Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘Not again?’

He pictured her mouth tightening in disapproval. An expression she’d inherited from her mother, worn whenever he made the mistake of mentioning the father who had left them all for another woman.

‘She needs to see her editor face to face.’

‘I’m amazed she can tear herself away. I read her article about how trendy the Lakes have become. “ A fantastic destination for the loft and latte set. You may not realise after glancing at the temperature gauge, but the Lake District is hot. ”’ The breathless take-off was so accurate that Daniel winced. ‘Haven’t they heard of video conferencing?’

‘They’re journalists, not company executives. They’d rather interact face to face.’

‘Well, you know what I think.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Daniel didn’t want to go there. The two women had nothing in common. He hated having to defend Miranda to Louise. Trouble was, his sister was a lawyer to her fingertips. She specialised in chilly logic, and giving unwelcome advice.

‘I mean, I hope it works out for the two of you, but …’

‘It will,’ he interrupted.

‘Let’s face it. You met her when you were bereft after Aimee’s suicide. Oh, she did you good, I don’t deny it. None of us could get through to you until she came along. But the two of you are so very different. You used to be so funny, so laid-back. You’re not cut out for a roller-coaster ride with a drama queen.’

‘She’s not …’

‘You know what I mean. Escaping your old lives suited you both for a time, but you can’t live a dream forever. Passion is fine, but it isn’t enough long term.’

What makes you an expert ? he was tempted to ask. But that would be cruel. Louise’s own relationship had fallen apart last summer and he wasn’t sure she was over it even now. She’d never rung him without a reason until she started living on her own. But she’d never admit she was lonely. Too much pride.

‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Listen, you’re not as accustomed to failure as the rest of us. But sometimes it’s better to …’

‘When I want an agony aunt, I’ll give you a ring.’

She gave a have it your way sigh and said, ‘Started that book yet?’

‘Waiting for inspiration.’

‘You once told me that nobody who writes should ever wait for inspiration.’ A note of curiosity entered her voice. ‘Seen any more of that police officer friend of yours?’

‘No.’ Did he imagine a touch of innuendo in the word friend ? ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just thought … oh, nothing.’

After she’d rung off, he dialled Miranda. Was it selfish to hope she was missing him? She was in a restaurant, surrounded by a wailing saxophone and people laughing. Glasses clinked, someone whistled for a waiter. American football was playing on TV in the background, the commentator shouting himself hoarse. Miranda was joining in the laughter and a couple of times she asked him to repeat what he said. Even when he did, he wasn’t sure she was paying attention.

‘Was there anything particular?’ she asked in the end. ‘The roof isn’t leaking, the electrics haven’t gone up in smoke?’

‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘No problem,’ she assured him. ‘Talk soon. Love you.’

She made a loud kissing noise and the phone went dead.

‘The woman intrigued me.’

Alban Clough was leaning back in his ancient leather chair, eyes shut and hands behind his head. He might have been speaking of an exhibit on display downstairs and not his daughter’s vanished lover.

‘Why?’ Hannah asked.

He’d invited her up to the small sitting room at the top of Inchmore Hall. The only access from the living quarters on the floor below was by a perilous spiral staircase lit by candles in wall-holders that would have a health and safety inspector frothing at the mouth. But Alban Clough clambered up the steps like a mountain goat rather than a man of seventy five with a heart condition. As she followed, Hannah took care not to look down and tried not to think about the cop who feared heights in that Hitchcock movie.

The small table that separated them was piled high with books and foolscap sheets of closely written text, with more papers scattered across the carpet; Alex’s tidiness gene couldn’t have been inherited from her father. Looking through the single mullioned window, Hannah watched slivers of mist curling down from the heights. At least there was one hotspot inside Inchmore Hall. A log fire crackled and the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood.

Alban Clough jerked upright and opened his eyes. As he shifted his weight, the armchair squeaked. ‘She was a sweet girl, but secretive.’

‘What about?’

‘I could not discover that. Which is why I was intrigued.’

‘Her sexuality? The relationship with your daughter?’

He pooh-poohed the suggestions with a flourish of an age-spotted paw. ‘I might claim, Chief Inspector Scarlett, to be worldly wise. It was apparent from our first meeting that Emma was a lesbian. A man of sensitivity and experience can recognise the signs, let me assure you.’

How easy to take a serious dislike to Alban Clough. Six feet three and broad as a bull, with self-esteem to match, he had the unruly white hair, hooked nose and booming voice of a hellfire prophet, but his most profound conviction was evidently of his own infallibility. He didn’t have his daughter’s dress sense; there was a button missing from his cuff, and his shirt wasn’t properly tucked into his elderly slacks. Yet he struck Hannah as a man to be reckoned with.

‘Did you approve of the relationship?’

‘For as long as it brought Alexandra pleasure, most certainly. I feared it would not last, but a parent’s lot is to worry about their offspring’s happiness. Do you have children, Chief Inspector? If so, you will understand.’

Hannah let that whistle past. ‘You questioned Emma’s motives?’

‘Because she saw sleeping with my daughter as a passport to a life of comfort of plenty? By no means. I believed her affection for Alexandra to be genuine, though falling short of undying devotion. In my presence, she was good-natured and deferential.’

I bet, Hannah thought. Emma might be an elusive character, but she was no fool.

‘Then what?’

‘My daughter is a highly intelligent and remarkably sensible woman, but in personal relationships apt to wear her heart on her sleeve. That wasn’t Emma’s way. It seemed significant to me that her only other friend was the woman from whom she rented a room.’

‘Not her sister?’

‘Karen Erskine and her husband visited the museum, I suspect out of curiosity rather than any deeply felt interest in my life’s work. Jeremy Erskine made it clear that a history master at Grizedale College could not approve the unsourced speculation in which I indulge concerning the origins of local myths and legends. Alexandra took pains to make them welcome, but Emma had little in common with Karen. I speculated that Erskine had taken a shine to Emma, and that was a cause of froideur . If so, he was wasting his time.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. Emma was not interested in men.’

For a wild moment, Hannah wondered if Alban Clough had first-hand experience of rejection by Emma. Or maybe it wasn’t so wild? The way he’d considered her appearance when his daughter introduced them downstairs verged on the lascivious. An age gap of thirty-five years might not have deterred a man in the habit of getting his own way. Hannah’s closest friend, Terri, had decided after three failed marriages to try her luck with internet dating and she’d reported with glee that one of the men she’d met, though old enough to be her father, had the stamina and lust of a nineteen-year-old. He also turned out to be an undischarged bankrupt with three convictions for false accounting.