Between 1230 and 2009, the Bishop of Carlisle’s official residence had been Rose Castle, near the village of Dalston. A huge and sprawling, culturally significant part of the country’s heritage, it had long been considered one of the jewels in the Church’s property portfolio. The last bishop, however, had elected to move out, believing it to be inappropriate to live in such opulence when others, including his own parish priests, were living in poverty.
It had made the headlines so Poe knew this without having to look it up. Bradshaw’s quick internet search found the bishop’s new address. He’d moved into ‘Bishop’s House’ in Keswick. Poe didn’t know it, but he recognised the street.
Although he hadn’t slept since the day before, he was gaining momentum and no decent detective slept when a case was hot. Twenty minutes into the journey Bradshaw’s phone rang. This time it was Flynn warning them away from the Church.
‘Tell her I’m driving and don’t have hands-free,’ he said when Flynn wanted to talk to him. ‘I’ll call her when I get a signal but we’re heading into the National Park for some ice cream and the mountains make coverage a bit thin.’
Poe could hear Flynn swearing through the small speaker. Oh well, couldn’t be helped. Anyway, she shouldn’t be calling him; he was on leave. It left him with a problem, though: Bradshaw’s continued involvement. It was all right him being reckless – he didn’t care about the inevitable fallout – but when the big dogs fight, it’s the little dogs that get hurt. However, there was no public transport he could put her on and he didn’t fancy the two-hour detour back to Shap. He settled for a compromise: he’d take her to Keswick but would drop her off in one of the nicer pubs until he was finished ruining what was left of his career.
He told her.
She said no, folded her arms and refused to acknowledge him until he relented. He tried explaining the potential consequences but she stood firm.
Fair enough, then.
Bradshaw wasn’t the most streetwise person in the world, but she was an adult and was allowed to make disastrous decisions along with everyone else. And, as strange as it sounded, they worked well together. Misfits often do, he thought.
Her phone rang.
‘It’s DI Stephanie Flynn again,’ she said, looking at the caller ID.
‘Answer it. You don’t want to get into trouble.’
She flicked the switch to silent, and put it back in her pocket. ‘I don’t have a signal.’
Poe flinched. What had he created . . .?
The bishop might have downgraded when he left Rose Castle, but he was hardly slumming it. The unimaginatively named Bishop’s House was on Ambleside Road in Keswick town centre. It was an elevated and imposing triple-fronted, slate-faced Lake District building. It sat behind an acre of large garden, which still needed a few years to bed in. Poe could see no drive or obvious place to park so he entered the Keswick on-street parking lottery.
Eventually he found a recently vacated spot on nearby Blencathra Street. He se
t his parking disc on the dashboard next to a scrap of paper with ‘police business’ scribbled on it. If the traffic warden was new he might get away with it.
He and Bradshaw made their way back to Ambleside Road, and walked up the large gravel path to Bishop’s House. There was a doorbell and a large black knocker. Poe pressed the bell.
Poe hadn’t called ahead, so had no idea if anyone would be in. He didn’t know much about the hierarchy of the Church, but he knew being a bishop was a big deal. He imagined they spent a lot of time away on business.
If someone knocked on Poe’s door and he didn’t answer in ten seconds, he was either out or he was dead, but in this house he was prepared to wait three minutes before giving up. After a minute, he decided he might have more luck with the oversized knocker. He raised it and sent it crashing back against the striking plate.
Poe and Bradshaw looked at each in shock; the noise would have woken the dead. A few seconds later, the large door opened.
A rotund man peered out at them, blinking in the low afternoon sun. He was in his sixties and was wearing a scruffy cardigan. Reading glasses hung from a leather strap around his neck. He smiled at them curiously. Bradshaw had found a recent photograph of the bishop on the way over and Poe knew he was looking at the Right Reverend Nicholas Oldwater.
‘You must be Sergeant Poe,’ he said. ‘I was warned you might visit.’ He frowned. ‘Although I was told you’d be on your own.’
Before Poe could stop her, Bradshaw stepped forward and curtsied. ‘Matilda Bradshaw, your holiness.’
Poe winced but Oldwater laughed and said, ‘Nicholas will be fine, Matilda. You’d better come in. Whatever it is, it sounds intriguing, I’ve never had so much contact with the police. The chief constable’s been on the phone twice and someone called Stephanie Finn from the NCA called not fifteen minutes ago.’
‘DI Stephanie Flynn, Nicholas. She’s our line manager at SCAS. That’s the Serious Crime Analysis Section,’ Bradshaw said. ‘We’re part of the National Crime Agency, aren’t we, Poe?’
Poe nodded. ‘We are indeed, Tilly.’
‘Well, they all seem very keen on us not talking,’ Oldwater said. ‘Whatever can it be about?’
He walked them through two rooms and one long hall before they reached his study. He’d been working before they’d interrupted him. A desk lamp was on and several books were open.
He sat back behind his desk and gestured towards the chairs dotted around the room. ‘Mrs Oldwater’s in London and the housekeeper has gone for the day. I can probably rustle up some coffee if you’re thirsty?’