Chapter 7
Although Poe still had his old shepherd’s cottage on Shap Fell, he now lived just outside Corbridge in Northumberland.
He’d got married the year before, and Herdwick Croft simply wasn’t big enough for him, Estelle Doyle-Poe – she’d insisted on taking his name – and Edgar the spaniel.
So he’d moved into Highwood, Estelle’s ancestral home.
They still had the occasional weekend in Cumbria, and whenever Estelle was lecturing abroad or down south, Poe took the opportunity to spend time on the most desolate, inhospitable fell in northern Europe. It cheered him up.
When he and Bradshaw had taken the plunge and left their respective jobs to set up as private investigators, Carlisle was the most obvious location.
Newcastle was nearer to Corbridge, but it was a metropolitan city with several established PIs.
Cumbria didn’t have any. There were local adverts, but all they did was direct you to big firms in Manchester, Birmingham, even London.
And Bradshaw’s work for Alastor Locke could be done anywhere she could plug in her computer.
Poe drove up Highwood’s long and winding drive, startled some roe deer and attracted the attention of some bullocks. Edgar heard the car and came bounding out to greet him. Estelle met him at the door.
‘You been home long?’ he asked, kissing her cheek.
‘Just got back from the hospital now.’
‘Kill anyone good?’
‘No one who didn’t deserve it.’
Estelle was a forensic pathologist. All her patients were dead.
‘Tilly tells me you have a case.’
Poe nodded. ‘Weird one,’ he said. ‘She has this thing with her hand. Can’t control it.’
‘Alien hand syndrome?’
‘Yeah. She threw a load of pop around my office. Made my table all sticky.’
‘Well, this is a pre-dinner tale,’ she said, linking arms. ‘Brunton’s got corned-beef hash bubbling away on the Aga. You can tell me about it while the potatoes soften.’
They poured themselves drinks – Spun Gold for Poe, red wine for Estelle – and drank them while Poe told her about his day, from his scrap with the idiot in Indica’s tattoo studio to Esmerée’s independent hand making itself known. When he finished, she just had one question.
‘Where is she now?’
‘Who, Esmerée?’
‘Yes. Where is she right this second?’
‘I have no idea. Why?’
‘Because if what she told you is true, if she was a live-in chambermaid and she did flee Adam Malloy’s unwanted advances, then she has nowhere to go tonight.
I know you’re not responsible for every waif and stray who crosses your path, but she’s just fifteen years old. And you put her out on the street.’
Poe sank his head into his hands and groaned. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask.’
Estelle put down her wine. ‘I’ll get the car,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go and look for her. If she’s coming back to Cowie House tomorrow, she won’t have gone far.’