Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

She ought to escape from this grotesque old man and his cobwebbed world and get back to Divisional HQ. But he intrigued her more than any exhibit in his museum. A few more minutes would not hurt. And she might learn something while he lowered his guard, showing off his expertise in Lakeland lore.

‘Do you not know the tale of the Loathly Lady?’ When Hannah shook her head, her host harrumphed and said, ‘I take it you are unfamiliar with the ballad of ‘The Marriage of Sir Gawain’?’

Hannah thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. After so many years living with a bookseller, she ought to be well-read, but there were limits, and medieval ballads strayed far beyond them.

‘Remind me.’

Her host led the way into the King Arthur Room. ‘Few parts of Britain do not lay claim to a connection with the old monarch but my belief is that the old counties of Cumberland and Westmorland were as rich in Arthurian associations as Glastonbury or Tintagel. Take a look at that map. Each yellow crown represents a location boasting a story about Arthur, Merlin, or one of the Knights of the Round Table.’

Why were men so obsessive about their interests? If it wasn’t football, fishing or philately, it was old books or even older legends.

‘Fascinating,’ she murmured.

His beam confirmed it was a good lie. ‘I could tell the moment we met, Chief Inspector, that you were a woman of discernment.’

She ought to point that out to Marc tonight. Giving her host an enigmatic smile, she looked about her. Below the high ceiling, and running all around the room, an elaborate hand-painted frieze depicted gorgeous hills and shimmering tarns. Shameless really, when you remembered that Clifford Inchmore had built this house out of the profits made from scarring the landscape with mines.

‘You were going to tell me what women most desire?’

‘Indeed.’ Alban Clough cleared his throat. ‘In the days when King Arthur held court at Carlisle, he was riding out by Tarn Wadling when he encountered a bold baron with a club. The baron said that if the King was to avoid combat, he must answer a riddle.’

‘Namely?’

Her host raised bushy white eyebrows and hissed, ‘What is it that women most desire?’

Despite herself, Hannah felt her body tensing. In her mind, she’d nicknamed the old man King Leer — but he was a born story-teller.

‘Arthur chose the riddle and in his search for the answer, he encountered a woman as ugly as sin, sitting between an oak and a green holly. She offered to help him and he promised her the hand of Gawain in marriage if she told him the answer. She assented, and when Arthur returned to Tarn Wadling, he informed the baron that what women most desire is to have their own will.’

‘Don’t tell me. This legend was dreamed up by a man, right?’

Alban Clough bared yellowing teeth in a fearsome grin. ‘The lore of our land, Chief Inspector, reaches far deeper than superficial notions of sexism and political correctness. Gawain was celebrated for his courtesy and expressed his willingness to marry the hag. Upon hearing this, she transformed into a woman of peerless beauty. Alas! Her looks endured either by day or by night — but not both. Gawain said he would prefer to enjoy her beauty while they were in bed at night. In distress, she said that then she must hide away, for it would humiliate her to appear at court, warts and all. Good and gentle Gawain said she must choose whatever suited her best. His compassion broke the curse put on her and her brother, the baron, by their wicked stepmother — he to challenge passers-by to solve his riddle, she to remain ugly until a fellow took her hand in marriage and permitted her to have her own way.’

Hannah said nothing, but shifted from foot to foot. Alban Clough noticed the movement.

‘You are a busy lady, Chief Inspector. Enough of Gawain. Follow me to the Room of Spirits and I will tell you about the boggles and barghests that populate our land of lakes. Stories that go back centuries and yet have resonance in this grubby, sterile age. The eternal nature of our legends, their ageless qualities, are integral to their enduring appeal.’

Hannah shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I must go.’

He bowed his head. ‘A pity. If I may say so, Chief Inspector, I hope that you will come back to keep me company again before long.’

His wink was so roguish as to leave Hannah lost for words.

Money was tight, that was the only fly in the ointment. Guy had identified a nice little restaurant where he was going to take Sarah this evening. It would be a night to remember for her, all the more delightful because they had not yielded to temptation at the first opportunity. But he liked his wallet to bulge with high denomination notes — women always found that impressive — and as he checked his wallet while studying the menu in the window of the restaurant, he realised there would be no more treats without a further injection of funds.

Striding back towards the Glimpse under a sky the colour of lead, he told himself his lack of cash was Megan’s fault. In the days leading up to their break-up, she had become increasingly stingy, no longer so quick to whip out her credit cards when something needed paying for. Guy’s preferred lifestyle relied on his companion of the moment matching his generosity of spirit with a willingness to foot the bills. Although he’d raided Megan’s purse before leaving Llandudno — she shouldn’t begrudge him a few quid after they’d shared so much — it had yielded measly pickings.

He turned into Campbell Road. Casual inquiry about Sarah’s finances had revealed that her only substantial asset was the Glimpse. Her husband had transferred it into her name under the divorce settlement and paid off the mortgage, but he contributed a paltry sum in alimony and the money she made out of tenants was largely off-set by living costs. Shame. Guy was confident that he could persuade her to follow his expert advice and entrust a decent sum to him with a view to establishing a diversified portfolio of equities and bonds, if only she had something worthwhile to invest. This lack of ready funds explained why she hadn’t spent much on her home. Apart from a surprisingly swish PC, she didn’t seem to have much of value and the building needed maintenance. The good news was that, with property prices in the Lakes sky high, the equity must be worth a packet. He’d fallen on his feet. Sarah was worth more than she realised.

Back in her car, Hannah checked her mobile. Two messages: one from Les Bryant, the other from Daniel Kind. Which first? No contest.

‘Daniel, this is Hannah.’

‘Thanks for returning the call. Hope you don’t mind my …’

‘Of course not.’ She answered too quickly, not wanting him to think her precious. ‘Marc said he’d seen you at the bookshop.’

‘How are things?’

Last time they’d met, she’d mentioned the miscarriage. Marc and her best mate Terri were the only other people who knew. She was usually so wary about imparting confidences, she could scarcely believe she’d told him. He was still almost a stranger, and yet because he was his father’s son, it was as if they knew each other intimately.

‘Fine. And you? Marc tells me you’re researching a new project.’

‘An excuse for mooching round bookshops.’ He took a breath. ‘Hannah, it would be good to catch up with you. I was wondering if we might meet sometime.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Then …’

She didn’t stop to think, or worry about seeming eager. ‘Do you have any free time in the next few days?’

‘Miranda’s down in London at present. My time’s my own. You’re not around tomorrow, by any chance?’

‘Do you know Cafe d’Art in Kendal?’