Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘Perfect.’

‘I shouldn’t interrupt, but this is about Emma Bestwick.’

‘Marc told me you’re swotting up on Lakeland lore.’

‘I visited Alban Clough and asked about the Arsenic Labyrinth. The way he tells it, the curse is an ancient legend, its origins lost in history. After that, I talked with your friend Jeremy Erskine. As a historian, he knows his stuff.’

Hannah grunted. ‘He’ll have been desperate to impress Daniel Kind, the telly guru.’

‘He isn’t into legends, so he couldn’t help. I’ve read every page of the book Marc sold me. I’ve surfed the net and even talked to Vanessa Goddard a couple of times to see if she could cast any light. And you know what? There’s more folklore in the Lake District than you can shake a stick at — but I can’t find one passing mention of a jinx on Mispickel Scar that pre-dates the Second World War.’

‘What do you make of that?’

‘Dating any legend is next to impossible. Mythology makes historians shudder. No proper sources …’

‘You sound like a judge, turning his nose up at hearsay evidence.’ Hannah succumbed to the temptation of playing devil’s advocate. ‘Don’t tales often pass from one generation to the next without being written down? Even in Cumbria, with its literary heritage. That’s why Alban Clough is obsessed with preserving the region’s folklore before it’s forgotten, or sanitised out of recognition by the tourist industry.’

‘But if the jinx on Mispickel Scar is as ancient as Alban claims, you’d expect to find it recorded somewhere . Bickerstaff, an Edwardian expert in the field, had a weakness for dressing up trivia in lurid prose. These days, he’d have been a tabloid reporter. I can’t see him missing the chance to embellish a juicy tale about a curse.’

‘Where’s all this leading?’

He sounded amused. ‘Come on, Hannah, you’re the detective. You don’t need me to spell it out, do you?’

‘It’s been a long day and it’s not half over. Help me out here.’

He took a breath. In her mind, she could see him, grinning with the exuberance of a magician, pulling a flock of white doves from his sleeve.

‘A pound to a penny, Alban Clough made the story up.’

Half an hour later, Miranda wandered into the living room of Tarn Cottage. Hair wet, eyes bright, wearing a blue towelling gown and nothing else.

‘I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

Daniel was stretched out on the sofa, flicking through a new book catalogue. Talking to Hannah had given him a buzz, but what he’d just read had soured his mood. Even so, his bare toes couldn’t help tapping the leather cushion in time with the music. Miranda was just back from a shopping trip to Kendal and she’d put on a CD by Corinne Bailey Rae before taking a shower. Mood music to soften him up. She never gave in, he liked that about her. But she’d chosen a bad moment.

‘Sorry,’ he said absently, ‘I’m not buying a half share in a flat I have no intention of using.’

She gazed up to the heavens, a rational woman confronted by mindless intransigence. ‘Daniel, you don’t ever need to cross the threshold if you’re that determined to treat London as a modern Gomorrah. Think of the flat as a pension fund, if it makes you feel better. You’ll be sitting on a gold-mine in a few years and you don’t need to move a muscle apart from writing the cheque. I’ll make all the arrangements.’

‘I’d rather use the cash on this place.’

‘It’s a money pit! Think of how much we’ve spent doing the place up from top to bottom since we signed the contract.’ She sat down next to him, thigh pressing against his, letting the gown fall open. ‘Time to draw a line. Spread the investment risk.’

‘You’re spending too much time with your colleagues on the financial column.’

She raked her nails across his palm. ‘Daniel, this is important to me. I’m not prepared to vegetate for the rest of my life.’

‘You said it yourself in that article, only the other day. The Lakes are hot.’

She shivered theatrically and pulled the gown tight around her skinny frame. And she had a point; the central heating had developed a fault. All day they’d been waiting for the engineer, but Godot would have been more reliable.

‘Poetic licence, OK?’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry, I know you’re keen.’

‘What’s eating you?’ she asked. ‘I mean, it’s not just the flat, is it? You’re pissed off about something.’

He threw the catalogue on to the floor. ‘Publishers, don’t you just love them? It’s my fault, I should have read this when they sent it a fortnight ago. Look at page seventeen.’

She clambered off the sofa and picked up the booklet. The front cover was adorned with the photograph of a celebrity footballer whose ghosted autobiography was the lead title. Squatting cross-legged on the kilim rug, she started leafing through the pages.

‘What’s the problem? This is a list of forthcoming publications. But your backlist is out of print and you haven’t written for an age, so you can’t expect to feature. That’s why …’

‘But someone else does feature.’

She turned a page and said, ‘Oh shit.’

‘See what I mean?’

‘“ Deep Waters: Ruskin’s twilight years at Coniston. Globally acclaimed historian Hattie Costello lifts the lid on the descent into madness of the sexually tormented Victorian polymath, a man of dark moods and even darker passions.”’

‘From the blurb, it’s juicy enough to be serialised in the News of the World. Poor old Ruskin must be revolving in his grave.’

She tossed the catalogue to one side. ‘Even for a very different book, the publishers won’t give you a decent advance to cover a similar topic?’

‘Too right.’ Even if they hadn’t nearly bankrupted themselves paying the soccer star to have someone else write up his life for him. ‘Back to square one.’

Les Bryant walked into Hannah’s room without knocking and said, ‘Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while yet. Her ladyship was busy when I went up to see her, but I’ve emailed her to say I’ll sign that extended contract. It’ll keep me off the streets for another year.’

‘Terrific.’ They shook hands. He still reeked of cough sweets. His eyes were bloodshot and she guessed his sleeping patterns were even worse than hers. ‘Will you find a new place to live?’

Stifling a yawn, Les eased his bulky frame into a chair. ‘When I get a moment, I might look round for somewhere that isn’t next door to a cemetery. I come across enough dead people in the day job.’

‘So how are things?’

He cleared his throat noisily. ‘When I got back last night, I found another letter from the wife’s solicitors. I’ll need to find a brief of my own, she’ll be wanting to take me for every penny I’ve got. I might as well splash out on better accommodation while I have the chance. Much as I grudge paying National Park prices.’

‘If you need time off to sort things, let me know.’

‘I’d rather keep busy, if it’s all the same to you.’

She knew better than to nag. ‘OK, we need to take another look at Alban Clough. This old wives’ tale about a curse on Mispickel Scar may not be as old as we were led to believe.’

He gave her a hard look reserved for unreliable witnesses. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘I’ve heard from Daniel Kind. The historian, remember?’

‘After what happened at Old Sawrey last summer, I’m not likely to forget. His dad was your boss, wasn’t he?’

Hannah shifted under his sceptical gaze. ‘He’s researching nineteenth-century Coniston. He talked to Clough about the Arsenic Labyrinth and the curse of Mispickel Scar.’