Bounty Bounty before she set sail for the South Seas so that she could accommodate our cargo of breadfruit on our return voyage. On account of this, conditions were exceeding cramped for all on board, for officers as much as for the common seamen. Such close quarters always breed squabbling among the men, and it was impossible for we officers to hold ourselves aloof from the petty disputes that can fester on board ship. But that was as nothing compared to the tyranny of Bligh. He was a martinet with the men and no less so with the officers. For the most part, I was fortunate enough to be excluded from this general treatment. Bligh still seemed desirous of my good opinion and had me to dine in his cabin whenever I was not on watch. I confess I felt discomfort from the first at being singled out thus. I did not wish the men to think I was allied with Bligh. Nor was I easy in my mind as to the nature of his affection for me. before she set sail for the South Seas so that she could accommodate our cargo of breadfruit on our return voyage. On account of this, conditions were exceeding cramped for all on board, for officers as much as for the common seamen. Such close quarters always breed squabbling among the men, and it was impossible for we officers to hold ourselves aloof from the petty disputes that can fester on board ship. But that was as nothing compared to the tyranny of Bligh. He was a martinet with the men and no less so with the officers. For the most part, I was fortunate enough to be excluded from this general treatment. Bligh still seemed desirous of my good opinion and had me to dine in his cabin whenever I was not on watch. I confess I felt discomfort from the first at being singled out thus. I did not wish the men to think I was allied with Bligh. Nor was I easy in my mind as to the nature of his affection for me.

Damp mist held the heavy tang of the polluted city close to the ground. It clawed at throats, making smokers cough harder, and shrouded heads in streetlight haloes. The glow from windows was romanticised by the fog, but it was fooling no one. The pavements were quiet; it wasn't the sort of evening to tempt people away from their own TVs.Tenille stretched and checked the clock on the PC. Just after ten. It was time to make a move. Part of her wanted to stay here, snug in the cocoon of Jane's flat, isolated in a place where she could pretend her life was different from its ungentle reality. But another part of her wanted to test the mettle of Jane and her alleged father. She gathered her stuff together and trudged towards the door. She took a last look around, checking the door key was still in her pocket, then stepped out into the night. After the warmth of the flat, the clammy cold made her shiver as she hurried along the gallery to the stairs. She had just begun to climb the two flights to her floor when she heard a low boom. The fog muffled it, making it impossible to divine its direction or identify its source. But unexplained noises were hardly an unusual event on Marshpool Farm, and it barely registered on her consciousness.Heading towards the final turn of the stairs, Tenille realised there were footsteps coming down the steps towards her. The footsteps of someone big and confident, judging by the sound. Instinctively, she dodged to one side, making room for whoever it was to pass. Round here, making room could sometimes mean the difference between getting home in one piece or not.She rounded the stairs and came face to face with John Hampton moving quickly down. A confusion of feelings hit her: apprehension, anxiety and curiosity. If he was surprised to see her, he didn't show it. He didn't even break step, merely glancing briefly at her, his face blank of expression. As he passed her, he said softly, 'Not a good time to go home, Tenille.'She stopped short and stared after him. A shoot of happiness blossomed inside her. He'd done it. He'd done it for her. Tenille grinned and ran up the few remaining steps, eager for the first time to see Geno. She didn't think he'd be keen to hit on her any time soon.The door to the flat was slightly ajar; she pushed it open and walked in. There was a strange smell, like fireworks. The hall was in darkness, except for a thin sliver of light outlining the living-room door. Tenille pushed it open, eager expectancy drawing a smile on her face.The sight that confronted her was not what she had anticipated. Where she expected to see Geno curled in an agonised ball on the sofa, all that was recognisably his were his trousers.The top half of his body was unrecognisable. Mangled meat jumbled with chewed-up fabric. Tatters of skin hung like macabre decorations from his head and neck. Blood, hair and flesh were spattered over the sofa and the wall behind it. Inside the room, the stink was different. Shit, gunpowder and something metallic bit at Tenille's throat. She could feel her gorge rising but the gruesome remains on the sofa still held her with a terrible fascination. It was as if her mind had split in half. Part of her was rejoicing in the knowledge she was safe. The other part was wondering why she wasn't screaming.Tenille took a step forward, almost tripping over something lying on the worn carpet. In her shocked daze, she bent down and picked it up. The wooden butt of the sawn-off shotgun felt warm in her hand. Her other hand ran absently over the smooth metal of the barrels. This had been her friend. This had bought her salvation. This had been her father's chosen tool.The thought of John Hampton cracked the shell. The horror of what was spread before her hit like the slam of a door. She threw the gun from her, appalled and shaking. Her prints were on the gun now. Dimly she recognised from dozens of TV shows how this would look. She had to do something. It wasn't enough to wipe the gun. She knew that, however clever her father might be, there would be microscopic traces. She'd watched enough episodes of Forensic Files Forensic Files to understand that neither she nor her father was safe. to understand that neither she nor her father was safe.Forcing her eyes away from Geno, Tenille tried to control herself, dragging a shuddering breath into her lungs. She had to do something. But what? She had to get out of the room so she could think straight.Tenille stumbled back into the hall and squatted on her haunches, head in hands. There had to be something she could do to make sure her father was in the clear for this. He'd come to her rescue when she'd needed him. Now she felt the need for some comparable gesture. A recognition that she appreciated what he'd done for her.She racked her brains, recalling the true crimes she'd watched unfold on late-night satellite TV. Every night, another death. Every death, another investigation. Tips and hints for those with the brains enough to grasp their significance and heads sufficiently cool to put them into practice.Her face cleared. Fire, the great cleanser. It wouldn't disguise the fact that Geno had been blown away by a sawn-off before the fire had started. But a good enough fire would clear up any traces that she or her father might have left at the scene of the crime. Tenille got to her feet. All she needed now was something to make sure the blaze caught a good hold. She wished she lived in one of those houses where they had a garden shed full of stuff that would go up like a Roman candle. Cans of petrol for the lawnmower. Gas bottles for the barbecue. That sort of thing.Tenille went through to the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink. Bleach, fabric conditioner, all-purpose cleaner. Totally useless. She banged the door shut and went through to her aunt's room. Perfume was alcohol, that would give off fumes that would help a fire, she thought. She grabbed the few bottles off Sharon's dressing table, then noticed an economy-sized bottle of nail varnish remover. That would burn, she was sure of it. Tenille added it to her haul. She was about to return to the living room when she noticed a canister in a half-open drawer. She yanked it out and helped herself to a pressurised can of lighter fluid.At the living-room door, she closed her eyes momentarily, trying to steady herself. 'Get a hold of yourself, girl,' she said loudly, driving herself back into the room. This time, she tried not to look at Geno. She crossed to the sofa where she emptied out all of the bottles. The sweet sickly aromas rose around her, blotting out the smells of violent death. Then she pushed the nozzle of the lighter fluid can hard against the wooden arm of the sofa. The liquid gas emerged, spreading over the scarred veneer and soaking into the surrounding fabric as it evaporated. The harsh oily smell of the butane made Tenille wrinkle her nose and turn her face away. She let the whole contents of the canister escape before throwing it on the floor.Now all she had to do was light the fucking thing. Where was the bastard's cigarette lighter? Her earlier exultation had subsided now; she had started to grasp the finality of his death and the almost casual way it had been meted out. However grateful she was to her father, she couldn't keep fooling herself that this was a good thing. She really didn't want to look at Geno.Tenille sidestepped the feet sticking out from the sofa, kicking the gun nearer as she did so. That sofa was going to go up like a torch. Sharon had bought it off some dodgy second-hand shop, there was no way it was going to be anything other than a fire-trap. She looked down at the cluttered end table next to Geno. The tumbler he'd been drinking from had been shattered by stray shot, and his cigarettes and lighter were covered in glass shards and rum. Tenille reached out for the lighter and grimaced as the sticky spirit coated her fingers. She backed towards the door and wondered what to do next. She didn't want to be too close to the sofa when she lit the flame. But she had to be close enough to get the fire going.'Stop messing,' she scolded herself. She took a step back towards the sofa and ignited the lighter. It seemed to burn with a higher flame than usual. At arm's length, she reached out towards the soaked upholstery. She was still inches away when there was a sudden whoosh and a sheet of flame ran over the area she'd saturated. At once, the flames started to lick over the cushions towards Geno.Tenille jumped back nervously, ready for flight. But she wanted to be sure this wasn't just a flash in the pan, that it would really burn the way she needed it to. Within seconds, she had her answer. Tongues of flame spread quickly over the cheap synthetic material, melting it as they went, sending spirals of greasy black smoke upwards.Time to get the fuck out, Tenille told herself, turning on her heel and making for the door. She slammed it shut behind her, then took off down the gallery towards the stairs. Thank Christ she had Jane's door key. She could hole up there, wash her clothes in Jane's machine and claim she'd never been near the flat all night. Jane would have to back her up, because she didn't know about the key. As far as she knew, Tenille had no way of getting back in once she'd left.Tenille reached the top of the stairs and turned for one last look. The only difference from usual was that the light showing through the curtains was more orange. She wondered if she should call the fire brigade. She didn't want the fire to spread, to maybe claim other lives. That would be the worst thing that could happen. But if she made the call, it would put her in the frame; 999 calls were, she knew, recorded and saved.The curtains stirred. Soon they'd go up too and somebody would see what was going on. They'd call the fire brigade. Tenille turned on her heel and set off down the stairs at a run. It would be all right. Somebody would see.What she didn't know was that somebody already had.

When I speak thus, it is not to assign impure motives to Bligh. He never attempted the crime of sodomy on my person, nor did I ever hear that he had such inclinations towards any other. No, it is rather that, having chosen me as his protege, the man took my affection towards any other as a personal slight. One of my fellow officers on this voyage was a distant kinsman, Peter Heywood, whose family had shown mine kindness when we were forced to remove to the Isle of Man. It was my duty as well as my pleasure to take this young man under my care, and Bligh chastised me often for this. 'Sirrah, the boy must find his own way,' 'Sirrah, the boy must find his own way,' he was wont to say. He seemed not to comprehend that my care for Heywood was identical to his adoption of myself as his personal charge. His vanity could not countenance what he took to be my preference for the company of another. These matters came to a head in a most miserable fashion in Otaheite. he was wont to say. He seemed not to comprehend that my care for Heywood was identical to his adoption of myself as his personal charge. His vanity could not countenance what he took to be my preference for the company of another. These matters came to a head in a most miserable fashion in Otaheite.

As she emerged from the farmyard on her mountain bike, Jane took a deep breath, savouring the aroma of the autumn morning. It was a glorious day, surprisingly mild for the time of year. The night's rain had left a sparkle in the air, brightening the turning leaves and deepening the greys and greens of the landscape. The sun was climbing behind Helvellyn, casting a golden halo round the summit. She turned to look upwards at the great bluff of Langmere Fell, its craggy outcroppings dark against the sky. She could see her father's sheep, pale grey and cream blurs against the bracken and scrubby grass of the high moorland where they grazed. A grin spread across her face and she shed the last of the city. This was where she belonged.She turned the bike downhill and freewheeled into the village, a journey she had made more times than she could count. As always, the sudden opening out of the view caught at her heart, the light glinting on the tail of Thirlmere, the pikes and crags rising beyond in tight contours to the skyline. What must it have been like for Fletcher Christian, she wondered, coming home to this after the South Seas? Would his spirit have risen with joy and relief at being enclosed by his familiar mountains, their muted colours the palette of his youth? Or would he have yearned for the lush tropics with their improbable colours? Would the cold and damp have made his bones ache for that hotter southern sun? Would the women have seemed pallid and uninteresting after the exotic beauty who had given him a son? Would he have felt that he had come home, or would this have seemed merely a different kind of prison from Pitcairn?Whatever his story, it couldn't have failed to fire William Wordsworth's imagination. In her mind's eye, she conjured up a picture of the poet sitting in his garden at Dove Cottage, head bent over the intractable lines of The Prelude The Prelude, that long narrative of his early life whose writing and rewriting occupied him for the best part of fifty years. So much elided, so much glossed over. While it had the appearance of candid revelation, the biographers had demonstrated that it was in fact a construct that stripped William's early life of anything personally scandalous or politically questionable. That didn't detract from its value as poetry, but it cast serious doubts on its worth as biography. Which, paradoxically, made Jane feel all the more strongly that there was merit to her theory. The absence of direct written evidence in William's published work, given so much else that was absent, did not mean the events she pictured had not taken place.Jane pedalled on down Langmere Fell, the busy water of the Lang Burn chattering on her left as it cascaded brimful towards Thirlmere. As she slowed down for the junction with the main road by Town Head, she wondered if, when they'd met again, William had recognised the prodigal immediately. Bligh's description of the twenty-three-year-old at the beginning of the voyage stuck in her mind. He stood five feet nine inches tall, above average height for the time. He had a noticeably dark complexion, which would have been darkened further by years of exposure to the sea winds and the strong sun of the southern oceans. According to Bligh, he'd been 'strong made' though slightly bow-legged. She imagined him as a sort of Caravaggio figure, a chiaroscuro of light and shade at the captain's table, his dark eyes glinting in candlelight. Striking, distinctive-looking. She didn't think it would have taken the observant poet long to connect the apparent stranger with the spirited boy he'd known in his youth. It must have rocked him to his foundations. Just when he'd smoothed over his own slightly disreputable past and reinvented himself as the poet with moral authority, here was one of the most notorious figures in recent history standing before him, claiming the obligations of friendship. It was nothing if not dramatic. At least William would probably have been spared a witness to his discomfiture; their reunion would certainly have been a private encounter, since Fletcher could hardly have hazarded anything else.Jane passed the turning for Grasmere and rounded the curve in the road. Now she could see the signs for Dove Cottage and the Wordsworth Museum. At least it wouldn't be too busy today, she thought. Not like high summer, when tourists crammed into the tiny rooms where the Wordsworth family had lived their cramped, sociable lives. William would have regarded it as nothing less than his due; he had never really doubted his genius, fretting only that the world was a little behind him in that respect.Jane parked her bike then entered the pretty cafe with its pine chairs and tables. Anthony Catto was sitting in a corner reading the morning paper. He looked more like an ageing rocker than a museum curator, with his long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail and his oblong designer glasses perched on his nose. He was wearing what Jane had come to recognise as his working uniformwork boots, faded jeans, denim shirt and a brown leather waistcoat whose pockets were always bulging with the reminders he constantly scribbled for himself then promptly consigned to what he referred to as 'the working files'. But in spite of his appearance, there was nobody alive who knew more about the life and work of William Wordsworth and his family. His adult life had been a quest for information about the poet and his world that bordered on the fanatical. More than that, there was none of the jealous guarding of his knowledge that Jane had found so depressingly prevalent in academic life. Anthony was generous to a fault with his erudition. Some might have said generous to the point of boredom; Jane would not have been one of them.'Morning, Anthony,' she called as she headed for the table.He looked up, his craggy face creasing into a smile. 'Jane, my dear,' he said, his voice rich and plummy as Jack Horner's pudding. 'How lovely to see you.' He unfolded his lanky height from the chair and extended a hand. Jane took his warm dry palm in her chilled one and shook it. 'My, but you're cold,' he exclaimed.'I cycled down from Fellhead. It felt mild when I started out, but it ended up a bit colder than I expected,' she admitted ruefully.'City life's making you soft. You're losing that Lakeland hardiness,' he said, pouring her a coffee.'No, that's bred in the bone. It'll take more than a bit of cold to see me off.' Jane sipped her coffee appreciatively.'Well, Jane, I'm most intrigued by this letter of Mary's. After we spoke, I tracked it down, right where you told me it would be.' He shook his head, mouth twisted into an expression of disapproval. 'Extraordinary that nobody came across it before. Well, I say extraordinary. But there are still far too many items in the archive that still haven't been fully catalogued.''And it was tucked inside the wrong envelope. Do you think it refers to a poem?'He tugged at his earlobe. 'Mary is annoyingly nonspecific, isn't she? It could be a letter, it could be notes for a poem, or it could be a poem itself. Or indeed, all three. Tell me why you think it might be a poem.''I think Fletcher Christian came back,' Jane said abruptly. She felt as if she'd been telling this story in one form or another for days. But she knew she would have to earn Anthony's help so she prepared to give it a new spin.Anthony's smile bordered on the indulgent. 'Ah, that old Lakeland chestnut. Still, though somewhat implausible, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility.''I'm glad you think so. Now, I believe he left Pitcairn somewhere around 1793 or 1794. Certainly before the children were old enough to have any memory of him. It's hard to know how long he took to get back to England. Whether he made his escape on a whaler or managed to sail all the way to South America in one of the jolly boats, he would still have had to make his way across to the Atlantic and work his passage back, probably as an ordinary seaman. All of that would have taken time. Years, perhaps.'Anthony nodded. 'Agreed.''Now, even though he knew he'd probably been convicted of mutiny in his absence, he had no reason to suppose that anyone outside the seafaring establishment would know anything about it. He wasn't to know that Bligh's phenomenal voyage had turned the mutiny into the eighteenth-century equivalent of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. It must have been a hell of a shock when he discovered he was notorious.' It must have been a hell of a shock when he discovered he was notorious.'Anthony frowned. 'He was a bright chap, your Mr Christian, wasn't he?''By all accounts, yes. Why do you ask?''It would have made a certain sense for him to have remained overseas while he communicated with someone at home he could trust. If for no other reason than to make arrangements for his return.'Jane nodded. 'Perfect sense.''And that might well explain the curious incident of William's letter to the Weekly Entertainer,' Weekly Entertainer,' Anthony said. 'You know about the letter, of course?' Anthony said. 'You know about the letter, of course?''William wrote to the paper to repudiate a pamphlet purportedly written by Fletcher describing his post-Bounty adventures. I've seen the pamphlet and it's the most preposterous rubbish.' adventures. I've seen the pamphlet and it's the most preposterous rubbish.''But it had clearly gained sufficient currency with the public at large for William to rise above the parapet to denounce it as spurious. Not only is it the only reference in his writings to the mutiny, but it's also the only letter he ever sent to a newspaper that was signed with his own name rather than a pseudonym. Doesn't he say something along the lines of having the best authority for his assertion? Which might suggest that Edward Christian knew exactly where his brother was, or at least knew enough to persuade William to state categorically that the pamphlet was a farrago of lies.' Anthony leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his rationale. 'So far, so logical. But how do we get from this point to the putative poem?'Jane smiled. 'It's all a question of timing. I think Fletcher stayed away until the Bounty Bounty was old news. I think he came back around 1804.' was old news. I think he came back around 1804.''Why then, specifically?''By then, England was at war with France and every sailor's mind was focused on Napoleon. Nelson, not Bligh, was the naval hero on everyone's lips. It had been ten years since Fletcher had escaped from Pitcairn and I'd guess he was pretty bitter and frustrated that Bligh had robbed him of that time at home. He must have desperately wanted to put his side of the story. Wouldn't you?''Absolutely.' Anthony rubbed his chin. 'I see now where you're going with this. By 1804, William was not only a poet of some reputation, he had also shifted his interest from short lyric poetry to the epic. He was working on The Prelude. The Prelude. He was probably He was probably dreaming dreaming in iambic pentameter. He was in precisely the right creative place to deal with the material.' in iambic pentameter. He was in precisely the right creative place to deal with the material.''Right. And what could be more natural than Fletcher turning to William? Who better to tell his side of the story than someone he'd known since boyhood?''Imagine how disappointed Fletcher must have been when he realised William was never going to publish it.' Anthony smiled at her, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Jane, you've spun a very pretty web out of next to nothing. How do you propose to anchor it more firmly to reality?'Jane grinned. 'Well, in an ideal world, Anthony, we'd open one of your boxes and find William's notes and the completed poem.''Failing that?''I need to find John's reply to Mary. That might give me some clues where to start looking for whatever it was William didn't want anyone to see.'Anthony pursed his lips. 'I don't recall ever reading anything of that nature.'And you would if you had, Jane thought. She still remembered once asking Anthony if he knew when the back door to Dove Cottage had been built. Without hesitation, he had replied, 'It must have been in or around March 1804. Dorothy refers in a letter that month to it having been installed.' If John's letter to his mother was in the archives, Anthony would know. 'That's a pity,' she said.Anthony raised an admonitory finger. 'But there are a couple of boxes of family letters that have not been fully catalogued. They've been sitting at the back of a cupboard for years. We only found them when we were packing up the archive for the transfer to the new centre. Deborah took a quick look through and they were from after William's death, so there seemed little urgency about getting to them. You're very welcome to take a pass through them yourself.' Never one to hang around, he drained his coffee cup and stood up expectantly. 'There is a price, of course,' he added as they walked back to the kitchen.Jane felt a slight tingle of surprise. It wasn't like Anthony to be so direct about the trading of favours. He was normally far too much the diplomat. 'Of course,' she said.'You have to express undying admiration for our new Jerwood Centre,' he said, turning back to show her an impish smile.'I think I can just about afford that,' she said, following him out of the cafe.

We arrived in Otaheite on the 25th day of October 1788 after a long and treacherous voyage. We had failed to breach the Horn, so had to turn back and make our voyage the long way round by way of the Cape of Good Hope. The men were exhausted and sick, notwithstanding Lieutenant Bligh's insistence that they dance every day on deck to maintain good physical condition. Otaheite seemed to all like a paradise on earth rich in everything a man could desire. I considered myself fortunate in that I was sent to build a camp ashore, where I was to supervise the collection of the breadfruit whose transportation was the very purpose of our voyage. Among the men I chose to accompany me was young Peter Heywood, in part because I thought him safer under my care than on board under a captain who would not hesitate to make him victim to his vindictive spirit. As I look back upon it now, I believe I may have chosen the wrong path.

Tenille surfaced from sleep in a panic, not remembering for a moment why the light was coming from the wrong direction. She thrashed free of the unfamiliar duvet in the strange bed, looking wildly round as she struggled for her bearings. Then the night before piled in on her, memories tumbling over each other in a kaleidoscope of horror. Sleep had left her sticky-eyed and sweaty, the tormented dreams like a bad taste in her mouth.She tumbled out of bed and ran for the bathroom, just making it in time to throw up in the toilet. She lay huddled on the floor, shuddering at the unwanted images playing behind her eyes. Geno's blood, Geno's shredded flesh, Geno's clothes ripped to rags. She wasn't sorry he was dead; her teenage vision of the world admitted few shades of grey and, as far as she was concerned, he had been scum. But she was sorry she'd had to see what was left of him after her father had made him pay what was due.She heaved herself to her feet like an old woman and shuffled into the kitchen. Somehow, the scouring of her stomach had left her hungry. All there was in the fridge was a chunk of cheddar cheese, a carton of orange juice, half a jar of mayonnaise and the remains of a bunch of spring onions. No milk, no Coke. 'Useless,' she muttered to herself, opening cupboards. A packet of oatcakes. Pasta, rice, tinned tomatoes, kidney beans and lentils, a few packs of instant Chinese noodles. Coffee, Earl Grey tea, drinking chocolate. A box of breakfast cereal, the kind that was all dried fruit and grains. Grumbling under her breath, Tenille grabbed the cereal and tipped some into a bowl. She poured orange juice over it and took it back to the living room.She switched on the radio and tuned it to the local talk radio station. She needed to find out what they were saying about Geno's death. She climbed back into bed with her food and chewed miserably while she waited for the news bulletin.First up was some political bollocks. Why did the announcers always sound so cheerful, she wondered. Who were they trying to kid? Did they think people wouldn't notice the crap if they made it sound like they were telling you you'd won the lottery? The relentless good spirits continued to the second item. 'Police have launched a murder inquiry following a serious fire in a flat on the notorious Marshpool Farm Estate in Bow. The body of a man was discovered by the fire crew attending the blaze. Detective Inspector Donna Blair, who is leading the inquiry, has appealed for witnesses.' A new voice spoke. 'We believe that the victim may have been shot and the fire set to cover the crime,' she said, her tone blankly official. 'We would appeal for anyone who saw anything suspicious in or around G Block of Marshpool Farm Estate between ten and eleven yesterday evening to come forward.'Tenille made a derisive noise. Fat chance. Nobody was going to grass up the Hammer, not if they wanted to live to see their next birthday. The announcer moved on to the next story and she tuned out the sound of his voice. There had been no surprises in the news item. She knew from watching forensic documentaries that the fire wouldn't have disguised the fact that Geno had been blown away first. But, hopefully, it would have destroyed any traces that would lead back to her father.She ought to think about putting in an appearance. Sharon wouldn't be too worried once the police had told her there was only one body in the fire. She'd just assume Tenille had come back late and, finding the place crawling with cops and firemen, she'd done as any Marshpool Farm resident would in the circumstances and gone to ground. But she'd better not leave it too long. She decided she'd monitor the news until late afternoon, then she'd turn up, claiming she'd been sleeping at a friend's house, too frightened to show her face. That should cover it.A couple of hours later, she was interrupted in the middle of an online conversation about Keats' 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' by a knock at the door. 'Fuck,' she muttered. On silent feet she made for the door, jumping nervously as the caller knocked again, this time more loudly and for longer. Tenille edged towards the door, then inched up to the spyhole. She risked a quick look.Her mouth fell open in surprise. The last person she expected to see standing outside Jane's door was that scumbag Jake Hartnell. It had been ages since he'd fucked off. Jane hadn't said much about it, but Tenille had read the misery in her face when she talked about him going off to Greece. Now it looked as though Greece hadn't worked out and the useless wanker was back. Well, she was sure as hell not going to open up for him. Nor did she have any intention of letting Jane know he'd come knocking.The letter box rattled and Tenille pressed herself back against the wall, holding her breath. 'Jane?' he called out. Like that would have made Jane come running, Tenille thought contemptuously. She heard him sigh, then the flap clattered shut. She stayed put, wanting to make sure he was gone before she made a break for the study. Long seconds passed, then the letter box banged back and a sheet torn from a notebook fell to the mat. Tenille counted to sixty, then bent down to pick up the paper. She shook her head in exasperated disbelief as she read it. Dear Jane, I just got back from Crete and came straight round to see you, but you weren't in. I've missed you and I want to see you. I'll give you a ring later. Hope we can meet for a drink or dinner. Love, Jake. Dear Jane, I just got back from Crete and came straight round to see you, but you weren't in. I've missed you and I want to see you. I'll give you a ring later. Hope we can meet for a drink or dinner. Love, Jake.Love, Tenille thought. Adults could be so stupid. You didn't have to be a genius to know Jake's stupid note had no chance of getting a result. The way he'd upset Jane, he'd need to splash out on the entire contents of a flower shop before she'd maybe think about letting him buy her a bottle of champagne. At least, he would if Jane had any sense. Which Tenille seriously doubted where Jake was concerned. She screwed the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the bin as she went back to her chat room. No way was she going to give Jane the chance to make a fool of herself over Jake again.It was the least she could do in return for Jane sorting Geno.Jake turned away and walked briskly down the bleak gallery, frustrated at Jane's absence, wondering where she was. He was sure this wasn't one of her days for the Viking, nor did she teach today either. She should have been home. It never occurred to him that it was unreasonable to expect that her life would still run to the rhythms that had driven it when he had been part of it.He took the stairs at a run, trying not to think about why they stank of acrid smoke instead of piss, and hurried back to where he'd parked the car. To his relief, Caroline's Audi was still there, apparently untouched. He knew Marshpool Farm well enough to realise that broad daylight was no guarantee of a smart car's safety. Nor were the two police cars parked nearby. Once inside, he locked the doors and pondered his next move. He was going to have to work at getting back in with Jane again. Face to face, one to one was the best way to achieve that. The Viking was out of the question; Harry would be there at her side, ready to put the shaft in. Harry had never liked him. The university was no better a prospect. There, she'd be flanked by colleagues, friends, students, all convenient shields to hide behind. And the library was a bad idea. Too easy for her to take refuge in the silence.One thing was certain. He couldn't hang around the estate, staking out her flat like some seedy private eye. He'd attract far too much attention from the sort of people who wouldn't hesitate to do whatever it took to part him from car, wallet and mobile phone. Not to mention the police, who would be interested in anyone driving a car like the Audi around the Marshpool.At last, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he called the university. If she had changed her schedule and was teaching today, it would be a lot easier to keep watch for her there. Then he could follow her and choose his moment.When he was finally connected to the English Department secretary, she put him on hold while she made enquiries. Jake drummed his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he tried not to listen to the tinny whine of Sting's voice. What possessed the people who chose the music to fill callers' ears, he wondered. Why couldn't they choose something calm and soothing so the person hanging endlessly on the line would have their homicidal urges eased rather than exacerbated? He was profoundly grateful when the music stopped abruptly and the woman's voice came back on the line. 'You're out of luck,' she said. 'Jane Gresham isn't teaching today. In fact, she has a leave of absence. She won't be back in the department for two weeks.''Leave of absence? Why? Is there some family crisis or something?''All I can tell you is what's in the system. "Leave of absence for purposes of study", that's all it says here. If you want to leave a message, I can put it in her pigeonhole.''No, thanks all the same. I appreciate your help.' Jake ended the call with a quickening of his heart. Study leave, in the middle of term. That could only be because something unforeseen and urgent had cropped up.Something like a body in a bog, perhaps.Detective Inspector Donna Blair frowned at the forensic report. 'Are you sure?' she said.'I'm sure,' the fingerprint technician said. 'Your boys brought in the remains of a sawn-off shotgun from the scene. The stock was too badly charred for prints, but we got lucky with the barrel. Even though fire boils off the water content, if it's not too intense, the fat deposits remain on the metal. We tried Sudan Black...''Spare me the details,' Donna said.The technician shrugged. 'It's all in the report. We got a couple of prints. They don't match anyone in the database, but they do match the elimination prints we took from Tenille Cole's bedroom.'Donna shook her head, depressed at the thought. 'It fits. We've also got a witness who has her leaving the flat about five minutes before the fire was reported. OK, thanks.'Chip off the old block, Donna thought as she ran downstairs to the interview room. The Hammer's daughter seemed to be following in her old man's footsteps. The media were going to love this. There would be a feeding frenzy the minute they twigged the prime suspect was a pretty teenager with the kind of lurid background that was a gift to journalistic spin. No matter that the Hammer had taken no part in her upbringing; the connection would be enough to transform Tenille Cole into the kind of cold-blooded killer that would chill the hearts of readers all too ready to demonise any section of the population that wasn't identifiably them.Donna took a detour into the ladies' toilet where she locked herself into a cubicle. If their prime suspect was the killer, there weren't too many likely motives floating around. The obvious one was the one most calculated to piss Sharon Cole right off. Donna wanted to be ready for the fall-out. Sitting down on the toilet, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She cleared her mind, picturing waves breaking on a winter beach, until she could feel her shoulders lowering.Moments later, she was striding down the hall towards the interview room. Sharon Cole's head snapped up as soon as Donna entered the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she held herself erect in her chair. 'What're you keeping me here for?' she demanded. 'I'm the victim here.'Donna understood the emotions hiding behind Sharon's bravado. She had a gift for empathy. But while most cops who shared that knack used it to get alongside their target, coaxing information from them, Donna had a different approach. She used her understanding to dive under their guard and go straight for their vulnerabilities. The more uncomfortable she felt, the more she knew she was unsettling her opponent. Come a certain point and they would crack open for her. Her forensic skill at dissecting witnesses and suspects made her colleagues regard her with wariness. She didn't care. She got the results and that was what counted. Taking bastards off the streets, that's what she was there for, not social work.Donna waited till she was seated opposite Sharon before she opened her mouth. 'Don't give me that victim routine, Sharon. You're guilty as hell and you know it.'Confusion wriggled across Sharon's face. This wasn't how she expected to be treated, not after the solicitude she'd experienced at the hands of the officers who had brought her in. 'I was at work all night. Ask anybody, they'll tell you.''You might not have blown Geno to kingdom come. You might not have fired your own flat. But you're responsible for what went down there last night.' Donna could feel Sharon's anger. What she wanted was unease, but she wasn't there yet.'That's bullshit. You saying I hired some hitman? Why would I do a thing like that? I loved Geno.'Donna rolled her eyes. 'Oh please, spare me that. All you were to each other was a convenient shag. Though, come to think of it, some people in your shoes would have considered hiring a button man.''What do you mean, "in my shoes"?'Now the unease was there. Time for Donna to make her move. 'A woman whose man is playing around on her with her thirteen-year-old niece,' Donna said. 'Some women''Wait a fucking minute,' Sharon yelped, interrupting. 'What the fuck are you saying? You saying Geno was messing with Tenille?' She tried to look contemptuous, but the quiver in her curled lip told another story.'I can't think of any other reason why Tenille would blow the bastard away, can you?'Sharon's eyes widened and she pulled her lips back, hissing through her teeth. 'You're crazy, bitch. Tenille wouldn't do a thing like that.''I don't think I'm crazy,' Donna said. 'Tenille's fingerprints are on the gun. Tenille was seen running away from the flat only minutes before the alarm was raised. And she's not been seen since. Doesn't look good for the kid, Sharon.'Sharon twitched, her eyes cutting to Donna, fear showing through the cracks. 'No way was Geno a paedo. It was me he wanted. You're just trying to get me riled up. I don't believe you.'Donna shrugged. 'Like I care. Right now, Tenille is my number one suspect. And you're going to tell me where I can find her.''Think again, bitch. Why would I help you fit her up for murder?'The defiance was only skin deep, Donna knew. It wouldn't take much to puncture it. She leaned forward and fixed her fierce blue eyes on Sharon's watery brown ones. 'Because if you don't, I'll start working on the assumption that you knew Geno was abusing Tenille and you put the kid up to killing him. To protect herself and to take revenge for your hurt pride. And I'll make sure Tenille and her brief know that's the way I'm thinking. It'll take some of the heat off her and turn it right on you, Sharon.'Sharon glowered. 'Even if I knew where Tenille was, I wouldn't tell you, bitch. No way Geno was messing with her, and if I'd have thought that, I wouldn't have left it to Tenille to handle it.''No? Who would you have gone to? Her father?'Sharon looked away. 'She hasn't got a father.''That's not what they say on the Marshpool. They say the Hammer is her dad.' Donna let the words hang for a moment. 'In fact, that might be a better way to go. I could go to the Hammer and suggest that the best way to protect his daughter is to maintain that her Auntie Sharon put her up to it. I'm sure the Hammer wouldn't have any problem finding some luckless sod to admit he supplied the gun to you, Sharon. I'm thinking the Hammer is going to care more about his kid than he is about you.'Sharon pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket. Donna batted the pack from her fingers. 'No smoking in here,' she said. 'Besides, you'll need more than a nicotine hit to protect you from the Hammer. Where is she, Sharon?'Sharon flashed her a glare of pure loathing then looked away. 'I don't know where she is, and that's the truth.''Friends. Homies. Who does she hang with?'Sharon sighed. 'She's a loner. She doesn't fit in. She hangs out at the library.'Donna snorted. 'Gimme a break. You expect me to believe the Hammer's kid spends her free time in the reference room?''We're not all stupid scum, you know,' Sharon flared up. 'Tenille's a bright girl. Wants to make something of herself.''That's not what the school says. Her attendance record sucks, and you know it.'Sharon made a sharp sound of irritation. 'Maybe so. But that girl could show her teachers a thing or two.''And she learns all this at the library?' Donna said, her tone dripping disbelief.'Some teachers got more sense than the ones at that school,' Sharon said. 'There's a woman lives on the estate. She teaches at the university. Tenille goes round her flat sometimes.'Donna's interest quickened as she sensed truth. 'Name and address,' she demanded, reaching for pen and paper.Sharon shrugged. 'I don't know. She lives in our block, I think. But I don't know where.''You're telling me Tenille was spending all this time with a strange woman in her flat and you don't know where it is?' Donna faked belligerent outrage. She knew there was nothing unusual in Sharon's behaviour, not on the Marshpool where a depressing number of parents had no clue where their kids were at any given hour of the day or night.'It's better than hanging around the estate smoking drugs and drinking cans,' Sharon said combatively. 'All I know about this woman is she's called Jane and she's a teacher at the university.''Which one?'Sharon looked baffled. 'Just, the university.'Donna pushed her chair back, the legs shrieking on the vinyl tiles. 'I'm going to check this out. You better not be lying to me, Sharon. Far as I'm concerned, till I talk to Tenille you're still in the frame.''You can't do this,' Sharon protested, getting to her feet. 'I want to go.'Donna jumped up and rounded the table with breathtaking speed. Toe to toe with Sharon, so close she could smell the cooking fat in her hair, she held the other woman's eyes. 'Don't make me arrest you, Sharon. I can have you banged up here on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder and arson so fast your eyes will water. Now, be a good girl and sit down.'Sharon backed away from her. The chair caught the back of her knees and she fell clumsily on to the hard seat.Donna smiled. 'I'll have someone bring you a cup of tea.' She headed for the door. Gotcha, Tenille. Gotcha, Tenille.

Our work, though tedious, was easy enough. Our mission was to collect eight hundred breadfruit plants, and this we had achieved in a mere two weeks. But to have set sail for home at that point would have been near suicidal. No captain with any regard for his ship or his cargo would attempt to cross the Pacific in the rainy season, nor would he have any prospect of clearing the Endeavour Straits in the teeth of the head-on prevailing winds. And so we were of necessity confined on Otaheite until the 4th day of April in the following year. This was in truth no hardship for officers nor men. The natives were hospitable, the women generous with their favours, the food good and plentiful, the climate most delightful. We learned to speak the native tongue and they called me Titreano, the nearest they could come to pronouncing my family name. I formed many friendships, among them Mauatua, who later became my wife and whom I christened Isabella, for my cousin Isabella Curwen. For my part, the separation from Bligh was only an added benefit to a life that was the most pleasurable I had ever known.