Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘He might be crediting Jeremy with his own motive, his own crime.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re not convinced?’

‘Just because you’re a creep, doesn’t mean you’re a murderer.’

This was unarguable. Hannah unlocked the car with a click of her remote key. She was about to climb in when she caught a glimpse of Les in profile. Head bowed, wrinkles like ravines around his eyes and mouth.

‘You OK?’

‘Do I sound like it?’

‘I don’t mean your cold. I mean …’

He glared at her and pulled open the car door. ‘Listen, if you fancy yourself as a trick cyclist, leave me out of it, all right?’

‘I was only …’ Her voice trailed away. Dourness was par for the course, but she’d never seen Les look as woebegone as he did right now.

He glanced up at the heavens, then closed his eyes. ‘If you must know, the wife’s left me.’

‘Les, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’ve had a while to get used to the idea. A month since, she packed her bags and went off with someone else. It’s not the first time and I thought she’d come running back, like she’s done before. My mistake. I’ve had a letter from her solicitor, telling me she wants a divorce. So she can marry the stupid bastard. Happy bloody Valentine’s Day, eh?’

‘If I can …’

‘Bloke she’s run off with, he’s my best mate. Well, he was my best mate. Can you imagine that?’

Hannah tried to visualise Terri canoodling with Marc. For a moment, she was seized by a wild fantasy, of Marc covertly going online to pick up women and then having the shock of his life when he realised that his date was Hannah’s closest friend. The two of them were so different. Terri was loud and funny, Marc quiet and intense. They had never hit it off. At least that was the impression they gave.

For God’s sake. She ought to be paying attention to Les as he mused.

‘The daft bloody bugger. I only hope he likes trailing round shoe shops.’ He sneezed again. ‘Come on, then, we’d best be getting back. Lots to do.’

Grizedale College was a throwback in time, reminding Daniel of school stories he’d read as a boy. Black and white buildings and a clock tower, complemented by cloisters, a chapel and a cricket pavilion. A motto in Latin was carved over the imposing entrance to a hall in which he imagined young voices belting out the school song as a warm-up for ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ and ‘God Save the Queen’. Easy to picture Billy Bunter en route to the tuck shop, or Mr Chips as he reminisced about succeeding generations of pupils studying Virgil.

The hall was galleried, dark and gloomy even in the middle of the day. The walls were lined with oil paintings of long deceased head teachers resplendent in their caps and gowns. He asked the way to Jeremy Erskine’s room, and was helped by a boy and a girl in blazers of a hideous violet hue, suggestive of a bad case of acne. The pupils’ diction was so clear, their manners so impeccable, that he suspected they were aliens who had cunningly assumed the form of twenty-first-century teenagers, only for their invasion plans to be betrayed by excessive and unnatural politeness.

Daniel’s shoes squeaked as he walked across the parquet floor and he flinched in anticipation of a prefect’s reprimand. He rapped on a solid oak door and a lordly voice commanded, ‘Come!’

The large, well-upholstered room boasted the warm and comfortable ambience of a Victorian gentlemen’s club. On the walls hung framed certificates and photographs of Jeremy standing next to teams of school cricketers and rugby players. The oak desk was covered with pictures of an attractive blonde woman and two young children, together with a pile of essays for marking. History textbooks crowded a glass-fronted bookcase, an ocelot rug stretched across the floor. On a table was spread lunch for two. The cutlery was Sheffield steel, the napkins bore the College crest. There was a hot fire made with fat logs which gurgled and spat.

Jeremy wrung his hand. ‘Welcome to Grizedale, Mr Kind! What a pleasure to meet you. Cook has prepared a little something for us, as you can see. Ham, cheese or salmon sandwiches, whatever suits.’

For half an hour they ate and talked history and Daniel found they shared an enthusiasm for exploring the dustier corners of life in Victorian Britain. Jeremy proved a knowledgeable and unexpectedly witty conversationalist, the pomposity Hannah had described melting away as they discussed how historians go about detecting the truth about the past.

‘I tell my students to learn to ask the right questions, it’s the most important trick of all. Strip out the irrelevancies — the red herrings, as you call them in your book — and focus on what will carry them through to a proper conclusion.’

Ask the right questions. Yes, Daniel preached the same message at Oxford. But it was easier said than done.

‘You mentioned your Association purchased several of the lots at the auction where I bought the letters about Ruskin. Do you know what happened to them?’

‘We were fortunate to receive a substantial bequest in the will of the late Mrs Elizabeth Clough. Her son Alban founded the Museum of Myth and Legend, you know.’

‘I’ve met him.’

‘He isn’t a serious historian, I fear, but his mother was a good friend of our Secretary, Sylvia Blacon. Poor Sylvia is very frail these days, but she sent a nephew to bid on the Association’s behalf and he came back with a rich haul. Worth peanuts in monetary terms, perhaps, but enormously valuable in giving us a fuller understanding of life in Coniston and its neighbourhood over the past couple of centuries.’

‘Where do you store it all?’

‘We keep a small archive here in the College library, by kind permission of the Governors. Scarcely the Bodleian, but you would be more than welcome to take a look. Not that what we have can offer you much help with your current project. Occasionally we have inquiries from people researching Ruskin, but we direct them to Brantwood and the specialist collections.’

‘I’d love to look over the stuff Sylvia’s nephew bought. Ever since the auction, I’ve regretted not taking a closer look at the lots I didn’t bid for. I only decided to turn up at the last minute, so I went in under-prepared. For all I know, I overlooked half a dozen gems.’

‘So far we haven’t added the auction lots to the collection. They still await cataloguing. Sylvia keeps them at home. During the past few months, she’s been unwell and I haven’t wanted to press her. She’s in her mid-eighties, our longest-serving committee member. Quite a character, she was a history teacher for thirty odd years. She was so anxious to study the materials; her mind is still as sharp as a knife. Unfortunately, when we last spoke, she hadn’t made any progress.’

‘I wonder if I could talk to her?’

‘I remember her saying how much she enjoyed your TV series. Since she was taken poorly, she’s not had much to get excited about. I’m sure she’d be thrilled by the prospect of meeting you.’

‘There seems to be plenty of excitement around here at present. I read about the bodies the police have discovered up in the fells.’

‘Ah.’ Jeremy coloured. ‘That business is rather close to home, as it happens. The police believe that one of the bodies they have found is my wife’s sister.’

Years of swimming through the shark-infested waters of a Senior Common Room in an Oxford college had schooled Daniel in the black arts of disingenuous conversation. His sister had told him more than once that he wasn’t as nice as everyone thought he was, and of course she was right. He expressed profound apologies while trying to prise more information out of the bereaved brother-in-law. At least, if Hannah was to be believed, Jeremy wasn’t suffering too much grief.