Free The Grave Tattoo by Val McDermid Page A

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.’ 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,’ 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.

7
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. 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