Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

Guy was still sleeping with Sarah. Despite her shameful behaviour, he didn’t fancy exiling himself to that draughty basement. She was pathetically grateful that he hadn’t packed his bags and left, and at his insistence had disconnected the computer and confessed all to a sympathetic GP, who had referred her to a gambling therapist for specialist counselling. All in all, Guy thought she’d done very well out of him. He might have made a career out of mentoring people with inadequate personalities, he had a gift for it, but he was destined for better things.

‘Lunch in half an hour!’ Sarah called from the kitchen. ‘Cottage pie, your absolute favourite.’

Actually, he much preferred venison. But Coniston Glimpse was a far cry from the Boscolo Palace, and he was adaptable.

‘Any chance of a glass of vino?’

‘Sweetheart, your wish is my command. I’ll open the Rioja.’

Supermarket plonk, buy-one, get-one-free, but needs must. With a sigh, he bookmarked David Copperfield . At this third reading, he’d decided his literary hero was Wilkins Micawber. Guy shared Micawber’s optimism; over the years, a belief that something would turn up had served him well. Micawber was underestimated and it was telling that in the end he’d achieved the status of a colonial magistrate. Dickens knew a thing or two, just as Guy knew that one day he’d make his mark. All he needed was a lucky break. Rather than mope because Sarah had proved a broken reed, he intended to think positive.

He was a good man in a crisis. It would have been so easy to panic once he realised the accidental blow on Emma’s head hadn’t killed her, but he’d kept his nerve. Although it hadn’t been pleasant, he’d done what he had to do. Thank goodness he’d learned presence of mind early on. Where he grew up, you kept your wits about you, or you were finished. He’d hated the Home, but with hindsight he recognised that the experience had sharpened him, taught him to cope with the vagaries of Fate.

He’d told stories, long before encountering yarn-spinners like Dumas, Dickens and Rider Haggard. How better to escape the bad stuff? Booze was fine, but he could take it or leave it. Apart from smoking the occasional joint, he wasn’t into drugs. Who needed artificial stimulants? Making things up intoxicated him. In his youth, he paid a price for letting his imagination run away with him. He started reading for the first time in prison, allowing himself to be persuaded that he was bright enough to live on his wits without spending the rest of his life under lock and key. But he hadn’t been going straight for long before his encounter with Emma on Mispickel Scar led to calamity.

Even then, he reminded himself as he strolled into the kitchen, he’d fallen on his feet. It was a knack.

‘You’re looking very cheerful, darling.’ Sarah dried her hands on a grubby tea towel and gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘Always look for the silver lining, that’s my motto! Matter of fact, I’ve been doing a spot of thinking.’

‘And?’

‘It’s time to call in a favour.’

Miranda was in a good mood. She wasn’t due back in London just yet and would be at home for Valentine’s Day. Daniel’s announcement that he fancied writing something fresh about Ruskin had gone down well and they’d spent most of the morning in bed. Over brunch, she quizzed him on his approach to research.

‘This is a side of you I’ve never seen. Remember, since we met, you’ve barely written a word. Far less a full-length book.’

He munched his toast. ‘Like I said on TV, an American called Robin Winks argued the same case long ago. Every fact must count equally at the beginning of the inquiry, for one may not prejudge the conclusion. To decide at the start whodunit — the middle class, the Fascists, whatever — and why, and What It All Means, is to destroy the historical inquiry . The historian is a detective. Has to be.’

‘You ought to call Hannah Scarlett, pick up a few tips.’

‘I talked to her while you were down in London. Very interesting.’

He was glad of the chance to slip in a confession to having met Hannah. Yet, what was there to feel guilty about? He and she had chatted over a drink. Nothing had happened. Nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you didn’t count the treacherous thoughts that sneaked into his mind every now and then when images of Hannah came into his mind.

‘Did she fancy your father?’

He stared. ‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Just wondered. The way you described it, he was this smart detective, she was a rookie cop he took under his wing. She must have looked up to him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Miranda shrugged. ‘She’s the type.’

She and Hannah had only met once and had conversed for less than five minutes, but Miranda prided herself on her ability to make snap judgments of character. Before he could argue, she added, ‘You’d better be careful.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If she did like your dad, perhaps she’ll take a shine to you.’

There was a mocking light in her eyes and he realised that she didn’t rate Hannah as competition. And why should she?

‘She told me her latest cold case involved the disappearance of a woman from Coniston ten years ago.’

Miranda’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That item on the news, about the bodies they have discovered up in the fells.’

‘Sounds like they found the woman.’

Each time he’d rung Hannah’s mobile over the past couple of days, she’d been engaged on another call and he hadn’t left a message. All he’d wanted was to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. Her missing person case must have turned into a murder inquiry. And the news that not one but two corpses had been found up at the back of Coniston suggested she had a lot on her plate. Too much to waste time in idle conversation with her old boss’s son.

‘So when do you set off?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Good luck.’

His decision to spend the afternoon at the Ruskin Archive had met with her full approval. He hadn’t mentioned that the librarian currently responsible for the Archive was Vanessa Goddard. Self-indulgence on two levels. Historical research and a chance to meet someone who had known Emma Bestwick. Listening to Hannah, he’d become fascinated by Emma’s story, intrigued by mention of this Arsenic Labyrinth. If Emma was dead, he was seized by the urge to learn how she had met her fate.

‘So, DCI Scarlett, is there any doubt that one of the bodies is that of Emma Bestwick?’

Tony Di Venuto sprawled back in his chair as though he’d just taken over as Chief Constable. Pity he was such a prat, he wasn’t a bad journalist. After ten years of nothing, within days he’d conjured up enough interest in Emma’s disappearance to prompt his mystery caller to disclose where her body was hidden. Lauren wanted her to throw him a few bones in return for his help, over and above the titbits given out at the press conference. Reasonable enough; if anyone was entitled to be smug about this case, it was Di Venuto. But every time that self-satisfied smile oozed across his dark features, she wanted to scrub it away with a dripping cloth.

‘Off the record, not a lot. We haven’t received the pathologist’s report yet, and there’s not much left of Emma, of course, but the clothing we’ve retrieved from the scene matches descriptions of what she was likely to have been wearing.’

He clenched his fist. ‘I knew it!’

‘You were sure that the man who rang you up wasn’t a time-waster.’

A vigorous nod. ‘Dead right.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s just say I have a nose for bullshit.’

Not surprising, he spouted his fair share.

Aloud, she said, ‘What can you tell me about him?’