The Serpent Pool

by Martin Edwards

  Daniel knelt beside her and took her hand. It felt as cold as snow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  The logs on the fire growled. For all the warmth of the room, he shivered. She was summoning up the courage to make a confession, he was sure of it.

  But a confession to what?

  Louise murmured something inaudible and he bent closer to her lips to hear.

  ‘I wish I was dead.’

  ‘You did your best to kill yourself on the way here.’

  ‘I…I should have done.’

  ‘You mustn’t ever say that,’ he snapped.

  She lifted her head and a damp face brushed against his cheek.

  ‘I picked up the kitchen scissors and lashed out, like a crazy woman. I just meant to scare him off, but the scissors caught him as he came for me and he screamed with pain. I saw blood trickling down his chest. Then I ran for the door and jumped into the car. Put my foot down and didn’t stop till Crag Gill was out of sight.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  An indigo sky glowered at Daniel as he prowled the strange, haphazard grounds of Tarn Cottage. Although he’d solved some of the cipher garden’s mysteries, it remained as remote and unknowable as a lover who spoke a different language. Today it seemed dank and sinister, with secluded corners, meandering paths and unexpected dead ends. The ground was greasy after so much rain, and the excess water that hadn’t yet seeped into the soil formed criss-crossing puddles that resembled an exquisite calligraphy. He picked his way with care past the reed-fringed lake, towards a clearing separated from the rest of the garden by a picket fence and bounded by two monkey puzzles, a yew and a weeping willow.

  The dark bulk of Tarn Fell reared up in front of him and through scraps of mist he could make out Priest Ridge, and the Sacrifice Stone. The wind chewed at his cheeks, and sliced through his clothes. His hands were numb, his feet tingling with the cold. The atmosphere was pregnant with the threat of thunder. If he didn’t head back for the hot living room, he would be soaked to the skin. But he wasn’t ready to go back indoors.

  Louise was asleep in the guest bedroom. A torrid night and calamitous morning had drained every last scrap of her energy. His temples throbbed, his thoughts were as tangled as the undergrowth. It was hard to grasp. Louise – of all people – had stuck a pair of scissors in her lover before running off to crash her car into a ditch.

  What scared him was that she had form. If asked to describe his sister, he’d say without thinking that she hadn’t a violent bone in her body. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Once before, she’d defended herself when afraid, a defensive act of violence that briefly threatened her future.

  During the summer between finishing at school and starting her law degree course at Durham, she’d gone out on a few dates with a student who lived nearby. At midnight one drunken evening, he’d tried to seduce her on the front room sofa, while his lone-parent mother was out at a hen party. Frightened by his refusal to take no for an answer, she tried to fend him off by slapping his face. The lad lost his balance and fell against the side of a wroughtiron coffee table. He smashed his cheekbone and suffered severe lacerations to his face. When his mother arrived home moments later, he tried to cover the pain and humiliation by claiming Louise had gone berserk and attacked him simply because he’d ventured a clumsy kiss. The mother, furious and overprotective, insisted on calling the police. The boy’s injuries needed surgery, and it looked as though Louise’s career in the law might be stillborn. In the end, the police saw through the lad’s story and he was lucky to avoid a charge of attempted rape.

  Daniel and Louise had only ever spoken about the incident once, and he’d never forget her unrepentant ferocity.

  ‘He got what he deserved.’

  When cornered, Louise’s instinct was to lash out. She would grab the nearest weapon at hand. The time before, no lasting harm had been done. But Daniel knew that history never repeats itself in precisely the same way. Just as well Stuart Wagg didn’t keep a shotgun.

  Was her car crash all it seemed? He refused to believe she meant to kill herself when she hurtled round that bend on the Brack Road. He knew about the impulse to self-destruct. Aimee, his lover in Oxford, had plunged to her death from the old Saxon tower in the middle of crowded Cornmarket. Yet Aimee was fragile, a polar opposite from his sister. Louise was resilient – at least until she’d succumbed to Stuart Wagg. The affair left her like a druggie on a bad trip: reckless, frantic, and out of control. Moving in with a man she hardly knew, waving a pair of scissors at him the moment he wanted rid of her. She must have been very unhappy with her old life. And he’d swanned off to the States without having a clue.

  Pangs of guilt assailed him. He’d been preoccupied with his own losses, first of Aimee and then Miranda, barely giving Louise a second thought. He owed it to her to make amends. As the first drops of rain flicked his cheeks, he touched a branch of the monkey puzzle tree. The spikes were sharp and left a tiny drop of blood on the edge of his fingernail.

  Had she thrust the scissors into Stuart Wagg with sufficient force to cause serious harm? She thought she’d only caught him a glancing blow, on the shoulder rather than the chest. But she hadn’t hung around to check.

  In the trees, an invisible owl hooted. If Wagg was badly hurt, he’d have dialled 999. The police would soon be on the scene, as well as an ambulance. Only a question of time before they came knocking on Daniel’s door. Or suppose the injury was life-threatening, suppose Wagg had lost consciousness even as Louise made good her escape? Suppose he lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, helpless and alone?

  Heart beating faster, he turned on his heel and raced back towards the cottage as the rain drove down. He took a short cut across a tangled patch of couch grass and brambles that divided the labyrinthine paths. Before leaving for America, he’d laid stepping stones, but now they were coated with moss and as treacherous as on the gravel and stone flags. Within moments, his feet gave way under him and he crashed to the ground.

  He ended up in a heap amongst the stinging nettles. Bruised and aching, he hauled himself back onto his feet and wiped the mud off his jeans. The moment he got his breath back, he set off again. Must keep moving. No time to lose.

  ‘You can’t go to Crag Gill!’

  Louise was awake and aghast. She couldn’t have slept for more than half an hour before he roused her, but already the spark had returned.

  ‘No choice. We don’t know what state he’s in.’

  ‘I barely touched him. I only picked up the scissors to defend myself. I’d never even have made contact if he hadn’t lunged at me.’

  ‘He might be badly hurt. Unable to call for help.’

  ‘It was only a scratch!’

  ‘We have to make sure.’

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Stuart will lie about what happened.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘He’s brutal, vindictive, you have no idea. It will be like

  Jeremy, but a thousand times worse.’ Jeremy was the student with the overprotective mother.

  ‘It’s not the same…’

  ‘Listen to me, Daniel. The things he said simply because I decided to walk out on him before he dumped me…you’ve no idea. His pride’s hurt, he’ll destroy me if he can. He did his best before I picked up those scissors. Now…’

  He picked up Louise’s mobile from the bedside table. Cradling it in his palm, he scrolled down the list of dialled calls. She dropped off the bed and tried to snatch the phone from him, but she lost her balance and slipped back down onto the duvet.

  ‘You can’t do this to me!’ she muttered. ‘It’s so—’

  A throaty rumble of thunder interrupted her, followed by rain hammering down on the cottage, like a wild creature demanding admission. Lightning flashed through a slit in the curtains. They were only a mile from the eye of the storm.

  ‘You’re already in the shit, Louise.’ He found the number for Crag Gill and started to dial. ‘Don’t make things worse.�
��

  ‘You’ve reached Stuart Wagg.’ The voice sounded congratulatory. ‘I’m not at home at present. You know the drill, leave your name and number after the tone and I’ll get back to you soon as I can.’

  Daniel ended the call and said, ‘I’ll try his mobile.’

  ‘Hi, this is Stuart Wagg. Leave a message after the tone.’

  Daniel took a breath and hissed at the handset. ‘Stuart, this is Daniel Kind. Can you ring me at the cottage as soon as possible?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Louise’s voice shook. ‘Why did you have to leave a message?’

  ‘I need to find out what shape he’s in. For all we know, he’s in Westmorland General at this very moment. Let’s hope he’s not in intensive care.’

  She wasn’t listening. Her eyes locked on the framed print of Derwent Water that hung above the chest of drawers. She murmured, ‘I’m begging you not to do this. I really don’t want you to talk to him.’

  ‘And I didn’t want you to stab him with his own kitchen scissors,’ he snapped. ‘Did you keep a key to the house? I’m on my way to make sure he’s all right.’

  Bullets of rain bounced off the windscreen as Daniel sped out of Brackdale. The road surfaces were uneven, with deep pools everywhere. Each time he passed another vehicle, spray squirted across the windscreen, blinding him. He couldn’t put his foot down for fear that he too would skid off into the hedgerow. If he crashed, he might not be as lucky as Louise.

  Not that she saw herself as lucky. The words echoed in his brain.

  He’ll destroy me if he can.

  All Daniel wanted right now was to be sure that Louise hadn’t destroyed Stuart Wagg. He hadn’t worked out what to say, assuming the man was still in one piece. Better make it up as he went along. He wouldn’t plead, or threaten, just make sure that Wagg didn’t cause his sister any more grief. If he left Louise alone, she’d get over him, given time. She’d had plenty of practice in coming to terms with relationships that didn’t work out.

  The storm had eased to an ill-tempered drizzle as he pulled up outside the entrance to Crag Gill. A pair of heavy oak gates barred the drive. On either side of them stretched a seven-foot-high hawthorn hedge. He grabbed a pencil torch and yanked the hood of his jacket over his head. A CCTV camera squatted on top of one of the gate pillars.

  He gabbled into the entry phone. ‘Stuart, are you there? This is Daniel Kind.’

  No answer.

  He yanked his mobile out of his pocket and rang his sister.

  ‘What’s the code to open the front gates?’

  ‘2011. His birthday is 20th November. But—’

  ‘Better get back to bed.’

  ‘Daniel, this is crazy. It was only a flesh wound, I swear. Anything worse…it isn’t possible.’

  As she talked, he keyed the security numbers in sequence, but the gates did not as much as twitch. He tried again. Still no joy.

  ‘Did you close the gates when you left?’

  ‘Of course not. I wanted to get away as fast as possible. There’s a lay-by half a mile from the house. That’s where I stopped to phone you.’

  ‘So, he must have closed the gates himself?’

  ‘I expect so. You’re worrying about nothing.’

  ‘Louise, you stuck a pair of kitchen scissors into him. Left him bleeding. I don’t want you to finish up in court on a charge of GBH.’

  He switched off the phone. Was he making a drama out of a crisis? Neither of them was exactly rational this afternoon. She claimed Wagg’s injury wasn’t serious, but she might be fooling herself. Wagg could have shut the gates and then collapsed. It wasn’t unknown for stab victims to walk around for a while as if nothing was wrong before they dropped down dead.

  There was the narrowest of gaps between one of the stone pillars and the hedge. Barely enough for a child to squeeze through. He took a couple of paces back, put his head down and forced his way into it. The branches fought hard and the thorns tore at his clothes, but he managed to overcome their resistance. Soon he was out on the other side.

  It wasn’t yet half past three, but the light was fading. Night came early in winter here. Ahead was the low bulk of Crag Gill. On his previous visit, when Louise brought him to say hello to Stuart Wagg, she’d explained that the house was built on the site of a rambling mansion, for forty years home to an ancient bachelor. The man had inherited it on the day of the coronation and hadn’t so much as given it a lick of paint since. Not even the most zealous conservation officer could argue when Wagg knocked down the old ruin. To replace it, he hired a Swedish architect to indulge in a flight of fancy green enough to dazzle the planning authority. The rebuilt house was modest in size compared to some of the palaces bordering the east bank of Windermere.

  Daniel splashed across ruthlessly cropped grass, between a pair of mountainous rhododendron bushes with dank and dripping leaves. But for a scattering of winter heathers, purple and white in the borders, the garden was asleep until spring. Tall lamp stands lined the long drive, but no lights shone. The house was in darkness. His torch beam was thin, but it helped keep his bearings.

  As he drew close to the front porch, his skin prickled. The torchlight picked out another surveillance camera, suspended beneath the line of the grass roof of the house. No surprise – Wagg’s collection of books alone must be worth as much as the average semi-detached. But if the owner of Crag Gill was watching, he would only see a hooded figure, striding towards his door.

  A security alarm was fixed to the front wall, six feet above the porch. Daniel had seen its red light winking, when Louise brought him here to introduce Stuart Wagg. Now it was dead. The electricity supply to Crag Gill must have been cut off. Chances were that the thunderstorm had brought down the power lines.

  He rang the bell for the sake of it, but no sound came. There was a huge brass knocker on the door and Daniel rapped hard for thirty seconds. In the silence, the crash of iron against wood was deafening. If Wagg was inside, he must have heard.

  No answer.

  Daniel touched the handle of the door, not expecting it to move, but it swung open. A swift movement, unexpectedly light.

  ‘Shit.’

  People who lived in the Lake District were inclined to be trusting. Crime rates were low compared to most of England; that was one of the reasons why so many fled here, sick of crime in the city. He often left the door of Tarn Cottage on the latch when he headed off for a walk along Priest Ridge, or to shop in the village store in Brack. But he didn’t have so much to lose – Crag Gill was stuffed with treasures. He couldn’t believe that Wagg would forget to lock up.

  He shivered, as if from a weird thrill of excitement. Was this how it felt to be a burglar, breaking into the home of people whose lives meant nothing to him? He had to enter the house, he dared not leave now. Impossible to guess what he would discover inside Crag Gill. Stuart Wagg might be unconscious, or so incapacitated that he could not call for help.

  Or dead.

  One stride, and Daniel was over the threshold.

  In his imagination, lights blazed and sirens screamed and the place filled with people, shouting and waving their arms. He’d walked into a trap and tomorrow’s headlines would gloat over the story: Former TV Historian Found Breaking into Top Lawyer’s Home. Pop psychiatrists would be wheeled out to analyse how Aimee’s suicide, his abandonment of Oxford and the glittering prizes, and the flight to Brackdale all played a part in his downfall.

  None of it happened.

  Nothing stirred.

  Crag Gill’s entrance hall wasn’t much smaller than Carlisle Cathedral. According to Louise, Wagg suffered from claustrophobia, and he’d insisted that even the cloakrooms should be airy and spacious. Daniel’s torch played on the white walls, lingered on the whirls and splodges of the trendily unpleasant paintings that hung on them. This wasn’t so much a home as a showcase; the modern art looked as if it had been bought by the yard. Probably at enormous expense, even if its value might one day plummet like derivatives f
rom a bank gone bust. Wagg was rich enough not to care. Dust jackets were the artwork he loved, and they were too precious to be flattened and framed.

  A door on the left led into the entertaining room. The curtains weren’t closed. No hint of the New Year revelries, not even a crumb. A massive L-shaped sofa occupied the middle of the room. Daniel marched over to it. Thank God, there wasn’t a corpse hidden behind it.

  Next stop, the dining kitchen. Gleaming cedar units, a glass table almost as long as the platform at Oxenholme Station, a dozen chairs in pristine black leather. This was the scene of Louise’s supposed crime. What had happened to her weapon? The scissors weren’t lying on any of the surfaces, and when he looked in the drawers, he found a clean pair with the cutlery. He bent down and studied the slate floor tiles, but couldn’t see the faintest smear of blood. Had Wagg, a tidy man, washed the scissors and put them away? He sniffed the air. Nothing but the sterile smell of emptiness. This was the deepest point of winter, but the house wasn’t cold. He brushed a wall radiator with his palm. It felt warm, so the gas supply was still working.

  On the other side of the hall was the library. Wagg had brought him in here on his previous visit. The window was tiny, with blinds drawn to minimise the risk of sunlight fading the spines. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling. Like the rest of Crag Gill, the library was as lifeless as a tomb.

  He checked upstairs, starting with the master bedroom. Black silk sheets, and above the king-size bed was a huge mirror. The furnishings had cost a fortune, but the room looked like a set for a seedy movie. Daniel decided not to think about it.

  Soon he had inspected every corner of the house. No sign of Wagg, no clue to his whereabouts. He spent a few minutes prowling around outside, but it was too dark to make a thorough search of the grounds. Wagg wasn’t sprawled over the grass that stretched down to the water’s edge, but the garage and the outbuildings, unlike the house, were locked.