Blackstone fell, p.1
Blackstone Fell, page 1
MARTIN EDWARDS:
WINNER OF THE CWA DIAMOND DAGGER 2020
‘Martin knows more about crime fiction than anyone else working in the field today. He’s always been a fan of the genre and his passion shines through in his work: the fiction, the non-fiction and the short stories. In his editing, he’s brought new writers and forgotten favourites to discerning readers. I’m delighted his work is being recognised in this way.’
Ann Cleeves
‘Martin’s fiction alone makes him a truly worthy winner of the Diamond Dagger. His editorial excellence, his erudition, his enthusiasm for and contributions to the genre, his support of other writers, and his warm-hearted friendship are the icing on the cake.’
Lee Child
‘Martin Edwards is a thoroughly deserved winner of this prized award. He has contributed so much to the genre, not only through the impressive canon of his own wonderfully written novels, but through his tireless work for crime writing in the UK.’
Peter James
‘Martin is not only one of the finest crime writers of his generation. He is the heir to Julian Symons and H.R.F. Keating as the leading authority on our genre, fostering and promoting it with unflagging enthusiasm, to the benefit of us all. I’m delighted that our community can show its gratitude by honouring him in this way.’
Peter Lovesey
‘Martin Edwards is a wonderful choice to receive the Diamond Dagger. He’s a very fine writer but has also devoted huge energy to both the CWA and Detection Club – all done quietly and companionably, which is a rare thing. I love a man who takes care of archives. I am delighted for him, but as we always say: it’s for lifetime achievement – but please don’t stop what you do so well!’
Lindsey Davis
‘Martin Edwards is not only a fine writer but he is also ridiculously knowledgeable about the field of crime and suspense fiction. He wears his learning lightly and is always the most congenial company. He is also a great champion of crime writing and crime writers. His novels feature an acute sense of place as well as deep psychological insights. As a solicitor, he knows the legal world more intimately than most of his fellow novelists. He is a fitting winner of the Diamond Dagger.’
Ian Rankin
BY MARTIN EDWARDS
The Lake District Mysteries
The Coffin Trail
The Cipher Garden
The Arsenic Labyrinth
The Serpent Pool
The Hanging Wood
The Frozen Shroud
The Dungeon House
The Crooked Shore
The Harry Devlin Series
All the Lonely People
Suspicious Minds
I Remember You
Yesterday’s Papers
Eve of Destruction
The Devil in Disguise
First Cut is the Deepest
Waterloo Sunset
The Rachel Savernake Series
Gallows Court
Mortmain Hall
Blackstone Fell
Fiction
Take My Breath Away
Dancing for the Hangman
Non-Fiction
Catching Killers
Truly Criminal
The Golden Age of Murder
The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books
The Life of Crime
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Martin Edwards, 2022
The moral right of Martin Edwards to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781801100205
ISBN (XTPB): 9781801100212
ISBN (E): 9781801100236
Cover design: Edward Bettison
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
Dedicated to Dea Parkin, my partner in ‘Crafting Crime’
Contents
Martin Edwards: Winner of the CWA Diamond Dagger 2020
By Martin Edwards
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Cluefinder
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Map
NELL FAGAN’S MAP OF BLACKSTONE FELL (NOT TO SCALE)
1
‘Seeing isn’t always believing.’
Nell Fagan was talking to herself. She stood on a wide ledge of rock, a natural platform jutting out from Blackstone Fell. Under a low autumn sun, this remote corner of the Pennines masqueraded as a green and pleasant land. Beech leaves gleamed golden in the ravine below. A river rushed from the gorge past the village which shared its name with the Fell. Mellow light bathed the grey stone of manor house, rectory, church, and graveyard. Beyond the church, a tall round tower cast long shadows.
Her mind whirled. Could she believe the evidence of her own eyes, or was her vivid imagination playing a cruel trick? She’d hoped the peace and quiet up here would help to straighten out her thoughts, but she lacked Rachel Savernake’s cool head. If only she had someone to confide in, to help her make sense of the apparently impossible; but she’d misjudged her approach to Rachel and made an enemy of her. In any case Rachel was in London, and so was Peggy, her oldest and closest friend. Nell was on her own, two hundred miles from home. The Smoke and the Slump belonged to a different world.
Nobody in Blackstone Fell knew who she was or how she earned a living. Far less that murder had brought her here. She’d adopted a false name and was pretending to be an ardent photographer. It gave her a good excuse to poke around, snapping pictures of people and places at every opportunity.
Last night she’d walked down to the lower village to wet her whistle at The New Jerusalem. The public bar was a stronghold of taciturn masculinity, but she’d made her way in a man’s world, and the old curmudgeons weren’t going to intimidate her. Even if she was no diplomat, nobody could accuse her of lacking courage or self-belief. Announcing herself as the new tenant of Blackstone Lodge, she insisted on standing everyone a round of drinks.
She was bursting with curiosity about her new home, she explained. What was this story about its strange past? Why had nobody ever lived there until now? Had people really disappeared without trace? Should she be afraid? The regulars responded with shrugs and vague mutterings and turned their attention back to the dartboard. If an outsider was stupid enough to rent a place with such wretched history, that was her lookout.
The rector’s wife was right, Nell thought. Judith Royle maintained that the villagers gave nothing away to strangers. Certainly not to an ungainly Londoner who reeked of tobacco and gin and could talk the hind legs off a donkey. When she wondered aloud about what went on inside Blackstone Sanatorium, nobody paid any attention. If the R101 had crashed on Blackstone Moor the other day, rather than a French field, they’d barely have spared the airship a glance before getting back to their dominoes and shove ha’penny.
She felt an unexpected chill. The sunshine was deceptive, like Blackstone Fell. A gust of wind rattled the tripod on which her camera perched precariously. It was a Vest Pocket Kodak in a vivid shade known as Redbreast. To be on the safe side, she unscrewed the camera from the tripod.
A sudden cacophony shattered the silence, deafening enough to make her bones rattle. She glanced up. A huge lump of rock was thundering down the jagged slope, heading straight for her. Throwing herself backwards, she lost her balance. She collapsed in a heap and the camera slipped from her hand. The boulder missed her head by inches and smashed the tripod to smithereens.
*
The shock dazed her. Her ears were ringing and her ankle hurt. She’d grazed her cheek and bruised her elbow. The taste of blood was on her lips. Heart pounding, she wondered if she’d be buried in an avalanche. She dared not move an inch.
Craning her neck, she stared at the rocky outcrop above her head. Not a soul to be seen. Birds sang in the distance. The breeze ruffled her hair. Nothing else happened.
As the minutes passed, her confidence rose. Gingerly, she shifted her leg. The movement made her wince, but she’d not broken a bone. She was still in one piece.
‘Better to be born lucky than rich,’ she told herself.
Was the falling boulder a chance event, an act of God? The face of the crag was unstable, loosened by recent storms. When she’d mentioned coming to the Fell to take photographs, the rector’s wife had warned of the risks and urged her to keep away. Nell took no notice. Over the years, more than one villain had tried to cause her harm. For an investigative journalist, jeopardy came with the job.
Struggling to her feet, she dusted herself down. The pain in her ankle was easing. Shame about the tripod, but thank goodness her camera was undamaged, even if its red sheen was scarred. At least she’d not lost her precious photographs.
A long soak in her tub would set her right. The descent from the ledge wasn’t challenging and she put her best foot forward, only to halt in mid-stride. Placing weight on the damaged leg brought tears to her eyes.
For a good five minutes, she massaged her ankle. Her scuffed satchel had escaped the boulder. She groped inside for her flask and swallowed a mouthful of brandy.
That was better. Fortifying.
She closed her eyes and tried to persuade herself that she was a victim of freakish misfortune. The fall of the boulder was pure bad luck.
In her head she heard Peggy’s brisk voice, reproaching her long ago for a childish fib.
‘You’re not so good at lying as you think. I can see straight through you.’
Stern words. Peggy had become her governess when she was five years old and she never stood for any nonsense, but she didn’t mean to be unkind.
Nell couldn’t say the same for Rachel Savernake. There was a menacing edge to Rachel’s cool disdain. Nell itched to find out more about her. Why was she so fascinated by crime? Nell knew in her bones that a story lurked behind that lovely, enigmatic facade, begging to be told. Unfortunately Rachel guarded her privacy with a ruthless zeal. Their one and only meeting had ended in disaster. She’d felt the lash of Rachel’s scorn as the young woman echoed Peggy’s old rebuke.
‘Did you really imagine that I’d fall for such a tissue of lies? You’re only deceiving yourself.’
Nell breathed out. Any journalist worth her salt played games with the truth, but this was no time for wishful thinking. Peggy and Rachel were right. She must be honest, if only with herself. The boulder hadn’t crashed down of its own accord.
Someone wanted her dead.
She expelled a long, low sigh. No hope of catching her assailant. This side of the Fell was steep; the climb above the ledge was best left to mountain goats. Out of sight, a gentler ascent from the lower village wound up the far side of the crag to the summit. Yesterday, Nell had lumbered up that way, intent on getting her bearings. At the top, in the teeth of a fierce north wind, she’d steadied herself against a cairn. The boulder was poised on the edge. To shift it wouldn’t require great strength. Now that lump of rock had almost killed her.
This ledge was visible to anyone standing close to the cairn. Perhaps someone had climbed Blackstone Fell with murder in mind, or perhaps they merely wanted to spy on her. Nell imagined an enemy catching sight of her as she bent over the bright red camera. Kodak’s advertising boasted of its gloriously colourful appearance and urged girl graduates, brides, and debutantes to take up photography. A would-be assassin had found Nell an irresistible target and come close to committing the perfect crime. When her body was found, everyone would presume she’d suffered a tragic misfortune and that the boulder had tumbled of its own accord.
Already, the culprit might be anywhere. Crossing Blackstone Moor or strolling along the river bank back to the upper village, with no one any the wiser.
Nell took another gulp from the flask.
The brandy burned her throat, a sensation she adored. Alcohol fuelled her self-belief. Squaring her shoulders, she breathed out. Now she knew what she was up against. The attempt on her life proved she was on the right track. Blackstone Fell was home to a killer. Perhaps more than one.
A couple of Woodbines and a dog-eared copy of The Amateur Photographer had slipped out of the satchel. She retrieved them and put the camera in its case. If she’d made a false move, she wasn’t alone. Her arrival in Blackstone Fell had panicked someone into attempted murder. But she’d lived to tell the tale.
*
A muddy path forked close to the base of Blackstone Fell. One route zigzagged down to the river. The other led to the mouth of a cave before looping back to re-join the main track at the riverbank, close to the stepping stones at Blackstone Leap.
Nell strode in the opposite direction, away from the ravine. She followed the path along a shelf of land which jutted out above the water and then descended towards the clapper bridge. On the other side of the bridge was a pebbled lane that meandered through the upper village. The river flowed down the sloping land towards the lower village, known as Blackstone Foot. The main path followed the course of the river, while a track branched off and wound back up the incline to meet the lane close to the churchyard. Whoever pushed the boulder had a choice of routes from any part of the village to the far side of the Fell and back again.
Halfway across the bridge, she heard a rifle shot.
She froze. There was nowhere to hide. And nobody in sight. She didn’t dare to breathe.
A second shot rang out a few moments later. A distant squealing filled the air.
Looking up, she saw a flurry of birds flying off towards the Tower.
She waited.
Nothing. The tension seeped out of her. She realised where the shooting came from. Yesterday afternoon, the rector’s wife had invited her to tea. Judith Royle had mentioned that her husband owned an old rifle, and enjoyed taking pot shots at birds in the rectory orchard or the open countryside.
That must be it. The Reverend Quintus Royle was a man of God. He didn’t want to kill her, just a harmless bird or two.
Nell exhaled. Her prejudices about rural England were confirmed. She’d always regarded Wordsworth and Thomas Hardy as overrated. As for the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…
‘Welcome to Blackstone Fell,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’d sooner take my chances in Soho.’
*
Nell headed down the lane. On her right was an empty stone cottage. The land agent had offered her a tenancy, but she’d chosen to rent the tower gatehouse. The cost was a pittance, thanks to Blackstone Lodge’s dark history.
Imposing wrought-iron gates on the left marked the entrance to the manor house, home to Professor Sambrook and his two adult children, Denzil and Daphne. At the turn of the century, the professor was renowned as Britain’s leading alienist, a rival to Freud, Adler, and Jung. Shortly after building Blackstone Sanatorium to treat his patients and conduct research, his wife had been killed in a car accident. For the past twenty-five years he’d shunned the outside world.
Nell was itching to discover what went on inside Blackstone Sanatorium. She had a prejudice against psychiatry – witchcraft for the intellectual classes – but she’d come here to follow up a curious lead. Was something sinister going on behind those high stone walls out on the windswept moor?
Now something else had happened, something that—
A dark blue car roared out of a gateway, swinging past her nose and into the lane. The shock made her stagger and the driver gave a belated fanfare on his horn.
‘Hey!’ she bellowed. ‘You could have killed me!’
He screeched to a halt. The car had shot out from the grounds of a house opposite Blackstone Manor. Its sleek appearance and acceleration were worthy of Le Mans. Turning in his seat, the driver pulled off his goggles and waved at Nell.
‘Awfully sorry!’ he called. ‘She really is a fast lady. Keeps taking me by surprise.’
‘Me too,’ Nell growled.
‘A thousand apologies.’ The man’s grin was undeniably engaging. ‘We met yesterday afternoon when I called at the rectory. Mrs Royle introduced us.’
‘Of course I remember, Dr Carrodus.’
As she approached the car, she was conscious of his scrutiny. ‘That’s quite a limp. Surely I didn’t wing you? I’d never forgive myself. I’m supposed to heal people, not hurt them.’
