The Arsenic Labyrinth (12 page)

As soon as they’d finished eating, he made an excuse about phoning a colleague and hurried out before she could ask any tricky questions. So far his vagueness about his working life had given him the freedom to spend his time as he pleased, but she was starting to take a closer interest. Soon she would be interfering, making demands on his time. She ought to be content to trust him. To allow him, as he liked to say, to do all the worrying for her.

He walked quickly, keen to put distance between himself and the stuffiness of the Glimpse. By the time he’d reached the short, low wooden pier at Monk Coniston, the pain in his back had eased and his head had cleared. He prided himself on being a man who was never cast down for long. Time to look on the bright side.

He stood by the water’s edge, remembering. This was where he’d collected a small fortune ten years ago. The world had been at his feet, he’d felt as though he could achieve anything. And now he was back here and about to get lucky again. Sarah was eating out of the palm of his hand. She only harped on because she was happy. He’d made fantastic progress and soon he would be rolling in money. Think of the classy, secluded hotels that he might grace with his presence. He deserved a few treats.

Half way between Brantwood and Nibthwaite, he emerged from the forest path and strode towards the shore, feet crunching over the narrow strip of clean shingle in front of the trees. He paused and gazed across the lake towards Torver Beck Common, the Old Man and the Yewdale Fells. The sky was clear and he could
make out the silvery water of the White Lady cascade. Impossible to see Mispickel Scar from here, it was masked by familiar peaks. He could almost believe that the Arsenic Labyrinth was one more figment of his vivid imagination.

‘So you’re fine?’ Daniel asked.

Hannah cradled the glass of Sancerre in her hand. The Café d’Art combined a small gallery with a framing workshop and a wine bar. They were sitting at a discreet corner table. The wall behind them was crowded with oils on canvas, purple fells and ochre sunsets. Jacques Brel crooned in the background, the candle burning on their table gave off a subtle lilac fragrance.

‘I think so.’

‘You look fine.’

‘What you mean is, I was an utter wreck when we last met.’

He laughed. They both knew that wasn’t what he meant. Her hair was several shades lighter, he noticed. She was changing her look, but by degrees. In five years’ time, she’d be a dazzling blonde.

‘You’d had a tough time.’

‘Not just me. Both of us might have been killed.’ She was determined not to spoil their get-together by discussing her miscarriage. No more dwelling on what might have been.

He took his cue. ‘That’ll teach me to poke my nose in.’

‘Didn’t you want to follow in Ben’s footsteps?’

‘I’d seen at first-hand how policing can mess up your home life. He left us for Cheryl when I was a kid, remember? My mum would have keeled over if I’d announced I wanted to become a detective. Besides, I was addicted to history. To be paid money to research it seemed like Heaven.’

‘Yet you gave it up.’

‘I gave up academic life, the back-biting of the Senior Common Room. I’ll never give up history. It’s in the blood.’

‘A passion for what’s dead and gone?’

‘Uh-uh.’ He grinned. ‘The yearning to find out. The detective urge, if you like.’

‘Actually, I rather admire the way you walked away from Oxford.’

‘What’s to admire?’ She’d caught him off guard. ‘It ought to be a cause for shame, if anything. An admission of defeat. Failure.’

Brel was singing ‘If We Only Have Love’. Hannah took another sip of wine, contemplating Daniel. Something about him appealed to her, was it the resemblance to his father? She’d cared a lot about Ben. Although he was dead, killed by a hit and run driver, she’d seen his face many times in her dreams.

‘Must have felt liberating, though.’

‘Very.’ He helped himself to a handful of salty peanuts from a bowl. ‘So that is what appeals to you? The notion of escape?’

She nodded. ‘I love my job, most of the time. When I’m doing what I signed up to do – detecting crime. It’s the crap that gets in the way that I can’t bear. The politics, the management stuff, the need to keep the right people sweet. Don’t get me wrong, I can cope. But my oldest friend, Terri, is always complaining the job eats away at the soul.’

‘Ever thought of doing something else?’

‘I’m not qualified for anything else.’

‘Well, I made the break.’

‘For you it was easy.’ As the words left her mouth, she regretted their sting. ‘I mean, you can write from home. What would I do – become a private detective? A gumshoe in Grasmere, a shamus from Seatoller? I don’t think so.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’

‘Forgive me.’ She wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, but it wasn’t a good idea. ‘Marc keeps saying I’m too tense, I need to lighten up. Blame it on the job, it’s the usual suspect.’

‘What are you working on at present?’ He needed to steer the conversation to safe water. ‘Marc mentioned a case in Coniston.’

‘A missing woman. Ten years on, we may be about to find her.’

‘Can you talk about it?’

She knew she ought to say no, but it was a distraction from anything more personal. His dad had been the most honest man she’d ever met and she was sure Daniel was to be trusted. And another thing. Emma’s story would
absorb him, and she wanted him to be absorbed in what she had to say.

‘Why not?’ She smiled through the candle’s flame. ‘What do you know about the Arsenic Labyrinth?’

‘Jeremy Erskine is a fan of yours,’ Hannah said forty minutes later, savouring the last of her wine. ‘His interest in history extends beyond teaching at a posh school. He has a copy of your book and he almost swooned when I said you’d moved to the Lakes. He’d love you to talk to his historical society.’

‘Not the Grizedale and Satterthwaite?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I seem to remember an invitation from them whilst I was at Oxford. Shortly after Aimee died; I hadn’t got myself together.’

‘Takes a long time to get yourself together after something like that.’

Aimee had committed suicide by leaping from the Saxon tower in Cornmarket. A few months later, he’d met Miranda and left Oxford for good. Daniel knew why his sister disapproved. Louise thought he’d got involved on the rebound. He’d wanted to escape by taking up with someone as different from Aimee as he could find.

‘Suppose I’d better get in touch with your mate Jeremy.’

‘He’s no mate of mine. Truth is, he’s extraordinarily easy to dislike.’

‘Not a helpful witness?’

‘He’d prefer Emma to be quietly forgotten. All that bothers him is the effect a cold case investigation may have on his career prospects. He may be a fellow historian, but you don’t have much else in common.’

‘You never know.’

She flushed. ‘Sorry, that sounds as though I know you inside out. Very presumptuous. Pay no attention, you and Jeremy may get on like a house on fire.’

He put down his coffee cup. ‘When I was a boy, people said I took after my father. How true it was, who knows? But if you think he’d have disliked Jeremy …’

‘Ben would have detested him.’

‘I’ll talk to him. For all I know he’s an expert on John Ruskin and I can pick his brains as part of my research.’

‘You’re working on something new?’

When he explained about his thirst for more information about Ruskin’s Coniston years, she shook her head and said, ‘I can’t offer you any local knowledge. I was taken round Brantwood as a teenager and all I remember is the gorgeous gardens. And that poor old Ruskin was a loser in love.’

‘Like Emma Bestwick, by the sound of it. She had all that money – however she came by it – but nobody to love.’

‘That’s why Sid Thornicroft thought she’d done a runner. He argued that she’d found someone new and followed them, perhaps abroad. Or else gone in search of a new life.’

‘Ten years is a long time to maintain radio silence.’

‘It does happen. You know all about beginning a new life. Tell me, do you ever yearn for the old days, town and gown?’

‘Never.’

‘So it’s worked out perfectly, starting afresh?’

‘Nothing’s ever perfect, is it?’ He smiled. ‘Miranda hated the Lakeland winter. At dead of night, Tarn Fold is too quiet for her. She has trouble sleeping, she’s accustomed to London, the eternal rumble of traffic in the distance. Not to worry. Ruskin said imperfection is essential to life; who am I to argue?’

‘Did Ruskin have an opinion on everything, then?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Any words of wisdom for a hard-pressed law enforcement officer, investigating a suspected murder?’

‘You won’t be encouraged. He deplored fascination with death, saw it as a sign of the ills of Victorian England. He put the boot into Charles Dickens for being morbid, said far too many respectable characters met grotesque ends in
Bleak House
. God knows what he’d make of late night TV and the vogue for autopsy close-ups. Ruskin reckoned a good society was interested in life, not death.’

‘Nothing would please me more than for Emma to walk through that door right now and demand to know what all the fuss is about.’

‘Not going to happen, is it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What do you believe went on?’

‘Assuming she’s dead, we have to look at the possibilities
of accident or suicide before ruling them out. If the call to the journalist isn’t a hoax and we do find she’s buried under the Arsenic Labyrinth, it’s hard to imagine that she got there by chance.’

‘Sex murder?’

‘Perhaps. But not committed by the obvious suspect.’

‘The late Tom Inchmore?’

‘Yes, some of my colleagues had him in the frame. It would have been quite an end for the Inchmore dynasty, if the last in the line turned out to be a murderer.’

‘If Emma is dead, presumably the anonymous caller is the culprit?’

‘He might be an accomplice. Or someone the murderer confided in. But yes, the chances are, he killed her. What we don’t know is why. Or why he’s decided to break his silence. We can’t link him to the original investigation. If it was a sexually motivated murder, it doesn’t fit the usual pattern. Did she go to the Arsenic Labyrinth of her own free will? And if so, why?’

‘You say the place is off the beaten track,’ Daniel said. ‘Suitable for a secret assignation. A tryst. Perhaps she went to meet someone. Possibly not the person she
actually
met. Maybe she went looking for love and finished up dead.’

Hannah laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible. A real chip off the old block.’

‘The difference is, my father actually became a detective. All I do is speculate from an armchair.’

‘He’d have been proud of you,’ she said suddenly. ‘I wish you’d met him before he died.’

There was a long pause as they looked at each other across the table. As Daniel opened his mouth to speak, Hannah glanced at her watch.

‘God, I’m late, I’ll have to skedaddle.’

He wanted to protest, even as she rose to her feet, but all he managed to say was, ‘Good to see you again.’

Not looking at him, she said, ‘Don’t leave it so long next time.’

‘Not much of a labyrinth,’ Les sniffed.

He was wearing a greatcoat and Cossack hat that made him look like an extra from
Dr Zhivago
. Hannah, Maggie and Giselle Feeney were standing close to him on a long ledge of rock at Mispickel Scar, surveying the hollow that a glacier had scooped out between the fells. Snow had fallen during the night and ice underfoot had made the climb slow and treacherous. For the last half hour Les had lagged behind the three younger women, puffing and grunting and making it plain that he wished he was back home with his feet up in front of the fire. He’d sneezed once or twice and mumbled that he was starting with a cold.

‘This was never going to be Hampton Court Maze.’ Hannah rubbed her gloved hands together, as much to keep warm as to engender enthusiasm. ‘So what exactly do we have here?’

The random scattering of stones was a bleak monument to Mispickel Scar’s industrial heritage, but Giselle contemplated the scene as lovingly as if it were a personal Eden.

‘Mispickel is another name for arsenopyrite. A
silvery-white
sulphide of iron and arsenic. I suppose when the works were built, George Inchmore expected it would make him more money than copper had made for his father. But the vein was poor. The cost of digging into the Scar far exceeded the value of what he extracted. His mistake was not to throw in the towel more quickly. He must have had an obstinate streak. The works kept going for six or seven years.’

Maggie opened out a photocopy of an old plan Bob Swindell had found, and jerked a thumb towards a heap of rubble forty yards away.

‘So the chimney was over there?’

Giselle nodded. ‘It had to be out in the open, far enough away from the face of the fells, so they could get a good draught. Picture plumes of mucky sulphur belching out in the middle of the Lake District. Not very green.’

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ Les grumbled.

Giselle winked at Hannah. ‘Next to the stack was a cube-shaped building, designed on a square plan. Two storeys, hipped roof with a ventilator set in. Ore was fed into a big hopper on the top floor and from there it was spread down on top of a pan that rotated slowly inside a small chamber below. The chamber was heated by two coal-fired furnaces to a thousand degrees Fahrenheit,
a temperature high enough to draw off the arsenic. It was sucked down a flue attached to the chimney stack. Although the flue was a thousand feet long, it folded back on itself every ten yards or so. That’s why it was called an arsenic labyrinth.’

Les stamped his feet. ‘Blot on the bleeding landscape if you ask me. No wonder they say it’s cursed.’

‘Is the lack of vegetation an after-effect of the poison?’ Hannah asked.

Maggie nodded. ‘I spoke to health and safety and they don’t regard the arsenical traces as a serious risk to our people. Everyone will have protective clothing and it’ll be incinerated once we’re done.’

Les blew his nose loudly and said, ‘You can’t do better than have a damn good shower.’

Maggie frowned at him and Hannah recalled their conversation in the car. ‘The challenge will be shifting all that stone so we can look for a body.’

‘Point out the shafts for us, will you?’ Hannah asked.

‘The whole area is a honeycomb,’ Giselle said. ‘Don’t forget, the Old Man of Coniston is nicknamed the Hollow Mountain. George saw an opportunity to exploit land that was otherwise useless. There were two main shafts here, according to the records. See that large boulder? One of them is underneath it. The stone looks suspiciously like the Sword of Damocles. You see it in old photographs. Until nine or ten years ago the Sword was a pinnacle balancing up on that ridge of rock. Very dangerous, it deterred all but the rashest fell-walkers.’

‘So it might have fallen after Emma disappeared?’

Silence fell as they digested what this might mean.

Maggie consulted her plan. ‘According to the records, there should be another way down into the mines closer to the slope of the fell, but a landslip has covered that up as well. The tunnels were connected. Shall we clear both entrances?’

‘I think so,’ Hannah said. ‘There may have been collapses underground as well. Let’s make sure we have good access. Di Venuto’s caller didn’t give details and we don’t want the whole team hanging around here longer than necessary.’

‘Too bloody right,’ Les said. ‘They’ll catch their death if it gets any colder.’

‘Let’s not attract too much attention too soon. Apart from Di Venuto we don’t have the Press on our backs, and he’s forced to keep his cards close to his chest, for fear he’ll lose his exclusive. We’re not being mithered by grieving relatives, but if we do find a body, all hell will break loose. Let’s make progress before the world and his wife come rubber-necking.’

‘Hey, no bugger in his right mind will tramp out to this God-forsaken spot.’

‘You’d be surprised. Mispickel may not be as popular as the Old Man or Levens Water, and the warning signs will scare off most people. But even in the depths of winter, a few hardy souls venture out. The minute we start work, the rumour mill down in the village will go into overdrive. We can’t hang around.’

‘How long are you going to give it?’

‘As long as it takes to find out whether Emma is buried here.’

‘Wherever she is, she must be warmer than me.’

‘So a camera survey is the first step?’ Maggie said hastily.

Hannah nodded. ‘Before we send the CSIs shinning down ropes, let’s shine a light into the shafts. See what we’ve got.’

Sarah proposed Sunday lunch at a pub she knew near Troutbeck. ‘My treat,’ she insisted, to Guy’s relief. He’d not made a penny since taking the money from Megan’s purse.

She drove a rusty old Citroen, painted an embarrassing orange. When, after five minutes of fiddling with the ignition key, she finally got it to start, it hissed and clanked and he wasn’t convinced they would make the round trip without breaking down. The heating didn’t work and she had the radio tuned to a brass band concert. At the traffic lights in Ambleside he asked how often she changed cars.

‘Don bought this little sweetie for me after the divorce. It wasn’t new then, of course. But he said it would be fine for my needs.’ She did something with the gear lever that sounded chaotic. ‘I don’t like driving much, I never travel far.’

Just as well
. ‘How about asking him to replace it?’

‘He wouldn’t,’ she said with flat certainty.

 ‘He has obligations.’ Guy was hazy about divorce law, but he’d gained the impression from lads’ magazines that it favoured women at the expense of their former husbands. ‘Get him to put his hand in his pocket.’

‘He has a family to look after.’

‘You mustn’t let him off the hook. Honestly, if you want to give him a call, I can advise you about what to say.’

‘Oh, Rob, I couldn’t do that. I mean, I’m not proud or anything, but no woman likes to beg.’

He winced as they bounced over a speed bump. ‘It’s not begging. Simply a matter of making sure you get what is due.’

‘Really, I couldn’t. We agreed some time ago, we each had to make our own way in the world.’

‘But he deserted you after you’d given him the best years of your life.’

She glanced at him. ‘Not all the best years, I hope.’

Taking her eye off the road was a mistake. A lorry driver sounded his horn long and hard as the Citroen took a bend at speed and finished up on the other side of the road for twenty yards.

He said urgently, ‘You’re a woman on your own. Don should pick up more of the bills, it’s only right.’

‘I think he’s hoping I won’t be on my own for ever.’

Her complacency bothered him. How likely was it that she’d find a man who offered her a meal ticket for life? She didn’t even have much luck recruiting guests for the Glimpse. His concern was unselfish – what would
happen to her after he moved on? It was as well that he’d been careful not to make any rash promises. Apart from a few whispered platitudes at moments of greatest intimacy, which obviously didn’t count, he’d said not a word to suggest that this was more than a fleeting romance. He didn’t want her to get any ideas about a long-term relationship. That wasn’t his kind of thing at all.

Miranda was back. Her face shone with excitement when he collected her from the station at Oxenholme. Ethan wanted to appoint her as an associate editor of the magazine and she wanted to know whether Daniel thought she should accept. Whether the new job title involved anything more than an increase in pay wasn’t clear, but she left him in no doubt what he was meant to say. Of course he said it.

‘Bite his hand off,’ he said as they left the grey limestone of Kendal behind. He was glad to see her happy and, besides, what else could he say?

‘Even though I’ll need to spend more time in London?’

‘Doesn’t have to be that way. With email and video conferencing, you can work remotely.’

She puffed out her cheeks. ‘In theory, fine. But I’m not sure that’s what happens in the real world.’

‘Give it a go. If you don’t enjoy it, you can always take a step down.’

‘Ethan wouldn’t take kindly to that. The last thing he
said to me before I left the office was to think over the offer. If I say yes, I’m making a long-term commitment. He’s giving me the chance to put my own imprint on the magazine. But if I mess up, he’ll bring in someone else. That’s the way he operates, he’s a hard-nosed businessman. There will be no going back to the status quo.’

‘If you turn him down, you’ll regret it.’

‘But I want you to be happy with whatever I choose to do.’

As they reached the open road, he put his foot down. ‘I’m happy if you’re happy.’

She considered this. ‘That’s a cop-out, darling. I don’t want you to be miserable, stuck up here while I’m gadding about in the capital.’

‘I can come down and stay with you.’

‘Well, yes. But I will be busy most of the time. Don’t think I can just sit in the flat and entertain you. The editorial people are busy networking most nights. I’ll be able to wangle you an invitation to come to some events. But you once told me you didn’t care if you never attended another cocktail party or book launch in the rest of your life.’

‘I didn’t even enjoy my own book launch,’ he said. ‘Follow your instinct.’

‘You don’t want me to do it!’

‘I never said that.’

‘It’s what you meant!’

All of a sudden, she was spoiling for a fight. Not out
of malice, but because she craved the buzz of quarrelling. A row energised her as much as it exhausted him. Time to draw a line.

‘Darling, I’ve already said go for it. What more can I add?’

She thrust out her lower lip. ‘All right. I’ll tell Ethan I’m on board. With your blessing.’

‘So tell me about yourself, Rob Stevenson.’

He was tempted to say:
they call me Tusitala, the teller of tales
. But it would sound too much like taking the piss. He caught the eye of a waitress and ordered another glass of wine. Sarah asked for an orange juice because she was driving and he didn’t press her to change her mind. The journey here had been hair-raising when she was sober.

‘Not much to tell.’

‘Now that I don’t believe!’ She wagged a finger. ‘You know, ever since we met, I’ve talked non-stop about myself. It’s time I found out a bit more about you.’

Didn’t she understand the deal? She chattered and he listened. It was for the best. There were things in his life she really wouldn’t want to know.

‘I’d much rather talk about you.’

‘You’ve never mentioned any family. Are your parents alive? Do you have brothers and sisters?’

Funny question. Even funnier, the honest answer was that he didn’t know. He’d been put in the Home as a baby and nobody had ever come back to claim him. In
his early days this provided endless scope for harmless fantasies. His favourite was that he was the bastard child of a peer of the realm, or a general or a gentleman farmer who owned a good deal of land. But when he told the other kids, their mockery was merciless. Some of them bullied him, a couple went further and did things that even now he preferred not to remember. As the years drifted by, he learned there was more pleasure and profit in making up stories about his own life, rather than someone else’s.

‘I’m the only one left, I’m afraid.’ The drinks arrived, not a moment too soon. ‘To be honest, it’s something I’d rather not talk about.’

‘Oh, I do understand.’ Her puzzled expression suggested otherwise, but she was a kind woman, unwilling to hurt. This reluctance to inflict pain was something they had in common. ‘Your work, then. Tell me about that.’

‘Well, that’s where I go wrong.’ The wine wasn’t bad. He just hoped to God she hadn’t forgotten her credit card. ‘All work and no play. Makes me a dull boy, I’m afraid.’

As he put down his glass, he felt her hand slide on to his thigh. ‘No, Rob, you may take me for a fool, but I’m not. You have hidden depths, you just don’t want me to explore them yet, that’s all. I mean, I can’t help being curious.’

‘Honestly, I’m not very interesting.’ The modesty of this convenient reply gave him a little jolt of pleasure, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy Sarah.

‘You’re a successful businessman and yet you live out of a single suitcase and never seem to do much work. Put yourself in my position. I can’t help adding two and two together.’

Oh shit
. ‘And what answer do you come up with?’

He held his breath as he waited for her reply. She was stroking his leg through the twill of his trousers. A gentle, sympathetic movement.

‘You’ve been made redundant, haven’t you?’

A long silence. Her reply had come out of left field, but no matter. An escape hatch was opening up in front of him. He swallowed rather theatrically. Sometimes he thought he might have made a good living on the stage.

‘It’s … it’s uncanny. How did you guess?’

She blushed. ‘You know when you said you were going out to do some business the other day? Well, I followed you.’

He nearly choked on his steak. ‘What?’

‘You’re cross with me, aren’t you?’