Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

She’d been working in the study until after one o’clock, tapping details of the day’s work into her laptop. Falling asleep the instant her head touched the pillow, she’d dreamed of Emma Bestwick, her mouth wide open in a soundless scream, tumbling down, down, down the spiral staircase that led from the tower of Inchmore Hall.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wondered if her imagination was playing tricks. But when she focused on the message on the card, a torrent of guilt engulfed her.

Shit, shit, shit. How could I forget?

The door swung open behind her. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’

Two sinewy arms seized her and she felt Marc’s warm breath on her neck. She could smell toothpaste and jasmine shower gel. He opened her cotton gown and started nuzzling her neck while his hands explored her. His fingers were warm, probing, adventurous. Nails dug gently into her skin. She succumbed to a fit of the giggles even as she wriggled out of his grasp.

‘Behave!’

‘It’s a fair cop,’ he murmured. ‘A very fair cop.’

‘Can’t remember when you last gave me roses.’

‘You had a narrow escape. I nearly bought you a de luxe edition of The Kama Sutra .’

She laughed and told him what he could do with The Kama Sutra before confessing. ‘I haven’t got you a card.’

Never before had her memory betrayed her so badly. How typical that he’d colonised the moral high ground, even though for him Valentine’s Day meant little more than an excuse for a meal out in a swish restaurant followed by special occasion sex.

‘Know what? You spend too much time worrying about decomposed bodies.’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s true, I need to get a life.’

‘You said it.’ He took a pace towards her and slipped the gown off her shoulders. ‘You’ll have to find some way to make up to me for your appalling lack of care and attention.’

She skipped out of his reach. ‘Tonight, OK? I need to get some clothes on. We have a lot to do.’

‘Don’t be late. I’ve booked a table at Gregorio’s for seven-thirty.’

He looked like a pleased little boy and she found herself kissing him hard. When they separated again, she read the card and unwrapped the box. Belgian chocolates, her favourites. How come she’d ever doubted him?

‘You know, I’m glad you bought me chocolates. I was afraid you might have booked me into a clinic for a boob job to match Vicky’s.’

He couldn’t quite drag his eyes away from her uncovered breasts. Thank God they weren’t droopy; not yet, anyway. On the other hand, they were scarcely pneumatic. She was what she was, she didn’t want to change. The thought of being cut up for the sake of appearance made her flesh creep. But Marc had this in common with every man she’d ever met: he was dedicated to getting his own way, no matter how long it took.

‘I know you don’t fancy it,’ he said.

His tone was light and bantering. But something in his expression made her pick up the gown and sling it back on.

‘I have to go.’

‘It’s still early. Come back upstairs for half an hour.’ When she shook her head, his tone sharpened. ‘OK, Hannah. Just remember this. Dead bodies are all very well. But it’s living bodies that matter.’

* * *

‘The property agent texted me last night,’ Miranda said.

Daniel snaked his arm around her. He was only half awake. Ten a.m. and they were still in bed, the duvet long since flung on to the floor. There was no danger of their getting cold after two indulgent hours spent celebrating Valentine’s. This was the glory of escaping the rat race. You had all the time in the world.

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Someone’s made an offer for my flat.’

He tightened his grip on her, too blissed-out to speak. At last she’d decided to give up on London living and commit. To the Lakes, to Tarn Cottage, to him.

Miranda disentangled herself and knelt beside him, brushing the silky hair out of her eyes and folding her arms across her chest in a belated gesture of modesty. All of a sudden, her slender body was as taut as a violin string. Her smile was too fixed, too bright. He knew his Miranda. She had more news for him, and it wasn’t going to be good.

‘The agent talked about something else. There’s a flat in Greenwich, not far from the Cutty Sark, I meant to mention it to you, but I kept forgetting. He showed me round while I was down there. It’s absolutely lovely and it’s just across the river from Canary Wharf, five minutes on the train. The owner’s been offered a job in Abu Dhabi and is desperate for a quick sale. The agent’s bartered him down so that the asking price is a snip. Would you like to go halves?’

He stared into her eyes, unable to do more than repeat her words like the dullest boy in the class. ‘Go halves?’

‘Yes, why not? Face it, we just can’t afford to jump off the London property ladder. The way prices keep shooting up, we’ll never be able to climb back on.’

‘Why would we want to? If you need a place to stay while you’re working down there, you can rent.’

The blonde mane shook. ‘No way. Rent is dead money. I need a place of my own. We both do.’

‘Not me.’

‘Come on, Daniel. Don’t be so — so dogmatic. It’s not reasonable. When the time comes, you’ll have work to do in London. You can’t be a full-time historian up here, that’s for sure.’

‘Why not? It’s not as if we’re living north of Vladivostok. We can have the best of both worlds. Live here and sample the delights of London when the mood takes us.’

Somewhere outside, wild geese were crying. He was sure Miranda couldn’t hear them, she excelled at shutting her mind to whatever didn’t suit.

‘No need to be sarcastic.’

‘Hey, London’s wonderful. I just don’t want to live there.’

‘Well, I do!’ When she saw the look on his face, she said hurriedly, ‘I mean, I love the Lakes, of course, but Tarn Fold is a cul-de-sac in more senses than one. This cottage is fine as a hideaway, but we can’t bury ourselves in the countryside permanently. There’s a world outside Brackdale. It would be crazy to cut ourselves off.’

Daniel lay back and stared at the whitewashed ceiling. It was uneven, like everything in this cottage. Months of building work had transformed the place; that was where houses scored over relationships. Easier to paint over the cracks. The room smelled of sex, but the passion of early morning seemed to belong to another life.

‘It’s not for me.’

She brushed her fingers against the hairs on his chest. Her touch was so light, so delicate. There were moments when he thought she could ask for anything, and he would give it. But it was an illusion, life didn’t work like that.

‘I want us to spend more time together, darling.’

‘Me too.’

‘Then why do you insist on going your own sweet way?’

He clasped her hand and sat up. ‘Living in the Lakes is what we agreed. And this is perfect, isn’t it? Who could ask for anything more?’

Even with tousled hair and not a trace of make-up, she was very beautiful. But as she shook her head and looked into his eyes, he saw nothing but sadness.

‘Sorry, darling. It isn’t enough.’

Guy and Sarah had exchanged cards bearing protestations of undying devotion, but he’d readily agreed to her suggestion that they shouldn’t spend a fortune on presents until their finances were sorted. Sarah was keen to prove that she was capable of behaving responsibly with cash and from his point of view it didn’t make sense to waste another penny on her. She’d misled him, and he planned to escape as soon as he’d replenished his coffers.

He’d spun her a yarn about a massive deal that he hoped would save his job and leave him quids in, sprinkling it with jargon he’d gleaned from the Financial Times so as to add verisimilitude. The negotiations were bound to be complex and would take him away from Coniston for a couple of weeks, but she shouldn’t fret, absence always made the heart grow fonder. She must take in more lodgers to earn a few pounds until he returned to the Glimpse. They could share the future free of debt’s shackles.