Martin Edwards - The Serpent Pool

‘Why did you need his services?’

‘If you must know, I was charged with supplying cannabis to some of the students I taught.’

She gripped her mug handle. ‘This would be about the time you were seeing Bethany Friend?’

‘What of it?’

‘Was she a witness in the case?’

‘It was nothing to do with her, and the only time we smoked a joint together, she nearly choked. Bethany craved excitement and fresh experiences, but in truth she was an innocent. She’d led a dull life, and I’m afraid it rather suited her. Of course, the charge against me was a deplorable misunderstanding.’

Somewhere behind them, a member of the cafeteria staff broke the silence by rattling a canister of cutlery. Hannah leant towards Nathan Clare.

‘Did the case reach court?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. However, Stuart Wagg managed to pick so many holes in the prosecution’s version of events that the judge threw the case out. It never even reached the jury, and I walked away with my character unstained.’

‘Oh yes?’

Justice denied, as per bloody usual.

‘I was innocent, naturally, but the experience destroyed my remaining faith in British justice. Without Stuart Wagg’s advocacy, I might have been found guilty.’

‘Perish the thought,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘So, I had every reason to be grateful to the fellow. If you’re suggesting I had a reason to murder him, my dear Hannah, you’re not only barking up the wrong tree, you aren’t even in the right forest.’

The self-satisfied grin was back. Even if he dabbled in drug dealing, so what? When it came to finding a motive for three murders, she’d drawn a blank, and they both knew it. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then leapt to his feet with agility startling in such a heavy man.

‘Your ten minutes ran out some time ago, Hannah. Sorry, must dash. Can I leave you to find your own way out?’

The fog cloaking Tarn Fold didn’t lift an inch as the hours drifted by. Louise said she ached to escape from the cottage, and do some shopping; besides, the cupboards of the cottage were bare. Daniel, ready to seize on any excuse to avoid being handcuffed to The Hell Within , proposed lunch in Ambleside. He could drop in at the De Quincey Festival office. Arlo Denstone hadn’t answered his latest emails, or a voice message asking if the talk needed any revision. Once that was sorted, he could make headway with the book. Or maybe it was just a writer’s displacement activity.

Neither of them spoke on the journey. Louise wrestled with her private thoughts and Daniel needed to focus on the road. Visibility was down to fifty metres.

Ambleside seemed to be brooding because normal life was on hold. Doom-mongers from the Met Office had scared off even the hardiest walkers, and Daniel was spoilt for choice when looking for a space to park. Louise hurried away to indulge in some retail therapy, while he picked up a copy of the Westmorland Gazette — the newspaper De Quincey edited was still going strong — before strolling past the market cross to the Festival office. Above the door, you could still see the name of a vanished photographer’s studio killed off by digital technology. The unit was surrounded by charity shops on short-term lets, windows stuffed with dog-eared chick lit, faded watercolours, and second-hand climbing gear. Even affluent Ambleside wasn’t spared the tide of change washing through the high streets of England.

The tiny office overflowed with glossy posters advertising the Festival, racks of tourist information leaflets, and a display of classics by the usual Lake District suspects. Behind a desk sat a large, grey-haired woman, whose yellow and red badge proclaimed her as Sandra, Festival Volunteer . She was engrossed in a chat magazine and Daniel found himself hypnotised by its lurid cover: ‘ Life! Death! Prizes!’ ‘A vulture tried to EAT me’, ‘The wife who SLICED OFF her hubby’s bits (“I still love him”)’, ‘We sold our pets to pay for Mum’s funeral’, ‘My Reg was banged up for being psychic’, ‘Fab Faye’s big day boob job ’. When he coughed, she treated him to a cheery smile.

‘At last, a customer!’ she exclaimed. ‘How wonderful to see you, Mr Kind.’

Daniel hadn’t given his name, but she was a fan of the TV series, and had just bought his latest book. They chatted for five minutes about history and when she might see him on the box again. If, rather than when, he said.

‘But you’re far too young to retire!’ she protested.

‘Too young to stay on a treadmill, you mean. I’m happy to hide away in my cottage and write.’

Try to write, you mean.

‘I’ve been looking forward to your talk at the Festival.’ The note of regret puzzled him. She sounded like a child expecting to be deprived of a long-awaited treat.

‘Speaking of which, is Arlo Denstone around?’ The grey head shook. ‘Could he give me a ring, when he gets back?’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’ She lowered her voice, as if about to confide a secret vice. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if he’s coming back.’

‘Later today, you mean?’

‘No, ever.’

His stomach tightened, a spasm of selfishness tinged with outrage. Had Arlo walked out on the job, or chucked it in? And after he’d sweated blood to deliver the wretched talk by the deadline?

‘I don’t understand.’

Sandra became pink and indecisive, torn between discretion and the desire to unload. ‘The last time we saw him was when he did an interview on television with that Grizelda Richards,’ she said. ‘Nobody seems to know where he is.’ ‘Is he poorly?’

Arlo Denstone was a cancer survivor, he recalled. Sometimes cancer came back.

‘He seemed as right as rain when I last saw him.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘To tell you the truth, he’s never here. It’s us who are worried sick.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s happening with the Festival, not a sausage. One of the other volunteers told me yesterday that the conference centre arrangements still haven’t been confirmed. The university phone us every day, chasing the deposit. They’ve threatened to scrub the booking if we ignore the latest reminder. The lady who does our accounts says we don’t have any funds in the bank. Two of the other speakers are losing patience because he hasn’t been in touch. We don’t know what to say.’

‘Arlo is still making plans for the Festival. He called at my cottage this week, chasing my talk before the printers’ deadline.’

‘I don’t know about any deadline.’ She twisted a skein of wool around her fingers. ‘See those posters? We owe the printers for them, the bill’s seriously overdue. At half past nine, they rang to say they were putting the matter in the hands of their solicitors. I know cash is tight, but we feel so embarrassed.’

‘Perhaps he’s lined up another firm of printers.’

‘I don’t know if he’s bothered about the Festival anymore.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t walk out on it?’

‘He’s a volunteer, like the rest of us. What if he’s received a better offer?’

A volunteer? Arlo was keen on De Quincey, but Daniel hadn’t realised he was that keen.

‘Seriously? He isn’t being paid?’

‘He was full of enthusiasm at first, we were thrilled when he agreed to do the work for nothing but expenses. He’s organised festivals all over Australia, you know. But…’

A movement on the other side of the window caught his eye. Someone walking past on the pavement. Hannah Scarlett, brisk and full of purpose.

‘I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,’ he said hastily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse-’