Free The Cipher Garden by Martin Edwards Page B

could hardly be more different: the sceptical academic lawyer and the free spirit. But they were making an effort. Louise had changed into a svelte new frock and he guessed she’d dropped a dress size since he’d last seen her, with the odious Rodney in tow. She said all the right things about the cottage, while Miranda rhapsodised about his sister’s taste in fashion before starting to pump her for embarrassing anecdotes from his childhood. He was content to be the butt of their humour until it was time to sidle off to the kitchen to cook dinner for three.
    Later, as they relaxed in the living room, Miranda mentioned Barrie Gilpin and Daniel found himself having to explain the part he’d played in one of Hannah Scarlett’s cases, the murder of the woman found on the Sacrifice Stone.
    ‘As a boy, he could never resist a mystery,’ Louise told Miranda. ‘That’s why he loves unravelling the past. So this police officer was Dad’s old sidekick? Or more than that? Was there something between them?’
    ‘She isn’t like that.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘Neither was he.’
    Louise’s eyebrows arched. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten, he had form. Look at the way he left us in the lurch for a young woman on the make.’
    Miranda saw his brow clouding and quickly changed the subject to the tribulations of dealing with tradesmen. But the mellow mood had been spoiled and he finished his drink in silence. The slur angered him. He was angry for his father, even more so for Hannah.
     
    ‘A good haul?’ Hannah asked.
    ‘Fantastic.’ Marc was sitting cross-legged on the rug in the dining room, marooned in a sea of old books. ‘The chap was a connoisseur. I mean, there he was living in this ordinary semi in Ravenglass and up in the spare bedroom he’d assembled this treasure trove. His sister couldn’t care less, she had no idea of what he’d collected over the years.’
    ‘I hope you paid a fair price.’
    ‘Of course.’ He was all injured innocence. ‘You know me.’
    Well, yes. When it came to business, he was like every dealer she’d met. Books, antiques, whatever, they were all the same, they took as much pleasure from contriving a little extra profit on the negotiation than from contemplating the rarities they’d bought.
    She joined him on the rug and picked up a couple of thin books in gaudy wrappers. She liked to take an interest in his business, just as she was happy to talk when he asked about her latest case. With police work, some things had to remain confidential, but her instinct was to be open. There were too many secrets in the world. He’d kept one or two himself, not least the affair with Leigh’s sister that he’d briefly resumed years back, in the early days of their own relationship.
    ‘You’re like a pig in muck this evening.’
    He beamed. ‘I know you worry about this idea of murder for pleasure, but there’s wonderful escapism here. Red harvest, green for danger, five red herrings, nine tailors, murder in Mesopotamia and on the Orient Express. See these Inspector French books? Written by a railway engineer whose culprits concocted alibis based on the assumption that trains ran precisely to timetable.’
    ‘Jesus, what murderer in his right mind would risk that?’
    ‘Nostalgic, or what? Those were the days.’
    ‘Actually, I yearn for chance to gather suspects in the library. No worries about reading them their rights. At least in those books you can count on finding out the solution if you battle through the last page.’
    He hugged her close. She often forgot how sinewy his arms were. Each time they held her, she was happy to remember.
    ‘Tough day at work?’
    ‘We have a new cold case. A landscape gardener, murdered with his own scythe. Grisly.’
    ‘As it happens, I was talking about gardens in the shop today with your friend Daniel Kind.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ Mention of Daniel quickened her pulse, but she mustn’t seem too interested. The last thing she