The Arsenic Labyrinth

by Martin Edwards

  Hannah gritted her teeth. The vague old lady, who had seen Emma in wet-weather gear heading in the direction of Mispickel Scar, hadn’t been making it up after all. Chances were, death had occurred within a couple of hours after that sighting. Accident or suicide remained possible, too early to rule them out, but Hannah was sure that Emma had been murdered. Why would someone with no interest in wandering the fells venture up to this grim and isolated spot on a cold and miserable February afternoon? An assignation of some kind, had to be.

  She strode back towards the scaffold, trying to make sense of Emma’s last movements. In the height of summer, visiting the Arsenic Labyrinth would be easier to understand. Not much risk of Peeping Toms, and if you brought a blanket, the ruggedness of the ground wouldn’t be such a problem. Exhilarating to come here with a lover, to take your pleasure in the open under a skin-grilling sun. But Hannah’s imagination baulked at the idea of lovers indulging themselves here at the height of winter. Never mind ecstasy, you would die of exposure.

  ‘Ma’am!’

  Billy had emerged from the shaft and was slipping out of his safety harness. In his face mask, goggles and nitrile gloves he looked like a creature from another world. But although Hannah could not make out his expression, his wave was unmistakably excited. Frantic, almost.

  She broke into a run.

  Guy felt sick, physically sick. It was as much as he could do not to vomit all over Sarah’s tired Dralon sofa. He wanted to weep and scream and bang his fists. This was so unfair, so fucking unfair. He found it impossible to believe what she was saying. Surely there must be some mistake? After all the care and affection he’d lavished upon her, to be repaid like this was more than a man could bear.

  ‘You’re furious with me!’ Sarah wailed. ‘That’s why I didn’t dare tell you before. I knew it would spoil everything. What sort of fellow – never mind a go-ahead business executive – would want to marry a woman with an addiction like mine?’

  He was too upset even to be startled by the mention of marriage. Addiction was right. She didn’t just have a problem, she was off her head. How could anyone fritter away the thick end of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in eighteen months? It was disgusting, it was insane. People committed murder for a pittance and here was a woman who had squandered a fortune, allowed the money to slip through her hands as if it were sand.

  ‘I need help,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I do realise.’

  Well don’t look at me, I’m not a trick cyclist. You could have been wealthy, instead you’re a church mouse. Aversion therapy, that’s what you need. A hundred volts running through you next time you’re tempted to switch on the fucking computer. For two pins, I’d press the lever myself.

  But he said none of this. He’d always had good manners. Take deep breaths, he told himself.

  ‘So … it’s all gone?’

  ‘Every last penny. Don puts money into my bank account on the first of each month and I’ve only got ninety pounds to tide me over till the end of February. There are bills to pay, you’ve no idea. I’ve never been brave enough to tell Don what I’ve been up to, he’d blow a gasket. Yesterday I had a final demand from the electric company, last week it was the council tax arrears. They’ve threatened to call in the bailiffs.’

  Guy had never paid council tax in his life, but for a householder to default seemed rather shocking. He stuttered the obvious question.

  ‘W … why?’

  Her face was ashen. ‘It was – so easy.’

  What could he say? She’d thrown all her money away, gambling online. Poker, blackjack, you name it. These days no one needed to go to Las Vegas, they could ruin themselves in the comfort of their own homes. Sarah’s occasional winnings were paltry, her losses spiralling like Third World debt. She said she needed to escape from the humdrum world of everyday, and with that he could empathise. But you got away from it all by creating a fresh existence for yourself, not by frittering every last penny in internet casinos. Soon not even this horrid house would be hers. The bank would sell it to claw back the loans and she’d finish up living on welfare hand-outs. Psychiatric counselling would come courtesy of Social Services. What a fucking catastrophe.

  She pressed his hand to her naked breast, presumably for comfort. He had seldom felt less aroused. ‘Guy, I’m so sorry. Do you despise me now I’ve let you into my guilty secret?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he muttered, because he couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking. He hated being unkind, even when someone deserved it. ‘I was – shocked, that’s all.’

  ‘I thought – if the company gives you some severance pay, perhaps I could borrow a few pounds until I get myself sorted. Of course, I’ll reimburse you with interest.’

  And where do you think you’ll find the money to repay me? You must be living on a different planet.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can understand me at all?’

  His voice was hoarse. ‘One thing I do know, Sarah. If you spend your life gambling, you need to win more often than you lose.’

  ‘So, Chief Inspector, the good news or the bad news?’

  Billy might be breathless, but he couldn’t help playing the showman. One of the perks of his job.

  ‘Good news first. I don’t hear it that often.’

  ‘Your tip-off was spot on. The body at the bottom of the shaft – or what’s left of it – is clad in a jacket and boots that match the description of clothing that disappeared along with Emma Bestwick.’

  Hannah had expected nothing else. All the same, she felt dizzy with relief. The long wait was over. Sid Thornicroft had guessed wrong, the poor woman hadn’t done a runner. Her body had been left here to rot for all those years. At last they’d be able to give her a decent burial, and set about finding whoever was responsible for interring her beneath the ruins of the weird poison maze.

  ‘OK, break the bad news to me gently.’

  Billy coughed. ‘We thought while we were at it, we ought to take a look along the tunnel that links with the far shaft. See if we could find a weapon or anything else that might cast light on how she came to be down there.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Any joy?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that we found a rusty old knife, a kitchen bread knife. The stains on the blade look like blood.’

  ‘You think she was killed with it?’

  ‘Unlikely, ma’am. You see, the knife is at the bottom of the other shaft, thirty yards away from Emma Bestwick’s remains.’

  She stared at him. ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s lying next to a second body.’

  JOURNAL EXTRACT

  I may seem an unlikely person to have committed a perfect murder, and yet my crime never attracted a breath of suspicion. I hope to have lived a useful life, but now my days are drawing to a close, I can say this with certainty: I regret nothing. No, not even the second death, so many years after the first.

  As I swung the knife into his breast, destroying that arrogant sneer forever, I felt as though jolted by an electric shock. Not a current of remorse, but jubilation. How extraordinary. A single blow was all it took, to change my life and end his. When he collapsed to the ground, I stood over him, clutching the haft tight, waiting for his body to twitch, ready to do what was necessary.

  He is not moving. It is over.

  My breathing is harsh, but I feel light-headed, as though I have consumed a bottle of wine. For a few moments I have a fleeting sense of immortality. I have exercised the power of life and death. I have revenged myself for his betrayal. He is dead, but I shall live on.

  And then, I hear a loosening of rubble in the rocks above me. Followed by something worse, far worse. A suppressed cough, little more than a clearing of the throat, yet enough to induce paralysis.

  I am not alone.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Desperate ills called for desperate remedies. Guy regarded himself as a man of his word, yet sometime
s you had no choice but to break a promise. Besides, he’d kept to his bargain for long enough. Nothing was forever.

  Including, of course, his sojourn at the Coniston Glimpse. It was a tribute to his strength of character that he’d not throttled Sarah, but it was also convenient. He needed a roof over his head until he travelled on, and he couldn’t bank on finding another landlady who didn’t expect rent. When he’d calmed down enough to think straight, he’d persuaded Sarah to ask her ex-husband for a loan on the pretext of needing to buy a new washing machine. Excellent advice. By a lucky chance she’d bumped into Don in the village early that morning. He was out buying a pricey Valentine’s present for his current wife and a combination of guilt and embarrassment prompted him to cough up without demur. He’d even taken her to the cash till and handed over a thick wad of notes.

  Guy was still sleeping with Sarah. Despite her shameful behaviour, he didn’t fancy exiling himself to that draughty basement. She was pathetically grateful that he hadn’t packed his bags and left, and at his insistence had disconnected the computer and confessed all to a sympathetic GP, who had referred her to a gambling therapist for specialist counselling. All in all, Guy thought she’d done very well out of him. He might have made a career out of mentoring people with inadequate personalities, he had a gift for it, but he was destined for better things.

  ‘Lunch in half an hour!’ Sarah called from the kitchen. ‘Cottage pie, your absolute favourite.’

  Actually, he much preferred venison. But Coniston Glimpse was a far cry from the Boscolo Palace, and he was adaptable.

  ‘Any chance of a glass of vino?’

  ‘Sweetheart, your wish is my command. I’ll open the Rioja.’

  Supermarket plonk, buy-one, get-one-free, but needs must. With a sigh, he bookmarked David Copperfield. At this third reading, he’d decided his literary hero was Wilkins Micawber. Guy shared Micawber’s optimism; over the years, a belief that something would turn up had served him well. Micawber was underestimated and it was telling that in the end he’d achieved the status of a colonial magistrate. Dickens knew a thing or two, just as Guy knew that one day he’d make his mark. All he needed was a lucky break. Rather than mope because Sarah had proved a broken reed, he intended to think positive.

  He was a good man in a crisis. It would have been so easy to panic once he realised the accidental blow on Emma’s head hadn’t killed her, but he’d kept his nerve. Although it hadn’t been pleasant, he’d done what he had to do. Thank goodness he’d learned presence of mind early on. Where he grew up, you kept your wits about you, or you were finished. He’d hated the Home, but with hindsight he recognised that the experience had sharpened him, taught him to cope with the vagaries of Fate.

  He’d told stories, long before encountering yarn-spinners like Dumas, Dickens and Rider Haggard. How better to escape the bad stuff? Booze was fine, but he could take it or leave it. Apart from smoking the occasional joint, he wasn’t into drugs. Who needed artificial stimulants? Making things up intoxicated him. In his youth, he paid a price for letting his imagination run away with him. He started reading for the first time in prison, allowing himself to be persuaded that he was bright enough to live on his wits without spending the rest of his life under lock and key. But he hadn’t been going straight for long before his encounter with Emma on Mispickel Scar led to calamity.

  Even then, he reminded himself as he strolled into the kitchen, he’d fallen on his feet. It was a knack.

  ‘You’re looking very cheerful, darling.’ Sarah dried her hands on a grubby tea towel and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Always look for the silver lining, that’s my motto! Matter of fact, I’ve been doing a spot of thinking.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s time to call in a favour.’

  Miranda was in a good mood. She wasn’t due back in London just yet and would be at home for Valentine’s Day. Daniel’s announcement that he fancied writing something fresh about Ruskin had gone down well and they’d spent most of the morning in bed. Over brunch, she quizzed him on his approach to research.

  ‘This is a side of you I’ve never seen. Remember, since we met, you’ve barely written a word. Far less a full-length book.’

  He munched his toast. ‘Like I said on TV, an American called Robin Winks argued the same case long ago. Every fact must count equally at the beginning of the inquiry, for one may not prejudge the conclusion. To decide at the start whodunit – the middle class, the Fascists, whatever – and why, and What It All Means, is to destroy the historical inquiry. The historian is a detective. Has to be.’

  ‘You ought to call Hannah Scarlett, pick up a few tips.’

  ‘I talked to her while you were down in London. Very interesting.’

  He was glad of the chance to slip in a confession to having met Hannah. Yet, what was there to feel guilty about? He and she had chatted over a drink. Nothing had happened. Nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you didn’t count the treacherous thoughts that sneaked into his mind every now and then when images of Hannah came into his mind.

  ‘Did she fancy your father?’

  He stared. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Just wondered. The way you described it, he was this smart detective, she was a rookie cop he took under his wing. She must have looked up to him.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Miranda shrugged. ‘She’s the type.’

  She and Hannah had only met once and had conversed for less than five minutes, but Miranda prided herself on her ability to make snap judgments of character. Before he could argue, she added, ‘You’d better be careful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If she did like your dad, perhaps she’ll take a shine to you.’

  There was a mocking light in her eyes and he realised that she didn’t rate Hannah as competition. And why should she?

  ‘She told me her latest cold case involved the disappearance of a woman from Coniston ten years ago.’

  Miranda’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That item on the news, about the bodies they have discovered up in the fells.’

  ‘Sounds like they found the woman.’

  Each time he’d rung Hannah’s mobile over the past couple of days, she’d been engaged on another call and he hadn’t left a message. All he’d wanted was to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. Her missing person case must have turned into a murder inquiry. And the news that not one but two corpses had been found up at the back of Coniston suggested she had a lot on her plate. Too much to waste time in idle conversation with her old boss’s son.

  ‘So when do you set off?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  His decision to spend the afternoon at the Ruskin Archive had met with her full approval. He hadn’t mentioned that the librarian currently responsible for the Archive was Vanessa Goddard. Self-indulgence on two levels. Historical research and a chance to meet someone who had known Emma Bestwick. Listening to Hannah, he’d become fascinated by Emma’s story, intrigued by mention of this Arsenic Labyrinth. If Emma was dead, he was seized by the urge to learn how she had met her fate.

  ‘So, DCI Scarlett, is there any doubt that one of the bodies is that of Emma Bestwick?’

  Tony Di Venuto sprawled back in his chair as though he’d just taken over as Chief Constable. Pity he was such a prat, he wasn’t a bad journalist. After ten years of nothing, within days he’d conjured up enough interest in Emma’s disappearance to prompt his mystery caller to disclose where her body was hidden. Lauren wanted her to throw him a few bones in return for his help, over and above the titbits given out at the press conference. Reasonable enough; if anyone was entitled to be smug about this case, it was Di Venuto. But every time that self-satisfied smile oozed across his dark features, she wanted to scrub it away with a dripping cloth.

  ‘Off the record, not a lot. We haven’t received the pathologist’s report yet, and there’s not much left of Emma, of course, but the clothing we’ve ret
rieved from the scene matches descriptions of what she was likely to have been wearing.’

  He clenched his fist. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘You were sure that the man who rang you up wasn’t a time-waster.’

  A vigorous nod. ‘Dead right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have a nose for bullshit.’

  Not surprising, he spouted his fair share.

  Aloud, she said, ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘No more than I said last time. Around my age. Disguised his voice by whispering. Making that call can’t have been easy. But he wanted me to think he was ringing to do Karen a favour. As if.’

  ‘Conscience pricking?’

  ‘No way. If you ask me, he didn’t even sound like a murderer.’

  ‘And what would a murderer sound like?’

  He grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Not sure I do.’

  ‘He wanted me to believe it wasn’t his fault that Emma was buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth. As it happens, he succeeded. I don’t believe he killed her. Somehow – maybe recently, maybe ten years back – he’s found out where she was buried, and he’s decided not to keep it to himself any longer. Oh no, I don’t think your work will be done when you track him down. But perhaps he’ll lead you to whoever did murder Emma.’

  ‘Any theories of your own?’

  For a rare moment, Tony Di Venuto seemed to be in two minds. Then he said, ‘I don’t have any evidence, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘But just between us?’