Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

His head was throbbing, the air was stale. He might be suffering from a touch of claustrophobia, maybe even the early stages of flu. All through lunch, she never stopped chattering about her younger days before the marriage that went wrong. It was as if she were trying to suck him into her existence, make him understand every little thing about her. She didn’t seem to appreciate that affairs like theirs were transient. You savoured the moment and then got on with the rest of your life. He hardly spoke, although she hadn’t reached the stage of chastising him for having so little to say to her. The blissful look would give way to a reproachful frown and she would click her tongue each time he fell short of expectations. Nobody ever realised how difficult it was, when you made up an identity for yourself. You had to take such care to avoid making a mistake, a careless remark that revealed you were not the man you claimed to be.

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 Cafe 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?’