The Puzzle of Blackstone Lodge by Martin Edwards

Author:Martin Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks

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Trueman shaved in his room above the bar before going downstairs. He felt crushed by a sense of failure. Daphne had put the name of his mythical father-in-law on a waiting list, but said it might be weeks before they could take on another patient. When he emphasised his desperation in the face of his father-in-law’s wild accusations, she simply replied that they could make no promises.

Thank goodness he’d taken Rachel’s advice and masqueraded as his cousin. Surely they wouldn’t go so far as visiting Workington to check his bona fides?

Nothing had been said to suggest that the professor disposed of his patients, with or without his son’s assistance, in return for their outrageous fees. Trueman told himself he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. Distracted, he nicked his chin with the cut-throat razor for the first time in years.

Nell Fagan was dead and he was no further forward. He needed some beer inside him.

He’d presumed that the death of a stranger would be the talk of The New Jerusalem, but when he walked into the bar, this wasn’t the case. The regulars were preoccupied with their darts, dominoes, and shove ha’penny, while the landlord stonewalled his conversational overtures before joining a couple of cronies to argue about football.

His hopes rose when Dilys emerged from the back room. “Wondered if it was your night off,” he said, as she poured him a second pint.

She cast a resentful glance towards Crawshaw. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

“I heard talk about that woman who died up at Blackstone Fell.” He shook his head mournfully. “Shocking business.”

“Isn’t it just?” Dilys’s eyes shone with excitement. “She’d rented the Lodge, you know. Nobody ever lived there before. Nobody dared. It stood empty all those years when the Lejeunes owned it. Being scientific folk, the Sambrooks have no use for old wives’ tales—and look what’s happened!” Dilys leaned towards him. “She came in here, you know, the deceased.”

“Is that right?” He allowed his gaze to linger on the barmaid’s figure. She still hadn’t mastered the knack of buttoning her blouse properly.

“Oh yes, served her myself. Smoked like a chimney, she did. Horrid cheroot things. And she liked a drink. You can always tell.”

“I bet you can.”

“Called herself Grace, she did, but not wishing to speak ill of the dead, there was nowt graceful about her. Cornelia Grace, that’s how she introduced herself. But it was a lie. I heard on the grapevine, she was an impostor.”

“Get away!”

Dilys was thrilled to share exclusive gossip. “From what I hear, her real name was Fagan. And guess what?”

Looking suitably agog, Trueman breathed, “Go on!”

“She was a newspaper reporter. Came from London.”

“Good grief. What was a newshound doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Folk say she was going to write about the Lodge and its strange past. Why else would a journalist want to rent the place?”

“What happened to her, exactly?”

“Sounds like she went noseying around in the cave. Maybe she disturbed the rock. It’s not safe, but she was a stranger.

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