The Arsenic Labyrinth (21 page)

‘Yeah, well, thanks for the advice.’

‘Don’t be huffy. I know it’s none of my business.’

‘True.’

‘All the same, take heed.’ He turned to go. ‘Goodnight, Hannah.’

She exhaled. ‘Sorry, Les, I don’t mean to …’

‘Listen, you can tell me to piss off, that’s fine. Like I said, it’s nowt to do with me.’

‘I’m not sure I’m doing much good here. I’d feel better trained for this job if I’d trained as an accountant instead of at police college. I’ll pack it in and start fresh tomorrow. We’ll drive over to Coniston together.’

He nodded and lumbered off down the corridor. She checked her on-screen diary before switching off her
computer. After Di Venuto’s departure, they’d agreed that even if someone had hired Guy Koenig to kill Emma, Jeremy wasn’t the only candidate. It was a long shot, but there might be some connection between the two bodies buried in the same spot decades apart. The plan was to call on Alban Clough and see what he had to say for himself.

She locked her desk and the door to her office and set off for home. On the CD player, Jimmy Webb crooned about the Wichita lineman. Her mind roamed over the events of the day, but she knew she was too weary to have a hope of making sense of them. Fifteen minutes into the journey, her hands-free phone trilled.

‘It’s Maggie, ma’am.’

Her DC worked out at the gym every other day, but for once she sounded out of breath. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, fine, I’ve just run back to the car. Dave and I were on our way out to a pub in Skelwith Bridge, and as we were approaching Coniston, a fire engine passed us, siren blaring. A couple of miles down the road, we saw why.’

Hannah’s pulse quickened. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Inchmore Hall, ma’am. The building is on fire.’

Brack village was dozing as Daniel drove through on the way back to Tarn Fold. The church clock was chiming, a few lights shone behind curtained windows. Tarn Fell was a dark shapeless mass in the distance and it was impossible to make out where the fells ended and the sky began. Daniel glanced to his left. Miranda was slumped low in the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed; the Chablis had
taken hold. He recalled waking some nights and watching her sleep by his side, telling himself how lucky he was to share her life.

‘Hey, you still awake?’

‘Mmmm.’

‘I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.’

‘No need.’

‘It’s better that way. You have a journey tomorrow and you look knackered.’

Her brow creased, but if tempted to argue, she thought better of it. ‘Suit yourself,’ she murmured.

When they reached the cottage, she said goodnight and dragged her weary body up the stairs. He turned on the gas fire and made himself a mug of hot chocolate. For ten minutes he channel-hopped on the TV, but late-night snooker and a re-run of
Friends
did not appeal, so he pulled out the bulging carrier bags that he’d borrowed from Sylvia Blacon and started picking through the auction lots. Might as well make a start, see if he could find something to fire his imagination about an aspect of Lakes history that Hattie Costello had not yet done to death.

There were scrapbooks, diaries and household records of Coniston residents that covered much of the twentieth century. Many of the notebooks were written in the same cramped but legible hand. They had been kept somewhere damp and the paper was brittle to the touch. It wasn’t late, but he had to force himself to keep his eyes open as he turned the pages. His arms and legs felt heavy and his
throat was dry. He ought to go to bed, but he knew that when he did, he would spend hours tossing and turning. So often it had been like this in Oxford, during the weeks after Aimee committed suicide. Better to keep working, until he was so exhausted that sleep could no longer be denied.

A single sentence snagged his attention. He read them a second time and the words jerked him wide awake.

You’d never believe it to look at me now, but once upon a time I killed a man.

Orange-yellow flames writhed like dancers in the night sky as Hannah approached Inchmore Hall. Heart pounding, she’d broken speed limits travelling twenty miles on dark, twisting roads. When she pulled up on the grass verge fifty yards short of the drive, an inferno was raging.

Fire frightened her, she hated its savagery, wanted to shut her ears to its hoarse, greedy roar. She’d never forgotten attending her first arson as a DC. An attack on a supermarket left a security man with cruel burns and a face ruined forever. The arsonist, a bored shelf-stacker, told her later that fire was exciting and passionate, it turned him on like nothing else. He’d licked his lips as he spoke of hot and fast flames, ripping through the building, out of control. Nondescript, spotty, and eighteen years old, he was the most dangerous young man Hannah had ever met.

Gritting her teeth, she slammed shut the car door. The fire was loud and wild, a monster holding the hall captive, glorying in its power to consume and destroy. The wooden gables were blackened and about to crumble, the blinds at the windows had burnt to nothing. The temperature had sunk below zero, but the night was dry, just when a downpour would have answered prayers. Beyond a cordon, firefighters were striving to tame the beast. From the other side of the road, a huddle of spectators gawped at the spectacle. When Hannah pushed through, a small man in an over-sized ski jacket gave her a dirty look, outraged by the presumptuousness of a latecomer to the evening show. Half a dozen teenagers were giggling, one was taking pictures with her mobile. This was better than Guy Fawkes Night.

Smoke was poisoning the air and as Hannah reached tall gateposts topped with stone pineapples, she had to fight for breath. She wrapped her scarf around her face to protect her mouth and sinuses from the acrid stench. As she moved forward, she felt the heat on her cheeks.

The old mansion was dying before her eyes, suffocating in the clutches of the raging creature. As she watched, a timber beam fell to the gravelled drive with a deafening crash. A nanosecond of near-silence, then the group of onlookers let out a collective gasp.

Hannah spotted Maggie Eyre, in fleece, jeans and leather boots, talking to a grey-haired fire officer and two uniformed PCs on the lawn. Their eyes met and, with a
quick word to the men, Maggie hurried down the drive to meet her.

‘So much for your quiet evening down the pub?’ Hannah had to shout to make herself heard above the din.

‘We’d arranged to meet friends, but Dave’s gone off on his own.’ Maggie started coughing. ‘I had to stop and see if there was anything I could do.’

‘Anyone inside?’

‘Not sure. It’s still too dangerous for anyone to force their way in, even with breathing apparatus and cutting equipment. For all anyone knows, Mr Clough and his daughter are out tonight. I hope to God they are, because we’ve seen nobody and anyone trapped won’t have stood a chance. Their lungs will have choked with fumes inside minutes.’

Hannah’s eyes were stinging. ‘Any idea what happened?’

‘Flames were seen by a passer-by who dialled 999, but even though the station is close by, the fire was so fierce that by the time the first fire engine arrived, they could tell it was going to be a long night. No clue on cause yet, God knows whether this is accident or arson, but I’ve been talking to the fire officer in charge. He says his boss had a row with Alban Clough about the need to upgrade safety precautions in the Museum. In the end, the old man threw him out. It’s with the legal people to take action right now. Too few smoke alarms, let alone a decent sprinkler system. As for the candles …’

In her mind, Hannah heard Alban’s sonorous complaints about the pettifoggery of the bureaucrats. No need for m’learned friends to bother now. The fire had done their work for them.

‘Alban Clough’s a law unto himself.’

‘They reckon Inchmore Hall is a deathtrap. This was a disaster waiting to happen.’

‘We need to …’

‘My God! My God!’

A woman had burst through the cordon and was clattering up the driveway. Alex Clough, in a suede coat and high heels. Thank God she had not been roasted to a cinder inside her blazing home. She wasn’t dressed for sprinting and as she drew level with Hannah and Maggie, she stumbled and sank to the ground.

‘Is your father inside?’ Hannah bellowed.

‘I don’t know! He was at home this evening. Unless he managed to get out …’

She looked up and saw the look on the two women’s faces. Breathing hard, she hauled herself back on to her feet.

‘I must try to save him!’

Hannah rushed to her side and grasped her hand. In part to comfort, in part to restrain. ‘You can’t go in there.’

Alex began to sob. ‘My father, my father, my father …’

She repeated the words time after time, even as Hannah and Maggie put their arms around her so that
they could lead her to a safer place. Somewhere to wait and watch while the only home she’d ever known burned to ashes.

Hannah wasn’t answering her mobile, so Daniel sent her a text asking her to contact him urgently.
I know name of 2nd body.
If that didn’t prompt a call, nothing would. After what he had read, he couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up all night in his favourite chair, smoothing out the tangles in his mind. When Miranda came downstairs in the blue-striped rugby shirt she wore to bed, she told him he looked knackered. He mumbled something unintelligible, his thoughts far away. They exchanged desultory small talk over toast and coffee in their gleaming new kitchen. He wasn’t in the mood to explain what he had discovered. Hannah, he wanted to save it for Hannah.

She called back five minutes after Miranda departed on a shopping trip to Kendal. It was not long after nine, but he heard her stifling a yawn even as she said hello. She sounded as tired as he felt

‘Sorry, long night. Inchmore Hall went up in a ball of flame.’

He swore. ‘What happened?’

‘Remember Manderley ablaze in the final reel of
Rebecca
?’ She’d told him once that in her teens this was a favourite film, she’d even had a brief crush on Olivier. ‘I could have sworn I saw Mrs Danvers’ crazy face at the window. But this time there wasn’t a happy ending. Alban Clough was inside. He didn’t stand a chance.’

He pictured the old man as he’d last seen him. Smiling slyly, enjoying the thrill of private knowledge, protesting ignorance of the second body buried below the Arsenic Labyrinth. Of course, he was lying, but that was nothing new. He’d lived a lie for fifty years, hugged his secret close, to the very end.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Sorry. I was thinking …’

‘This text you sent me. What have you found out?’

‘The dead man you discovered when you went in search of Emma Bestwick. His name was William Inchmore.’

‘William? How can you be sure?’

‘Because I’ve read about his murder.’

‘Read about it? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’

‘He was stabbed to death with a bread knife, wasn’t he?’

A sharp intake of breath, then a long pause as she absorbed his news. She hadn’t mentioned to him how the man had been killed. Even though she confided in him more than she should, there were limits. And the information hadn’t been released to the media. When she spoke again, her tone was wry.

‘Tell you what, Daniel. You must have inherited the detective gene. So what exactly is this you’ve been reading?’

‘The murderer’s account of the crime.’

‘If you tell me you bought it in Marc’s shop, I’ll scream.’

‘No need, the story is in a private journal purchased by
Jeremy Erskine’s historical society. Not that Jeremy has ever read it. I’m the first.’

‘And who is the author? Not Alban Clough, surely?’

‘No, although he knew exactly what had happened. His mother was the mistress of William Inchmore. William used the Arsenic Labyrinth as a trysting place, that’s where he made love to Betty Clough.’

‘Are you saying that Betty murdered him?’

‘No, that was Edith Inchmore, William’s wife. When she learned about the affair, she lured him to the Labyrinth and went up there herself with a knife. What she didn’t know was that Alban was hiding out up there. He witnessed her crime, but he didn’t move a muscle to stop her. He kept quiet as he watched Edith kill his mother’s lover.’

They arranged to meet at a new Bavarian coffee bar in the heart of Kendal. Daniel parked in the multi-storey at Westmorland Shopping Centre and fished a tote bag out of the boot. None of the passers-by in Stricklandgate gave him a second glance, nobody guessed that the bag held a confession to murder.

He’d pieced together the Inchmores’ story from Edith’s journal. After George wrecked the family business, his son set about ruining their name. What William lacked in wealth, he more than made up for in swaggering
self-confidence
and raffish good looks. He spent his early adult years sleeping around and squandering what was left of the family fortune at the racecourse, while drifting from job to job. With Inchmore Hall sold to the Cloughs and
his parents dead, he had little to keep him in Coniston and during a spell selling silk stockings in Yorkshire, he met and married Edith Sharpe. A plain spinster whose acid tongue belied a dread of being left on the shelf, she was quick to fall under his spell. Above all, she had the inestimable advantage of a father who had made a packet from a leather business in Bradford. William didn’t see marriage as an impediment to philandering and gambling, but rather as a means of funding his favourite activities. He faked a heart condition to escape military service and spent the war years selling cosmetics and petrol on the black market. A fortnight before VE Day, he was arrested, and although he managed to talk his way out of a prison sentence, old man Sharpe cut off his daughter’s allowance and made Yorkshire County Cricket Club the main beneficiary of his estate. Edith stood by her husband and never spoke to Daddy again but, after failing to make a go of various improbable business ventures, William was forced to return to Coniston and go cap in hand to Armstrong Clough and ask for work.

What prompted Armstrong Clough, a businessman with a nose as hard as Helvellyn, to offer a job to a slacker who hadn’t even made a success out of petty crime? Armstrong was the sort of Englishman who, during the Thirties, argued that Oswald Mosley talked a lot of sense and that Hitler was the sort of leader any nation worth its salt required. War might have changed his tune, but he remained, if Edith’s journal was any guide, an old-fashioned bully contemptuous of altruism.

Only one explanation occurred. It must have amused Armstrong to have an Inchmore at his beck and call. Long ago, Albert Clough had to jump when Sir Clifford Inchmore said jump. Now the Cloughs owned the hall and the Inchmores depended upon their goodwill. Armstrong might be a miserable old bugger with a gammy leg, while William was a dashing ladies’ man, but it was Armstrong who possessed the money, the mansion and the gorgeous bride, while William had to make do with a cottage in a back street and poor, unlovely Edith. A very satisfactory arrangement. The only snag was that William’s roving eye soon fell on Betty. A naïve and neglected woman whose son was growing up and whose husband was often away from home was easy prey for an accomplished Lothario.

It was bound to end in tears. William was reckless and left a handful of letters from Betty imperfectly concealed at the bottom of his sock drawer, where Edith chanced upon them. The correspondence made it clear that Betty’s conscience tormented her and that she wanted to end the affair, but that William was determined to have her leave Armstrong and extract a hefty sum from him as the price of hushing up the scandal, so that the two of them could run away together. A ludicrous and desperate plan, but Edith knew her husband well enough to realise that he was capable of trying to carry it out, with disastrous consequences for them all. She’d grown accustomed to his infidelities, but this was one betrayal too many. The prospect of being abandoned to penury and forced
through shame to leave a village she had come to love was intolerable. She had to act.

She schooled herself in the art of imitating Betty’s girlish handwriting and penned a note asking William to come to Mispickel Scar the following afternoon. The letters revealed that the loneliness of the site of the old arsenic works made it a favourite venue for the lovers’ couplings. The prospect of William meeting his death in the same spot appealed to Edith’s uncompromising sense of justice. She had discovered that Betty arranged for her notes to William to be left in his desk by a young messenger called Vinny who worked at the company’s office in Yewdale Road.

Vinny was a simple-minded lad from Liverpool, one of scores of kids who had come as evacuees to Coniston at the start of the Second World War. He’d been billeted at the hall and, after his parents were killed during the Blitz, he was left without a family and any reason to return home when the hostilities came to an end. Vinny had a dog-like devotion to Betty Clough, and she persuaded her husband to employ him out of charity. She was popular in the village for her generous spirit and good works, although Edith confided to her diary her suspicion that so far as Vinny was concerned, Betty had an ulterior motive. Yet Edith harboured no more than a superficial resentment of her husband’s lover. She understood how easy it was to succumb to William’s charm.

What Edith didn’t realise was that someone else knew about Betty’s affair. Young Alban Clough detested his
father, who regarded him as a good-for-nothing dreamer with no head for business, but he didn’t care to think of his mother sleeping with an Inchmore. At his father’s insistence, Alban lent a hand in the office. He soon learned that Vinny was acting as go-between. He persuaded Vinny to let him read some of the letters Betty entrusted to him and seized every opportunity, while William was out gallivanting, to snoop round his room. That was how he’d found the letter Edith had placed in her husband’s desk. Much more familiar with his mother’s hand than William, he recognised it at once as a forgery. Curiosity piqued, he’d trekked up to Mispickel Scar and found a hiding place, overlooking the remains of the labyrinth, an hour before the time stipulated in Edith’s message. Waiting to watch what would happen.