The Arsenic Labyrinth (18 page)

‘You mentioned your Association purchased several of the lots at the auction where I bought the letters about Ruskin. Do you know what happened to them?’

‘We were fortunate to receive a substantial bequest in the will of the late Mrs Elizabeth Clough. Her son Alban founded the Museum of Myth and Legend, you know.’

‘I’ve met him.’

‘He isn’t a serious historian, I fear, but his mother was a good friend of our Secretary, Sylvia Blacon. Poor Sylvia is very frail these days, but she sent a nephew to bid on the Association’s behalf and he came back with a rich haul. Worth peanuts in monetary terms, perhaps, but enormously valuable in giving us a fuller understanding
of life in Coniston and its neighbourhood over the past couple of centuries.’

‘Where do you store it all?’

‘We keep a small archive here in the College library, by kind permission of the Governors. Scarcely the Bodleian, but you would be more than welcome to take a look. Not that what we have can offer you much help with your current project. Occasionally we have inquiries from people researching Ruskin, but we direct them to Brantwood and the specialist collections.’

‘I’d love to look over the stuff Sylvia’s nephew bought. Ever since the auction, I’ve regretted not taking a closer look at the lots I didn’t bid for. I only decided to turn up at the last minute, so I went in under-prepared. For all I know, I overlooked half a dozen gems.’

‘So far we haven’t added the auction lots to the collection. They still await cataloguing. Sylvia keeps them at home. During the past few months, she’s been unwell and I haven’t wanted to press her. She’s in her mid-eighties, our longest-serving committee member. Quite a character, she was a history teacher for thirty odd years. She was so anxious to study the materials; her mind is still as sharp as a knife. Unfortunately, when we last spoke, she hadn’t made any progress.’

‘I wonder if I could talk to her?’

‘I remember her saying how much she enjoyed your TV series. Since she was taken poorly, she’s not had much to get excited about. I’m sure she’d be thrilled by the prospect of meeting you.’

‘There seems to be plenty of excitement around here at present. I read about the bodies the police have discovered up in the fells.’

‘Ah.’ Jeremy coloured. ‘That business is rather close to home, as it happens. The police believe that one of the bodies they have found is my wife’s sister.’

Years of swimming through the shark-infested waters of a Senior Common Room in an Oxford college had schooled Daniel in the black arts of disingenuous conversation. His sister had told him more than once that he wasn’t as nice as everyone thought he was, and of course she was right. He expressed profound apologies while trying to prise more information out of the bereaved brother-in-law. At least, if Hannah was to be believed, Jeremy wasn’t suffering too much grief.

‘You know DCI Scarlett, I gather?’

‘My father used to work with her.’

‘I suppose she’s only doing her job.’ Jeremy adopted a long-suffering tone.

‘The police are treating the case as murder, from what I read in the papers.’

A derisive snort. ‘The papers have a lot to answer for, if you ask me. Especially the local rag that has made all the fuss about the tenth anniversary of Emma going missing.’

‘At least now your wife knows the truth. Emma can have a proper burial.’

Jeremy shook his head. Now his expression was as bleak as the north face of Great Gable.

‘But that won’t be the end of it, not by a long chalk. Emma will continue to haunt us like one of Alban Clough’s ghosts. Your friend DCI Scarlett won’t let Karen or me to escape her. Have you seen what the police say about cold case work on their website? They have a proud boast.
An unsolved murder never goes away.’

Who shall I be tomorrow?

Guy smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror. He always had a wet shave; electric razors didn’t cut close enough. He liked the sharp touch of the blade on his jaw, slicing away the five o’clock shadow. His hand was steady, he never nicked himself.

Soon he would be out of here. Goodbye threadbare towels liberated from a hotel in Morecambe, farewell rusting Salter scales, kept so that Sarah’s conscience could torment her as comfort eating piled on the pounds. He wouldn’t miss any of it, not the stink of the disinfectant she kept in the airing cupboard, not the clamminess of damp clothes drying on the hangers suspended over the bath tub.

And he wouldn’t miss Sarah, either. Her non-stop prattle was getting on his nerves. The brutal fact was, her
best hope was for the bailiffs to come in, take possession of the Glimpse and sell off her worldly goods. Together, hopefully, with that bloody cat – if anyone was stupid enough to give such a cussed animal houseroom. The council would be forced to house a homeless woman, she’d be better off in a little flat, with no access to online betting sites. Bankruptcy might be the making of her.

He couldn’t afford to think of anyone but himself. This time, he was determined get it right. Ten years ago, young and naïve, his philosophy was
easy come, easy go.
He’d left the Lakes with a huge wad of cash burning a hole in his wallet. For the first time in his life he felt rich and in his innocence he resolved to spend, spend, spend. No wonder the money had run out so fast and once again he’d needed to resort to living on his wits. Even that became harder as the years scurried by. Each time a relationship ran its course, you were bound to move on. Flying by night, before the woman figured out that you’d taken her purse or not repaid the loan from her rich grandma or whatever. It was no sort of life for anyone with talent. He wanted to take time out. Pamper himself, weigh up his options. Find a lovely lady capable of lasting the course. What was the old joke about the perfect mate: a nymphomaniac whose dad owned a brewery? Someone like that.

‘Are you decent?’ a voice trilled from the other side of the door.

‘Yes,’ he said, stroking the blade before he put the razor down.

She walked in and burst into a delighted fit of giggles
when she saw that he was naked. ‘You said that …’

‘Nothing indecent about the human body,’ he interrupted. Her tee shirt proclaimed
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.
He lifted it up. ‘God’s greatest work of art.’

‘Rob Stevenson, you’re insatiable!’

He put on a sad spaniel face. ‘It is Valentine’s Day.’

‘Well …’

‘And we will be apart for a couple of weeks.’

‘How will I bear it?’ she breathed, shuddering with pleasure as his hands explored. ‘You promise to phone me?’

‘As soon as I can. But don’t be surprised by a few days of radio silence. I’ll be living out of a suitcase, working every hour that God sends. Deals don’t come much bigger than this one.’

‘I’m praying that it works out for us.’

‘Have I ever let you down?’

‘Never.’

His hands paused in their adventure. Come to think of it, what she said was extraordinary but true. He hadn’t let her down once since arriving back in Coniston. Pity, but there was a first time for everything.

‘You don’t have to go for another hour yet,’ she whispered.

He smiled into her pasty, trusting face and seized her wrist. Might as well give her something to remember him by.

‘Sorry I can’t give you any more information, Mr Kind.’

‘Daniel, please. And I’m very grateful for your help.’

Vanessa Goddard gave him a weary half-smile. Her shoulders were bowed and he guessed she was still struggling to come to terms with the discovery of her friend’s body.

‘Think nothing of it,’ she said with a sigh.

The two of them were standing by the door of the library in the converted chapel and Daniel noticed Vanessa looking over his shoulder, through the glass panes. A green Saab was pulling up outside.

‘My husband, Francis,’ she explained. ‘He arranged to go on early shift at the hospital, so we have plenty of time to enjoy a Valentine’s Day meal together this evening. We need to take our minds off what happened to poor Emma, though it isn’t easy. Hang on for a moment and say hello to him.’

Francis Goddard turned up his jacket collar against the chill as he flicked the remote to lock his car. When his wife introduced them, he mustered a tense smile, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Hannah had mentioned wondering if there had been something between Francis and Emma Bestwick. Even then, would he have murdered her to stop his wife from finding out?

‘Darling, you remember I told you last night, Daniel was asking about the Arsenic Labyrinth? Now he’s trying to find out the origins of the curse.’

Francis frowned. ‘Why are you interested?’

Daniel said shamelessly, ‘I’m researching for a book
about Ruskin and I wondered whether he might have had something to say about it. But I’ve been wading through Bickerstaff’s book of Lakeland lore and I can’t trace where the story comes from.’

Vanessa said, ‘Daniel met Jeremy today and asked him about it. Even Mr Know-all had to confess he didn’t know the answer.’

‘Wonders never cease.’ Francis shrugged bony shoulders. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Kind. Although I’ve lived here all my life, I don’t claim any expertise in local history. You may only have arrived here five minutes ago, but I’ll bet your knowledge is greater than mine.’

He glanced at his watch. Taking the hint, Daniel thanked Vanessa again and took his leave. As he reversed his car, he caught sight of the Goddards through the glass. Francis was bending to plant a kiss on his wife’s disfigured cheek. Daniel eased on to the main road. His father’s theory of murder investigation had a snag. Suspecting everybody made you forget that most people caught up in crime deserved to be pitied, not pestered.

Driving along the edge of the lake, he saw reflections of bare trees in the water. Across the road, the ground was covered with reddish-brown bracken. It wasn’t dark yet, but the wayside cottages had lights in their windows and smoke drifting from their chimneys. Rounding a corner, he needed to brake sharply to avoid crashing into two horned sheep in the road. They had dark, sad faces and splashes of scarlet dye on their fleeces which made them look as though they’d sustained a gunshot wound.

He parked on a patch of ground fringed by purple crocuses and got out of the car. From the distance came the mechanical hum of someone cutting logs, but there was something reassuring and eternal about the sombre stillness of the lake. Leafless birch trees, stark and bare, made strange, twisted shapes against the backdrop of grey sky and water. His shoes cracked on twigs as he rested his backside on an old dry-stone wall

He took his mobile out of his pocket and punched in Hannah’s number. She answered at once. Simply to hear her cool voice again gave him a lift.

‘Am I interrupting you?’

‘Of course,’ She sounded amused, not angry. ‘But don’t worry about it.’

‘You must be up to your eyes. I’ll call another time.’

‘No, please. Even a DCI on a murder case deserves a break.’

‘So you found Emma Bestwick?’

‘The forensics aren’t completed, but yes. The real mystery concerns the second body. Not exactly the bonus we expected.’

‘Any clue about ID?’

‘Beyond that he died somewhere between fifty and seventy-five years ago, we don’t have much to go on at present. There are two disused mineshafts, not far apart. It looks like the first body was shoved down one and Emma down the other.’

‘Perfect places to dispose of a corpse.’

‘Especially since the shafts are surrounded by unstable
rock. Over the years, falls of rock covered the holes in the ground. The bodies would never have been discovered if we hadn’t gone in search.’

‘Were they both murdered?’

‘It’s early days, and the pathologist is bound to hedge his bets. Off the record, he’s certain. We found a
bloodstained
bread knife near to the older corpse and that’s a bit of a giveaway.’

‘So no connection between the two deaths?’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. Police speak for saying we haven’t got a clue … hang on, someone wants me, I’ll have to go.’

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Thanks for calling.’ The briefest pause. ‘Let’s talk again when I have more time. In a day or two, maybe?’

Guy had arranged for a taxi to pick him up from outside the Black Bull at nine o’clock. By then he’d have collected his things from the Glimpse and said goodbye to Sarah. With any luck, he’d get the chance to give her cat a surreptitious kick while its owner wasn’t looking. As he closed the front door of her house, he could hear Sarah crying upstairs. Stupid woman. He’d concoct a story to make sure that she didn’t start to fret about absence of contact until he was well and truly out of reach. Not too much of a challenge to a mind so fertile. She never doubted a single word he said.

The taxi was booked under the name of Pirrip, to symbolise his hopes for the future. He’d take a one-way
ride to a discreet hotel overlooking Ullswater. Four-poster luxury and monogrammed bath towels, somewhere he could get a wonderful night’s sleep at long, long last. While he watched a movie in the comfort of his own private suite, he would chew over options about where to go next.

He’d decided not to linger in the Lake District. Becoming sentimental about a place was unwise; he realised now how much better it would be to break with the past. Bad things had happened here, and not just the accident to Emma. He couldn’t even pretend his childhood had been anything other than horrible. Besides, he didn’t only want to get away from the Glimpse. Tony Di Venuto’s articles in the
Post
were becoming repetitive; surely other things were going on in Cumbria, apart from the police investigation? He deplored the way Emma’s passing was cheapened by being described as murder.

This was the
quid pro quo
he would offer, a special bonus. It wasn’t merely a matter of promising to keep his mouth shut. He was leaving the Lakes and he wouldn’t be coming back. Yes, he’d said that before, but this time he meant it. Ten years is a long time, he’d learned his lesson.

Since the fall of darkness, the cold had become bitter and the forecasters promised an overnight dusting of snow. Thank God his outdoor gear was weatherproof. He lengthened his stride.

‘Mrs Blacon?’

‘If you’re selling something, young man …’

‘My name is Daniel Kind!’ He was almost shouting.

‘It’s no good, you’ll have to speak up, I’m slightly deaf.’

Daniel grinned at the telephone. He liked
slightly
. He liked old people, too, almost without exception. In even the most cantankerous of them, he found something to admire and enjoy. Whatever trials they’d endured, they’d had the spirit to survive. Few crimes, other than those against defenceless children, angered him as much as the murders of Harold Shipman, the doctor who played God with the lives of ageing patients. People whose unnatural deaths went unremarked simply because they’d had a good innings, and so their passing was just one of those things. Even though it wasn’t.

After five minutes of bellowing, he’d bonded with Sylvia Blacon and arranged to pay her a visit. As he was about to ring off, she mentioned that he wasn’t the first researcher to show an interest in John Ruskin’s relations with the villagers of Coniston over the past year or so. Alban Clough and Jeremy Erskine had said the same and this time he had the sense to ask in whose footsteps he was following. Some American woman, Sylvia said. Taking a deep breath, he asked if the name Harriet Costello rang a bell. Sylvia sniffed and said it certainly did.

He put down the receiver and swore in silence. Hattie Costello, the new kid on the block. A svelte and
media-savvy
graduate of Harvard and the Sorbonne, she’d become the darling of History TV. Her writing was laced with sensationalism, but he admired her gift for engaging readers who otherwise found history a turn-off. Jealousy wasn’t one of his vices. But if she beat him to it with a fresh study of Ruskin’s life in Coniston, it would be years before a major publisher would be interested in another book treading similar ground. He’d have to start over again, find another subject that excited his interest, and that would take time. Not the end of the world, but Miranda would go up the wall.

‘Haven’t you changed yet? Didn’t you say you’d booked the restaurant for seven-thirty?’

He swung round and drank in the sight of her. In her latest little black dress, she would give even Hattie Costello a run for her money. She pirouetted for him and he put his arms around her.

‘We could stay in, if you like,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Make it a Valentine’s night to remember? We can have a meal out any time. I’ll rustle something up …’

‘Joking, aren’t you?’ She wriggled out of his grasp and consulted her Rolex. ‘Get a move on, I’m famished and the cab will be here any moment.’

Well, it was worth a try. Admitting defeat, he started up the stairs.

‘Who was that on the phone, by the way?’

‘The secretary of a history society. I want to talk to her about Ruskin.’

‘Terrific, you’re getting stuck in at last. But you didn’t
look too happy with what she told you. There isn’t a problem?’

From half-way up the stairs, he blew her a kiss. ‘No, there’s no problem at all.’

Guy was crossing Campbell Road when a small VW raced round the corner and sent him scurrying to the safety of the pavement on the other side. Rap music blared through the windows of the car and a teenager shouted an obscenity at him. Guy made a rude sign as the vehicle vanished out of sight. Drunken louts, he hoped they would crash into a brick wall, it was what they deserved. How ironic if he’d been killed, this night of all nights, when his life was about to change forever.

But the car hadn’t touched him. Catching his breath, he decided it was an omen. He’d given little thought to handling this conversation, but everything would be fine. His style was to relax, no point in over-preparing. So much in life was unpredictable, you had to go with the flow. He intended to be genial yet businesslike, but neither of them would want to mess around with small talk. So much water had flowed under the bridge since their last hastily arranged meeting by the pier at Monk Coniston. It made sense to ignore any temptation to reminisce.