The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) by Martin Edwards Page B

and once again her path crossed with Robbie’s? It was a question for another day. No point in letting it spoil everything. Yet as she took a sip of Ovaltine, she reflected on life’s ironies. Everyone remembered Malcolm Whiteley for a shocking crime, but in his own strange way, Robbie Dean was just as frightening.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
    Ravenglass again, after how many years? Fifteen, Joanna calculated, as she drove down Muncaster Fell toward the sea. She’d last come to the village with her parents, during a visit home, when they went for a trip on La’al Ratty. They’d parked at the terminus for the narrow gauge railway, and never ventured as far as the waterfront. She’d not set eyes on Main Street since the night of the Last Supper. After leaving the Lakes, she’d concentrated on making a new life for herself, and even when she returned to Holmrook to see Mum and Dad, she steered clear of Ravenglass. Too many memories. Remembering was just one more form of self-harm. But time healed even the deepest wounds. She’d loved this village once, and now she felt ready to fall in love all over again.
    As she passed under a bridge carrying the railway north to Whitehaven, the sunlit estuary lay out in front of her. On impulse, she pulled up next to the Green. After the long,circuitous drive, her calves and thighs twitched with cramp as she levered herself out of the elderly Polo and into an invigorating breeze. Motorway driving forced you to take your life in your hands, and even on the quieter roads, the traffic was terrifying if you were out of practice. Thank goodness she’d made it, and now she was all goosebumps. She’d not felt so alive since her first date with Eoin. This was an adventure, and not having a clue what might happen next was part of the fun.
    Taking a seat on one of the bright blue benches, she looked out across the dunes. A raised embankment of grass protected the low-lying cottages from floods as well as providing a green open space overlooking a foreshore of shingle, sand, and mud. Three rivers met here, making a natural harbour. No wonder the Romans had chosen this as their port. To think this view was once admired by soldiers of the Twentieth Legion! Roman ships carried goods from this northernmost edge of their territory to the rest of the Empire, but after the legionnaires marched away, Ravenglass did not die. Saxons and Vikings came and went, King John granted merchants a Charter to hold a weekly market and annual fair, and fishermen plied their trade along the coast. When the estuary silted up, ships could no longer dock at the end of Main Street, but trains brought iron ore down from Boot to the station, so it could be transported on the coastal line. Although the mines had closed down, the railway was preserved, and the Ratty became a tourists’ delight. Yes, Joanna had something in common with this place. She was a survivor, and so was Ravenglass.
    The sunshine was deceptive, and the late afternoonchill persuaded her not to linger. Hurrying back to the Polo, she threaded through the vehicles parked on either side of Main Street. The village had once been a stopping point on an old road that crept along the coast by way of shallow fords and ramshackle bridges, but these days the street narrowed into a dead end, bounded by huge floodgates.
    The Eskdale Arms stood on its own on the estuary side of the road, and the Saltcoats View guest house was separated from it by a tiny car park. She’d wondered if seeing the pub again would revive such dreadful images of the night of the Last Supper that she’d change her mind, and scurry back home. To her surprise, she felt no more than a pang of melancholy. This new Joanna lived for the moment.
    She carried her suitcase to the front of the Saltcoats View. Inhaling the fragrance of grape hyacinths crammed into hanging baskets on either side of the door, she rang the bell, and a loud voice invited her to walk right in. A middle-aged man with thinning,