The Arsenic Labyrinth Page 6

  At last he tore himself away and began to retrace his steps. It felt colder and the mist was coming down. Soon darkness would fall. He must get back to the village. He’d lingered too long, careless of the rules of walking the fells. Not a soul knew where he’d wandered. His boots slid on a patch of ice and his legs gave way.

  He raised his arms to break his fall. As he hit the ground, he scraped his hip and hurt his hands. The shock left him gasping.

  Shit, shit, shit. If he hurt himself so badly that he could no longer move, nobody would come running to the rescue. Hours would pass before Sarah raised the alarm. It would not take long to freeze to death.

  Gingerly, he struggled to his feet. Thank God, nothing was broken. No harm done except for bruising. He forced himself to move, intent on beating the mist and the twilight. The cold chewed at his face and his limbs were throbbing. He shut out the pain and the memories, shut out everything except the need to keep slithering down the fell.

  At last he reached a shelf of rock above Coppermines. He gazed towards the village of slate and the broad sheet of water beyond. He’d made it. So what if he’d been foolhardy? He’d be all right now, he’d got away with it. As usual, Megan would say.

  He could hear it now, that familiar lilting reproach, tinged with reluctant admiration.

  ‘You’re such a lucky devil.’

  Amos Books occupied a converted mill, and even with the windows shut to keep out the winter blast you could hear the water crashing over the weir. Daniel spotted Marc Amos in the local history section on the first floor, talking into his mobile, running a hand through untamed fair hair. In checked shirt and patched denim jeans, he was a carelessly attractive man, his looks marred only by a spoiled-boy pout when something didn’t suit him. When he noticed Daniel, he mimed impatience to get off the phone. Daniel leaned against the shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, inhaling the aroma of old books. Musty, yes, but an addictive fragrance.

  ‘Sorry, but we haven’t seen a first edition of Cards on the Table in wrapper for years. If we found one, it would cost an arm and a leg, given the money the Japanese collectors are splashing around. All we have left is a scruffy reading copy of a first edition. Ex-library, dampstains, foxing, weak hinges, every disability known to man. I’ll carry on searching, but … OK, keep in touch.’

  Marc switched off the phone and bounded down the aisle between the shelves like an enthusiastic mongrel. The ancient wooden floorboards squawked in protest under his feet. His grin of welcome was warm. He made customers feel good about indulging their bibliomania, perhaps because the disease afflicted him too.

  ‘Long time, no see. How’s the writing going?’

  ‘Slow progress. Don’t let me interrupt if you’re busy.’

  ‘My trouble is, I like interruptions too much. I’d be better off if I didn’t, but it can’t be bad for business to pass the time of day with a customer. Have you time for a coffee?’

  In the café downstairs, they exchanged pleasantries with Leigh Moffat, serving behind the counter. She was dark, attractive and self-contained. Daniel noticed the delicacy with which she wiped away a sliver of cake that slipped on to Marc’s smooth wrist. She and Marc seemed so at ease with each other, he was tempted to wonder if there was more between them than a strictly business relationship. Wishful thinking, he told himself as they found a table beside a window looking out on the stream. He was casting round for reasons not to feel bad about being fascinated by Hannah Scarlett.

  Sipping the froth on his cappuccino, Marc murmured, ‘Trecilla told me that you’re interested in John Ruskin and local industry.’

  ‘I’ve been reading a lot of Ruskin lately.’

  ‘There’s a lot of Ruskin to read. I sold a complete set to an American collector last year. Thirty-odd volumes, nine million words, something like that.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘I may skip a bit. He was an opinionated old bugger. Even so, I’m getting hooked.’

  ‘You’re not the only one. Tolstoy was a fan, along with Proust. They say Mahatma Gandhi’s life was changed by devouring Ruskin on a train trip across Africa. Are you thinking of writing about him?’

  ‘Who knows? Now the cottage renovations are finished, Miranda’s on my case. She doesn’t want me to vegetate. But I’d have to do more than simply dig over old ground. I’m casting around for ideas that haven’t been done to death. By the sleepy standards of nineteenth-century Cumberland, Coniston was an industrial metropolis. What did Ruskin make of what was going on in his own village, I wonder? Did he lecture the men who owned the slate mines across the lake, or was he afraid of upsetting his neighbours?’

  ‘He was never famed for his diplomacy.’

  ‘Exactly, but I’m short of sources. Without them, you can scrabble around forever like a hen in a yard, looking for scraps to feed off. So where better to look than this Aladdin’s cave of yours?’

  Marc waved at the thousands of books surrounding them. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Maybe one of these days I’ll drop lucky again. Last year I picked up a set of letters at an auction which gave a contemporary account of Ruskin’s arguments with the steel barons of Barrow.’

  ‘He’ll rest easier in his grave, with the steelworks closed down. Shame it took a hundred years. People used to say he was mad, didn’t they? Especially when he retreated to Brantwood and never wrote another word. All those dangerous heresies they feared would bring the nation to its knees. The welfare state, corporate responsibility, campaigning against industrial pollution.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘I hear you’re opening in Sedbergh.’

  ‘Nothing is definite. Leigh’s excited about branching out and so am I. The real challenge is persuading Hannah that another business loan wouldn’t take us down the road to perdition.’

  ‘She isn’t keen?’

  A shrug. ‘Who can blame her? She brings in more money than I do. And there’s no index-linked, tax-payer funded pension for second-hand bookdealers. Like all police officers, she’s a dyed-in-the-wool cynic. You’re don’t realise how lucky you are with Miranda.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Wasn’t it her idea to downshift to the Lakes? A bold move, to throw up tenure at Oxford. Going for the dream. But I guess you’ve never regretted it.’

  ‘Too right I haven’t.’ Though maybe Miranda has. ‘So – how is Hannah?’

  ‘Overworked, otherwise fine. Speaking of Coniston, she’s over there today, something to do with one of the cold cases.’

  ‘Give her my best.’

  Marc nodded. ‘That business at Old Sawrey …’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Even now, he flinched at the memory of the way he’d blundered into Hannah’s investigation.

  ‘I know she’s wondered how you coped with it all. She knew your father, I guess she felt a kind of responsibility for you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have poked my nose in.’

  Marc drained his cup. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault. She told me how much you helped her.’

  ‘She did?’ Daniel felt an embarrassing surge of pleasure, like a hapless schoolboy complimented on an unexpectedly good report.

  ‘Yeah. According to her, you’d make a good detective. After all, it’s in your blood.’

  Hannah hadn’t encountered either Alexandra Clough or her father during the original inquiry, but from all she’d heard, Emma’s former lover was an ice maiden. The impression was confirmed as soon as she rang to ask for a meeting.

  ‘It was ten years ago, for goodness’ sake.’ A cool voice, superior, doubtless the product of a pricey education. ‘Why rake over old coals?’

  It took Hannah five minutes to persuade her to agree to an interview. Today was impossible, Alex insisted, she and her father were far too busy. It sounded like an excuse, the delay a reprisal for having to surrender to the inevitable. Hannah was left in no doubt that this whole cold case nonsense was some form of PR guff, so that the police could curry favour with a journalist who had column inches to fill.

 
‘I must ask you not to bother my father excessively. He’s seventy-five, you know.’

  ‘I understand that he still runs the museum?’

  ‘You may have forgotten, I’ve been the manager here since he turned sixty. My father founded the museum; naturally he continues to advise me. But I put you on notice, he has a heart condition. Last year the doctors fitted a pacemaker. A police interrogation is the last thing he needs. If anything should happen to him …’

  ‘I’m not proposing an interrogation, just to ask a few questions.’

  An elaborate sigh. ‘I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that at the time Emma Bestwick disappeared, we told your colleagues everything we knew.’

  Not quite, Hannah thought. True, you did both say a great deal. But you didn’t actually tell us very much at all.

  Suppose I did no more than stumble across her body? If only I hadn’t panicked. Emma wasn’t murdered, there was no intent. She died a natural death.

  As Guy walked down Campbell Road, a narrative took shape in his brain. This was his gift, to reinvent his life so as to wipe away the petty mishaps and misdemeanours. They confused so many people. Too often folk saw him as a liar and a cheat rather than a man misunderstood. By the time he sauntered into Sarah Welsby’s kitchen, he was brimming with good cheer.

  ‘Had a good day, Rob?’

  His full-wattage smile encouraged her to start jabbering away while she loaded the dishwasher. Shopping, a conversation with the German guests, a rambling anecdote about an elderly neighbour whose poodle had been put down.

  When she paused for breath, he said, ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I take you out for a meal tonight? There are a couple of good restaurants close by.’

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly …’

  He raised a hand. ‘No objections, please. Do we have a date?’

  She blushed. ‘I suppose we do.’

  As he left the kitchen, his eye caught today’s copy of the Post on the work surface. Emma’s sister must be tormented by the not-knowing, if the journalist was to be believed. Without closure, she could not move on. Why not bring the story to an end? Time was a healer, it was safe now. Nobody could prove anything against him. He was ready to draw a line under the tragedy. How better than by telling a little of what he knew?

  Compassion seized him. The tragedy. That was precisely the phrase he’d been groping for all these years. To call it murder was foolhardy and wrong. OK, he’d blundered, but to err was human. He wanted to make amends, to do the right thing. Redemption lay in putting Karen out of her misery and ending the years of uncertainty and despair.

  Yes, Karen deserved closure and he had the power to grant it to her. He would be wise and gracious. He would reveal where Emma had been lain to rest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thurston Water House, residence of the Goddards, was a double-fronted Victorian villa. Set back from the road, it was a stroll away from the steamship pier, but guarded from the trippers’ gaze by spreading oaks and a hawthorn hedge. Ten years ago, Hannah had asked herself how a nurse and a librarian could afford such a place on public sector pay. Sinister speculation was dashed when Francis explained that Goddards had lived in these parts since the days when the lake was known as Thurston Water. His great-great-grandfather had owned a gunpowder works at Elterwater and made a fortune out of those who blew holes in the hillside. This house was the fruit of all that destruction.

  Francis answered the door. Ten years hadn’t aged him. Tall and gawky, he still resembled an overgrown schoolboy in a sleeveless cricket sweater and paint-splashed corduroy jeans. Hannah remembered her surprise at learning that he and his wife shared a passion for dancing; he looked as though he had two left feet. But she’d found his awkward eagerness appealing, even as she wondered if he was capable of murder.

  ‘Good to see you again, Chief Inspector. Sorry I’m in my scruffs. I’m on a day off from the hospital and Christopher’s room needs repainting. Goodbye Rupert Bear and Nut Wood. Hello Dr Who and scary aliens from outer space.’

  The smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen at the rear into the hallway as Francis led her into the front sitting room. The leather furniture was stained where a ballpoint pen had leaked, a dozen children’s DVDs tottered in a tower beside the home cinema system. Bookcases groaned under Folio Society editions of classic novels, on the mantelpiece a small silver cup inscribed Come Cumbrian Dancing – runners-up 2004 was surrounded by photographs of Vanessa, Francis and their boy. Shrek was playing soundlessly on the TV. Francis flicked the remote, and the green ogre and skinny grey donkey vanished.

  ‘Take a seat, Chief Inspector. Vanessa won’t be long, she’s just helping Christopher with a project for school. Can I offer you a coffee, do you take milk?’

  Whilst he slipped out of the room, Hannah sank into the embrace of a cavernous armchair. Facing her was a photograph of the three Goddards standing next to a gigantic Mickey Mouse under a Californian sun. The boy was lanky, the image of his father. He was clasping a sleek white iPod, staring proudly into the camera lens while his parents smiled fondly down at him.

  ‘Christopher was a babe in arms when I last saw him,’ Hannah said as her host returned bearing two steaming mugs.

  ‘Amazing how time flies. We went to Disneyworld last summer and he’s shot up since. But you wanted to speak to us about Emma?’

  ‘Thanks for seeing me. You spoke to Tony Di Venuto, I gather?’

  ‘I should have refused to say a word,’ Francis said. ‘I told Vanessa it was only a matter of time before the police came knocking on our door. If only to keep that bloody journalist off their backs.’

  Hannah remembered the patience with which he’d answered her questions the first time they’d met. Remembered wondering if he’d killed Emma after she’d turned him down, and dumped the body in the lake. He’d lived cheek by jowl with her throughout his wife’s pregnancy. Suppose he wasn’t getting enough sex, might he have turned his attention to the lodger? But by the time she’d finished questioning him, the theory had lost its lustre. Perhaps Emma was dead, but surely Francis was too decent a man to have killed her?

  ‘Even after all this time, people may recall something they didn’t mention during the original inquiry.’

  He scratched his head. ‘We did our best to help before. I’m not sure what more we can say.’

  ‘You and Mrs Goddard were among the last people to see Emma before she disappeared. She called here the afternoon before the last sighting of her.’

  ‘She was a friend. The three of us kept in touch even though she wasn’t living here any more.’

  ‘Anything to suggest that she might be unhappy in Coniston, ready to move on?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t forget, Christopher was only a few weeks old. We were both preoccupied with our baby, not visitors. Emma was sweet, she came to drop off a couple of things that she’d knitted for him. She was here for no more than half an hour. She may have mentioned how business was going. Slowly, I think.’

  ‘Did that worry her?’

  ‘She was disappointed, but there was no need to panic. She’d spent a fortune on advertising, but it takes time to build up a reputation and a clientele.’

  ‘She was enjoying such work as she had?’

  ‘As far as we could tell. After she went missing, Vanessa and I wondered if we should have offered more help. But if you have a family, Chief Inspector, you’ll know that nobody is as self-absorbed as a first-time parent.’

  ‘You never had any other lodgers?’

  ‘No, Emma was our one and only. The upkeep on this place is pretty heavy, so a few extra pounds came in useful. Emma and my wife had made friends and when she said she didn’t like the room she was renting in Hawkshead, we decided to do each other a bit of good. It was never a long-term arrangement. After Christopher was born, we wanted the house to ourselves.’

  ‘How did you cope with the loss of income?’

  ‘I left the NHS and started nursing at the private hospital over in
Newby Bridge to help make ends meet. We’re not rolling in it, but we get by.’

  ‘How long did she stay here?’

  ‘Not far short of a year. She was never any trouble. The perfect guest, if you like.’

  ‘Did she ever bring friends back here?’

  ‘Alexandra Clough, yes, a couple of times, before they split up. Nobody else. Emma was a very private person. Content with her own company.’

  ‘The last time you saw her, did you pick up any suggestion that she was under financial pressure?’

  ‘None. Even if holistic therapies weren’t a money-spinner, she was better off than ever. Don’t forget, she’d inherited enough to buy the bungalow and a new car.’

  ‘The inheritance, yes.’ Hannah crossed her legs ‘It’s rather mysterious. We never found any evidence that Emma had inherited a penny. Karen Erskine knew nothing about a legacy, the sisters didn’t have any rich relatives who’d shuffled off this mortal coil. What did Emma tell you about this windfall?’

  ‘Only that she’d come into money unexpectedly. We were delighted for her and of course it did salve our consciences. With a child on the way, we wanted to turn Emma’s rooms on the top floor into a playroom with a store area for the baby’s things, but we dreaded having to ask her to leave. But everything worked out for the best.’

  ‘Her sister couldn’t think of anyone who might have left her a sizeable bequest.’

  ‘The two of them weren’t close, it might be somebody Karen knew nothing about.’

  Hannah sipped her coffee. An Arabic blend, too strong for her taste. ‘When she put down the deposit on her bungalow, she paid cash. Same with the Fiat she bought. A probate solicitor would pay out legatees by cheque, but her bank account didn’t reveal a significant payment in during the twelve months before she disappeared.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘Emma told her sister and Alex Clough that she’d won a big prize on the lottery. When we checked, that wasn’t true. Why would she lie to them, do you think? Or to the two of you?’