Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘You know DCI Scarlett, I gather?’

‘My father used to work with her.’

‘I suppose she’s only doing her job.’ Jeremy adopted a long-suffering tone.

‘The police are treating the case as murder, from what I read in the papers.’

A derisive snort. ‘The papers have a lot to answer for, if you ask me. Especially the local rag that has made all the fuss about the tenth anniversary of Emma going missing.’

‘At least now your wife knows the truth. Emma can have a proper burial.’

Jeremy shook his head. Now his expression was as bleak as the north face of Great Gable.

‘But that won’t be the end of it, not by a long chalk. Emma will continue to haunt us like one of Alban Clough’s ghosts. Your friend DCI Scarlett won’t let Karen or me to escape her. Have you seen what the police say about cold case work on their website? They have a proud boast. An unsolved murder never goes away.’

Who shall I be tomorrow?

Guy smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror. He always had a wet shave; electric razors didn’t cut close enough. He liked the sharp touch of the blade on his jaw, slicing away the five o’clock shadow. His hand was steady, he never nicked himself.

Soon he would be out of here. Goodbye threadbare towels liberated from a hotel in Morecambe, farewell rusting Salter scales, kept so that Sarah’s conscience could torment her as comfort eating piled on the pounds. He wouldn’t miss any of it, not the stink of the disinfectant she kept in the airing cupboard, not the clamminess of damp clothes drying on the hangers suspended over the bath tub.

And he wouldn’t miss Sarah, either. Her non-stop prattle was getting on his nerves. The brutal fact was, her best hope was for the bailiffs to come in, take possession of the Glimpse and sell off her worldly goods. Together, hopefully, with that bloody cat — if anyone was stupid enough to give such a cussed animal houseroom. The council would be forced to house a homeless woman, she’d be better off in a little flat, with no access to online betting sites. Bankruptcy might be the making of her.

He couldn’t afford to think of anyone but himself. This time, he was determined get it right. Ten years ago, young and naive, his philosophy was easy come, easy go. He’d left the Lakes with a huge wad of cash burning a hole in his wallet. For the first time in his life he felt rich and in his innocence he resolved to spend, spend, spend. No wonder the money had run out so fast and once again he’d needed to resort to living on his wits. Even that became harder as the years scurried by. Each time a relationship ran its course, you were bound to move on. Flying by night, before the woman figured out that you’d taken her purse or not repaid the loan from her rich grandma or whatever. It was no sort of life for anyone with talent. He wanted to take time out. Pamper himself, weigh up his options. Find a lovely lady capable of lasting the course. What was the old joke about the perfect mate: a nymphomaniac whose dad owned a brewery? Someone like that.

‘Are you decent?’ a voice trilled from the other side of the door.

‘Yes,’ he said, stroking the blade before he put the razor down.

She walked in and burst into a delighted fit of giggles when she saw that he was naked. ‘You said that …’

‘Nothing indecent about the human body,’ he interrupted. Her tee shirt proclaimed Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. He lifted it up. ‘God’s greatest work of art.’

‘Rob Stevenson, you’re insatiable!’

He put on a sad spaniel face. ‘It is Valentine’s Day.’

‘Well …’

‘And we will be apart for a couple of weeks.’

‘How will I bear it?’ she breathed, shuddering with pleasure as his hands explored. ‘You promise to phone me?’

‘As soon as I can. But don’t be surprised by a few days of radio silence. I’ll be living out of a suitcase, working every hour that God sends. Deals don’t come much bigger than this one.’

‘I’m praying that it works out for us.’

‘Have I ever let you down?’

‘Never.’

His hands paused in their adventure. Come to think of it, what she said was extraordinary but true. He hadn’t let her down once since arriving back in Coniston. Pity, but there was a first time for everything.

‘You don’t have to go for another hour yet,’ she whispered.

He smiled into her pasty, trusting face and seized her wrist. Might as well give her something to remember him by.

* * *

‘Sorry I can’t give you any more information, Mr Kind.’

‘Daniel, please. And I’m very grateful for your help.’

Vanessa Goddard gave him a weary half-smile. Her shoulders were bowed and he guessed she was still struggling to come to terms with the discovery of her friend’s body.

‘Think nothing of it,’ she said with a sigh.

The two of them were standing by the door of the library in the converted chapel and Daniel noticed Vanessa looking over his shoulder, through the glass panes. A green Saab was pulling up outside.

‘My husband, Francis,’ she explained. ‘He arranged to go on early shift at the hospital, so we have plenty of time to enjoy a Valentine’s Day meal together this evening. We need to take our minds off what happened to poor Emma, though it isn’t easy. Hang on for a moment and say hello to him.’

Francis Goddard turned up his jacket collar against the chill as he flicked the remote to lock his car. When his wife introduced them, he mustered a tense smile, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Hannah had mentioned wondering if there had been something between Francis and Emma Bestwick. Even then, would he have murdered her to stop his wife from finding out?

‘Darling, you remember I told you last night, Daniel was asking about the Arsenic Labyrinth? Now he’s trying to find out the origins of the curse.’

Francis frowned. ‘Why are you interested?’

Daniel said shamelessly, ‘I’m researching for a book about Ruskin and I wondered whether he might have had something to say about it. But I’ve been wading through Bickerstaff’s book of Lakeland lore and I can’t trace where the story comes from.’

Vanessa said, ‘Daniel met Jeremy today and asked him about it. Even Mr Know-all had to confess he didn’t know the answer.’

‘Wonders never cease.’ Francis shrugged bony shoulders. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Mr Kind. Although I’ve lived here all my life, I don’t claim any expertise in local history. You may only have arrived here five minutes ago, but I’ll bet your knowledge is greater than mine.’

He glanced at his watch. Taking the hint, Daniel thanked Vanessa again and took his leave. As he reversed his car, he caught sight of the Goddards through the glass. Francis was bending to plant a kiss on his wife’s disfigured cheek. Daniel eased on to the main road. His father’s theory of murder investigation had a snag. Suspecting everybody made you forget that most people caught up in crime deserved to be pitied, not pestered.

Driving along the edge of the lake, he saw reflections of bare trees in the water. Across the road, the ground was covered with reddish-brown bracken. It wasn’t dark yet, but the wayside cottages had lights in their windows and smoke drifting from their chimneys. Rounding a corner, he needed to brake sharply to avoid crashing into two horned sheep in the road. They had dark, sad faces and splashes of scarlet dye on their fleeces which made them look as though they’d sustained a gunshot wound.

He parked on a patch of ground fringed by purple crocuses and got out of the car. From the distance came the mechanical hum of someone cutting logs, but there was something reassuring and eternal about the sombre stillness of the lake. Leafless birch trees, stark and bare, made strange, twisted shapes against the backdrop of grey sky and water. His shoes cracked on twigs as he rested his backside on an old dry-stone wall