Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘Who knows? Now the cottage renovations are finished, Miranda’s on my case. She doesn’t want me to vegetate. But I’d have to do more than simply dig over old ground. I’m casting around for ideas that haven’t been done to death. By the sleepy standards of nineteenth-century Cumberland, Coniston was an industrial metropolis. What did Ruskin make of what was going on in his own village, I wonder? Did he lecture the men who owned the slate mines across the lake, or was he afraid of upsetting his neighbours?’

‘He was never famed for his diplomacy.’

‘Exactly, but I’m short of sources. Without them, you can scrabble around forever like a hen in a yard, looking for scraps to feed off. So where better to look than this Aladdin’s cave of yours?’

Marc waved at the thousands of books surrounding them. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Maybe one of these days I’ll drop lucky again. Last year I picked up a set of letters at an auction which gave a contemporary account of Ruskin’s arguments with the steel barons of Barrow.’

‘He’ll rest easier in his grave, with the steelworks closed down. Shame it took a hundred years. People used to say he was mad, didn’t they? Especially when he retreated to Brantwood and never wrote another word. All those dangerous heresies they feared would bring the nation to its knees. The welfare state, corporate responsibility, campaigning against industrial pollution.’

Daniel grinned. ‘I hear you’re opening in Sedbergh.’

‘Nothing is definite. Leigh’s excited about branching out and so am I. The real challenge is persuading Hannah that another business loan wouldn’t take us down the road to perdition.’

‘She isn’t keen?’

A shrug. ‘Who can blame her? She brings in more money than I do. And there’s no index-linked, tax-payer funded pension for second-hand bookdealers. Like all police officers, she’s a dyed-in-the-wool cynic. You’re don’t realise how lucky you are with Miranda.’

‘Lucky?’

‘Wasn’t it her idea to downshift to the Lakes? A bold move, to throw up tenure at Oxford. Going for the dream. But I guess you’ve never regretted it.’

‘Too right I haven’t.’ Though maybe Miranda has . ‘So — how is Hannah?’

‘Overworked, otherwise fine. Speaking of Coniston, she’s over there today, something to do with one of the cold cases.’

‘Give her my best.’

Marc nodded. ‘That business at Old Sawrey …’

‘Uh-huh?’ Even now, he flinched at the memory of the way he’d blundered into Hannah’s investigation.

‘I know she’s wondered how you coped with it all. She knew your father, I guess she felt a kind of responsibility for you.’

‘I shouldn’t have poked my nose in.’

Marc drained his cup. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault. She told me how much you helped her.’

‘She did?’ Daniel felt an embarrassing surge of pleasure, like a hapless schoolboy complimented on an unexpectedly good report.

‘Yeah. According to her, you’d make a good detective. After all, it’s in your blood.’

Hannah hadn’t encountered either Alexandra Clough or her father during the original inquiry, but from all she’d heard, Emma’s former lover was an ice maiden. The impression was confirmed as soon as she rang to ask for a meeting.

‘It was ten years ago, for goodness’ sake.’ A cool voice, superior, doubtless the product of a pricey education. ‘Why rake over old coals?’

It took Hannah five minutes to persuade her to agree to an interview. Today was impossible, Alex insisted, she and her father were far too busy. It sounded like an excuse, the delay a reprisal for having to surrender to the inevitable. Hannah was left in no doubt that this whole cold case nonsense was some form of PR guff, so that the police could curry favour with a journalist who had column inches to fill.

‘I must ask you not to bother my father excessively. He’s seventy-five, you know.’

‘I understand that he still runs the museum?’

‘You may have forgotten, I’ve been the manager here since he turned sixty. My father founded the museum; naturally he continues to advise me. But I put you on notice, he has a heart condition. Last year the doctors fitted a pacemaker. A police interrogation is the last thing he needs. If anything should happen to him …’

‘I’m not proposing an interrogation, just to ask a few questions.’

An elaborate sigh. ‘I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that at the time Emma Bestwick disappeared, we told your colleagues everything we knew.’

Not quite, Hannah thought. True, you did both say a great deal. But you didn’t actually tell us very much at all.

Suppose I did no more than stumble across her body? If only I hadn’t panicked. Emma wasn’t murdered, there was no intent. She died a natural death.

As Guy walked down Campbell Road, a narrative took shape in his brain. This was his gift, to reinvent his life so as to wipe away the petty mishaps and misdemeanours. They confused so many people. Too often folk saw him as a liar and a cheat rather than a man misunderstood. By the time he sauntered into Sarah Welsby’s kitchen, he was brimming with good cheer.

‘Had a good day, Rob?’

His full-wattage smile encouraged her to start jabbering away while she loaded the dishwasher. Shopping, a conversation with the German guests, a rambling anecdote about an elderly neighbour whose poodle had been put down.

When she paused for breath, he said, ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I take you out for a meal tonight? There are a couple of good restaurants close by.’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly …’

He raised a hand. ‘No objections, please. Do we have a date?’

She blushed. ‘I suppose we do.’

As he left the kitchen, his eye caught today’s copy of the Post on the work surface. Emma’s sister must be tormented by the not-knowing, if the journalist was to be believed. Without closure, she could not move on. Why not bring the story to an end? Time was a healer, it was safe now. Nobody could prove anything against him. He was ready to draw a line under the tragedy. How better than by telling a little of what he knew?

Compassion seized him. The tragedy . That was precisely the phrase he’d been groping for all these years. To call it murder was foolhardy and wrong. OK, he’d blundered, but to err was human. He wanted to make amends, to do the right thing. Redemption lay in putting Karen out of her misery and ending the years of uncertainty and despair.

Yes, Karen deserved closure and he had the power to grant it to her. He would be wise and gracious. He would reveal where Emma had been lain to rest.

Thurston Water House, residence of the Goddards, was a double-fronted Victorian villa. Set back from the road, it was a stroll away from the steamship pier, but guarded from the trippers’ gaze by spreading oaks and a hawthorn hedge. Ten years ago, Hannah had asked herself how a nurse and a librarian could afford such a place on public sector pay. Sinister speculation was dashed when Francis explained that Goddards had lived in these parts since the days when the lake was known as Thurston Water. His great-great-grandfather had owned a gunpowder works at Elterwater and made a fortune out of those who blew holes in the hillside. This house was the fruit of all that destruction.

Francis answered the door. Ten years hadn’t aged him. Tall and gawky, he still resembled an overgrown schoolboy in a sleeveless cricket sweater and paint-splashed corduroy jeans. Hannah remembered her surprise at learning that he and his wife shared a passion for dancing; he looked as though he had two left feet. But she’d found his awkward eagerness appealing, even as she wondered if he was capable of murder.