The Arsenic Labyrinth (6 page)

‘Seems unlikely that Emma would have thrown up her new home, her new car, for the sake of a flight of fancy.’

‘I was deceiving myself, I see it now.’

‘So what might have happened to her – any ideas?’

Francis Goddard said, ‘Your guess is as good as ours, Chief Inspector. An accident of some kind?’

‘Then why has she never been found?’

‘If we rule out suicide, that only leaves the possibility of murder.’

In her best press conference police-speak, Hannah said, ‘We’re keeping an open mind.’

Vanessa touched the mark on her face, as though it were sore. A habitual gesture, whenever she was troubled. ‘Who would want to murder Emma? It doesn’t make any
sense. She was a caring person, she never did anyone any harm.’

‘How did she get on with Karen and her husband?’

Francis said brusquely, ‘I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that Jeremy Erskine was once married to Vanessa.’

‘To be honest, I found that curious, Mrs Goddard.’

‘Vanessa, please.’

‘Well, Vanessa. Your husband leaves you for someone else. And then you take that someone else’s sister in as your lodger.’

A long silence. Husband and wife exchanged glances. Vanessa cleared her throat.

‘I didn’t like to say this to you before.’

Hannah leaned forward. Her heart was thumping.

‘Yes?’ she whispered.

‘As you know, I met Emma when I led a workshop at the museum. She’d just started working there and we hit it off from the start. Whilst we were talking, I realised she was the sister of the woman who’d married my ex. The truth is, I was fascinated. I liked Emma, but of course I was curious. I wanted to find out more about Karen. Hopefully to reassure me that Jeremy had made a terrible mistake.’ Vanessa was talking quickly, her hands were trembling. ‘
Schadenfreude
, I’m afraid. Dreadful confession, but there’s something of the voyeur in all of us, don’t you agree?’

I’m a detective, how could I not agree?

‘For three years, I’d loathed Karen Bestwick, and I’d never even set eyes on her. I didn’t have a clue whether
she was blonde or brunette. In my mind I christened her Miss Piggy. Nothing personal, she was skinny as a stick-insect, according to Emma. I don’t mind admitting, I’d have resented anyone that Jeremy went off with. And now I’d stumbled across someone who knew her intimately – and who didn’t think the sun shone out of her backside. Far from it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I loved hearing what a selfish, superficial woman Karen was.’

Hannah risked another sip of coffee, but she’d ignored it for too long and it was cold. Before coming out here, she’d refreshed her memory from the old statements. Out of the blue, Jeremy had walked out on his marriage to Vanessa to go and live with Karen, a secretary at the school where he taught. Vanessa’s morale must have been at rock bottom when she learned Karen was pregnant, but within weeks of the decree nisi landing on her doormat, she met Francis Goddard while running a reading group for patients at the hospital where he worked. Three years later, she was married to a man apparently besotted with her and living with their new baby in a lovely home near Coniston Water. Talk about falling on your feet. Hannah couldn’t find it in her heart to blame her if she got a kick from learning the faults of her ex’s new wife.

‘Why didn’t the sisters get on?’

Vanessa shrugged. ‘All they had in common was their genes. If you ask me, the idea that blood is thicker than water is rubbish. Emma was quieter, more serious. Karen’s main interests were men and make-up. She was looking
for someone to take care of her, shower her with flowers and chocolates.’

‘Was Emma jealous of her?’

‘Nothing to be jealous of.’

‘Had she ever had a boyfriend?’

‘You’d need to ask Karen.’ Vanessa stroked her husband’s hand. ‘In case you’re wondering, I didn’t feel I was taking a risk if ever I left her alone in the house with Francis.’

Hannah turned to him. ‘You and she were on good terms, though?’

Francis Goddard gave her a wry smile. ‘Certainly. And as I said last time we met, it went no further than that. You put me through the mincer ten years ago, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you suspected that Emma and I were lovers.’

Oh God. She felt herself colouring. Ten years ago, she’d lacked experience as a detective, but she’d never realised she’d been so transparent.

‘I had to ask.’

‘Only doing your job? I understand. I’m sure if I’d had something to hide, you’d have unearthed it. Sorry to disappoint you in this cynical day and age. But I only ever had eyes for Vanessa. There was no affair between Emma and me.’

A thought leapt into Hannah’s mind.
How about between Emma and your wife?
Ten years back, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. Vanessa was wrapped up in her new baby and the idea of her embarking on a covert lesbian relationship during pregnancy would
have seemed absurd. Probably it still was. Chances were, friendship flowered between Emma and Vanessa due to nothing more than mutual convenience. It provided Emma with a roof over her head. And Vanessa with the reassurance that Jeremy Erskine had betrayed her for a Muppet.

If Emma had been murdered, Hannah reflected as she drove, there was no evidence as to when she might have died, so alibis were pretty much irrelevant. Chances were, it was a sex crime. If so, the killer was probably someone previously unknown to her. The likeliest exception was Tom Inchmore, the Cloughs’ handyman. His family had once owned the biggest mine-works on the Coniston fells, as well as the mansion that housed the museum, before falling on hard times. But that inadequate
underachiever
had maintained his innocence even in the face of questioning from a DC later kicked off the force for beating up a teenager in Millom under the gaze of a CCTV camera.

By the time she arrived home, Hannah had resolved to give the revived inquiry no more than a week. Much as she wanted to understand Emma’s fate, not every file could be tidied into the ‘case closed’ cabinet. It was too easy to chuck resources into a bottomless pit. The
Post
wouldn’t keep the story on the front page for long. She’d speak to the Cloughs, and to Emma’s sister and
brother-in
-law, then review progress.

Marc had beaten her home and switched on the oven.
He wasn’t a bad cook and she enjoyed being waited on. His good humour was explained by the fact that a customer from Tokyo had paid a small fortune for a book he’d picked up for a song in a house clearance and first advertised on the internet forty-eight hours ago.

‘And a friend of yours dropped in. Daniel Kind.’

‘What was he after?’ Her voice sounded ridiculously gruff.

‘Researching John Ruskin. He asked after you and I told him how glad you were of his help over that business in Old Sawrey.’ He shut the fridge door and reached out to stroke her hair. ‘So, how was your day?’

Did he really want to know? She murmured something indistinct and that seemed enough. He was at her side now, caressing her neck whilst he kept his eyes fixed on the oven’s temperature dial.

‘Time to relax,’ he whispered.

His hand strayed, as if by chance, to her breast. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her cheek. To her dismay, a picture sprang into her mind. Not Marc but Daniel Kind, leaning close to her, his expression intent. She felt a tightness in her stomach, as if she were hungering for his touch.

Guy slipped out of the Glimpse and set off for the call box. It was after five o’clock and Tony Di Venuto had left, but he got through to a colleague and soon wheedled the journalist’s mobile number out of her. All it took was a little persuasion, and Guy was very good at persuasion.

‘Is that Tony Di Venuto?’

‘Who is this?’

Idiotic question. Di Venuto must have recognised Guy’s spectral whisper from the previous call. He ought to give Guy credit and not take him for a fool.

‘We spoke yesterday. About Emma Bestwick.’

‘You told me she wouldn’t be coming back. Is she dead? Look, why don’t we get together for half an hour? Over a coffee, how about it? You could …’

‘No coffee,’ Guy interrupted. ‘All I want to do is to tell you something.’

‘Who are you?’ Di Venuto’s voice rose. If he was trying to contain his excitement, he was failing.

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘Why have you called me?’

‘For Karen’s sake,’ Guy said.

Christ, he might have been a cheesy cabaret singer dedicating ‘The Lady in Red’ to his latest squeeze. But he meant it, he was doing this for her.

‘
Karen?
’

‘Yes, she needs closure.’

The journalist sounded mystified. ‘Did you kill Emma?’

‘That’s disgusting. I swear to you, she was alive the last time I saw her.’

It was true, that was the wicked irony.

‘Then how can you be sure she’s dead?’

‘I know where the body is buried.’

All at once, Guy was sweaty and shaking, as if stricken
by fever. He fought to compose himself, gulping in the stale call box air.
I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer, I’m not a murderer.
It was all a terrible mistake, though nobody would believe it. But he’d come this far. He couldn’t slam the phone down yet.

‘Where?’ Tony Di Venuto said in a hoarse whisper.

‘Below the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

Over breakfast the next morning, Guy felt a calm that not even Mariah Carey warbling from the transistor radio could disturb. Calling the journalist had been tough, but courage had brought him peace of mind. He’d slept without dreaming and done justice to a full English breakfast guaranteed to fur the arteries. Sarah had cooked mushrooms, as a little treat. With a conspiratorial wink she indicated that this was to celebrate the departure of the German couple. They’d been up at the crack of dawn, feasting on toast and marmalade before setting off back to Heidelberg.

‘I’m not sure I’ll advertise vacancies until it’s time for you to leave. It’s been non-stop for the past fortnight and I fancy putting my feet up for a few days.’

‘You deserve a break.’ He considered the bags under her eyes. ‘You look tired, you must be working too hard.’

She shook her head. ‘My own fault. I spend too much time upstairs on the computer.’

He tutted. ‘All work and no play? You need to grab a bit of enjoyment as well as looking after your guests. Mind, you’d better be careful. You may not get rid of me as easily as all that. I’ve made myself so comfortable here that I was wondering …’

‘Yes?’

She leaned across the table and he caught a fragrance that revived memories of a happy few months in Paris three years back. Chanel Number Five. So she was making a special effort. He could scarcely resist the urge to preen.

‘I might like to stick around for a while. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Trouble? Nothing of the kind, it’s an absolute pleasure. How long would you like to stay?’

‘Depends on arrangements with my associates in Geneva.’ He sighed, a fast-moving executive at the mercy of tedious colleagues. ‘You’ll have to promise to kick me out the moment you want a bit of peace and quiet!’

‘No danger of that.’ As she reached over for the teapot, her hand grazed his. ‘Two’s company, as they say.’

He allowed her to pour him a second cup. In time you could acclimatise to anything, even Co-op tea bags. He was a man at ease with himself, as relaxed as though he’d been luxuriating in a jacuzzi. As it happened, the water heater in the basement was on the blink, but never mind. His luck was on the turn. Maybe tonight
he’d be bathing upstairs, together with Sarah.

Guy recalled Megan, head lifted as she announced her ultimatum. If he wanted any more of her cash, things would have to change. They would get engaged, start behaving like a normal couple. If he didn’t like it, he could lump it. And repay what she’d lent him. And, and, and … well, he’d stopped listening. At last he saw Megan for what she was, a self-righteous young woman with a scrawny neck. For a fleeting moment he’d been tempted to put his hands around the pale pink flesh. It would be so easy to squeeze the breath out of her.

If she could see him now. Sarah was much more accommodating, in every sense. He deserved a bit of good fortune. As a boy in the Home, he’d imagined himself as a prince, immensely popular and possessed of untold wealth, yet condemned to penury and loneliness through a spell cast by a jealous wizard. The fantasy stayed with him for years, but when at last he was granted the freedom and riches he’d yearned for, all too soon he’d frittered them away.

He was ready for a second crack at the good life. By calling Tony Di Venuto, he’d done the right thing. Paid his dues. The authorities would set wheels in motion. He was hazy about official procedures, but before long Emma’s body would be found and she could be given a belated Christian burial. Karen Erskine could get on with the rest of her life while the journalist earned kudos for breaking the story. Leaving Guy to make the
most of his new life in which everybody was a winner.

Just like the endings to the stories he’d made up as a kid. Happy ever after.

Inchmore Hall, home to Cumbria’s Museum of Myth and Legend, stood on the edge of the village in grounds extending over six acres, up to the lower reaches of Wetherlam. The hall was a grey monstrosity of Victorian Gothic, boasting turrets, tall chimneys, and black and white gables, the whole edifice surmounted by an extravagant tower with a copper top. Blinds were drawn at the ground floor windows, protecting the exhibits from non-existent sunlight. Copper beeches and dank rhododendron bushes masked the curving drive. A signboard beside the stone gateposts cautioned that during the winter season, opening hours were by appointment only. Hannah parked outside the canopied front door and ran up a flight of worn stone steps to ring the bell.

‘Yes?’

The woman framed in the doorway wore a black trouser suit, so simple and chic that it must have cost a mint. Short dark hair contrasted with luminous skin. Her forehead was high, her chin sharp. She wore dangly sun and moon ear-rings and a crucifix of ebony and silver hung from her neck. Alexandra Clough’s signed statement suggested intelligence and a calm reluctance to give more away than she wished to reveal. So did her unflickering gaze as Hannah flourished her ID.

Alex led the way with dainty, precise steps into a galleried entrance hall. The ground floor was crowded with pots of dusty palms and aspidistras. Carved pitch panelling covered the walls and an arch-shaped
stained-glass
window at the far end of the hall depicted a purple sunset over brooding fells. The air was so cold that Hannah expected to see icicles on the huge brass
candle-holders
. She shivered.

‘Sorry we don’t keep the heating on when we’re not open to the public. We don’t receive any funding from the council, so we need to make economies.’ Alex unlocked a heavy door. ‘We can talk in my office. It’s a little warmer there.’

Only by a couple of degrees, Hannah discovered. Alex waved her into a leather-backed chair and sat behind a desk large enough to massage the ego of a tycoon. The electric reading lamp and computer squatting in front of her was the only concession to the twenty-first century. Bookcases stuffed with calfskin-bound tomes lined the walls, two gilt-framed oil-paintings occupied the corner alcoves behind her. A middle-aged man with a clipped moustache leaned on a walking stick in one picture. He wore a pin-striped suit and a frown suggesting that he didn’t suffer portrait painters gladly. In the other, a young woman with high cheekbones and an evening dress of pale blue tulle displaying plump milky-white breasts. Was it mere fancy to detect a resemblance between this woman and Alex Clough?

Alex Clough caught Hannah’s gaze. ‘My grandparents,
Chief Inspector. Armstrong and Betty Clough. She was rather beautiful, don’t you agree?’

Hannah nodded. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Oh yes. My grandfather died soon after I was born, but she lived until she was eighty-six. A remarkable woman, we were very close. Now, you are reviewing Emma’s disappearance. How can I help?’

Hannah shifted in her chair. It was old and uncomfortable, like everything she’d seen of Inchmore Hall. ‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me about your relationship with her. How it began, why it ended.’

Alex took a breath and Hannah guessed that she’d rehearsed her answer. ‘She joined us twelve months before she vanished. At this time of year, we look to recruit in good time for the season. Apart from temporary staff and maintenance people, we only have one clerical post. Our previous administrator deserted us for a better paid job in Carlisle and so there was a vacancy. Emma had flitted from job to job. At one point she was employed on a short-term contract at the Liverpool Museum. Inchmore is scarcely in that league, but at least she had relevant experience and my father liked that.’

‘It was his decision to take her on?’

‘Then, as now, I was the manager here. But my father created this museum, Chief Inspector. He remains passionately committed to it and I consult him on all business matters. If you are wondering whether I recruited Emma because I was attracted to her, the answer is no.’

‘She’d tired of city life?’

‘Growing up in the countryside, she thought she was missing out on the bright lights. When the lights stopped dazzling her, she saw all the urban grime. Eventually she realised that the grass really was greener back home in the Lakes.’

‘Did she keep in touch with anyone in Merseyside?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Emma never kept up with people she went to school with, either. She didn’t make friends easily.’

‘Even so, the two of you became close. How did that come about?’

‘How do these things ever come about?’

Hannah glared at her watch. She was in no mood for fencing.

Alex fiddled with her earrings. ‘I suppose … Emma excited my curiosity.’

‘Well, this is a museum. A place to study exhibits.’

Tiny teeth showed in a mirthless smile. ‘Do I sound cold-blooded? I’m paying you the compliment of telling the truth, rather than fobbing you off with a self-serving lie. On first acquaintance, Emma seemed quiet and timid. I thought she was pretty, but she lacked confidence. When she was a teenager, she put on puppy fat and she used to say that she only had to look at a bar of chocolate to put on weight.’

Hannah thought of Emma’s puzzled look, captured by the photographer. ‘She was unsure of herself.’

‘Yes, her self-image was poor. She compared her looks unfavourably with her sister’s and her solution was to fade
into the background. Yet the more I got to know her, the more I became convinced she was as capable of passion as my father. The difference was that she’d never found anything to become passionate about.’

‘Did she care about her work here?’

‘At first, yes. Even if she did leave school at sixteen with few qualifications to her name, she was bright. I’m afraid our universities these days are overflowing with students with far less native intelligence than Emma. The trouble was, she had a lazy streak. Once she lost interest, she didn’t put in the effort. She gave up too easily, that was why she kept changing jobs. She was looking for something she could commit to, long term. Something special.’ Alex sighed. ‘But with Emma, nothing lasted. Her moods kept swinging.’

‘When did the two of you first get together?’

‘Within a month of her starting. She was helping me one night with an application for a grant towards our running costs. Tiresome, long-winded form-filling, but important. The upkeep of this building costs an arm and a leg and the paying customers contribute buttons towards our overheads. Any scraps of outside funding are welcome. The cleaners had finished for the day and Father was speaking at a black tie dinner in Leeds. I told Emma how as a young man he’d dreamed of creating a museum to celebrate his fascination with the legends that swirl around the Lakes like fog. It was our first intimate conversation. Once we’d finalised the figures, I dug a bottle of rather nice wine out of Father’s private cellar.
He and I have our quarters upstairs and in those days my grandmother lived here too. After I invited her to my sitting room, one thing duly led to another.’

Hannah glanced at the portrait of Armstrong Clough. For a moment she fancied she caught him scowling at the way feckless young women behave nowadays. His demeanour suggested it would have been different in his day. Poor, pretty Betty probably led a dog’s life.

‘You weren’t in a relationship at the time?’

Alex shook her head. ‘After a couple of years of living like a nun, all the pent-up emotion came flooding out. For Emma it was much the same that night, I think. When she told me that she had very little experience of sex, I believed her. Let me speak bluntly, Chief Inspector. There was a – a clumsy innocence about her love-making that I found captivating. Her enthusiasm compensated for any lack of sophistication.’

‘Did she speak about her own previous relationships?’

‘Never. We assured each other that there hadn’t been anyone serious before and that was all that mattered. For myself, it was true. I suspect it was the same for Emma.’

‘Had she ever had a boyfriend?’

‘She’d experimented with boys in her teens. Because it was the done thing, rather than from genuine lust. No one lit her fire.’

‘Except you?’

A smile as frosty as February. ‘I should not flatter myself, Chief Inspector. I thought we had a match made in heaven, but this time I was the naïve one. I’m not sure
Emma was cut out for relationships. At first she was intensely possessive, wanted to be with me every hour of every day. But that soon waned and before long she was happier with her own company. Sex mattered even less to her than to me. I lost the ability to excite her.’

‘And how did you react to that?’

‘Looking back, I see the mistakes I made. When an affair is crumbling around your ears, it’s difficult to be objective. We worked side by side all day, every day, and it wasn’t healthy. It is possible to be too close, don’t you agree?’

Hannah said nothing, waited for her to continue.

‘I pushed too hard, and soon she was keeping me at arm’s length. On good days she was delightful company, but she could be moody and uncommunicative. It hurt that she’d rather scuttle off back to her rented room than stay here with me, in my marvellous home.’

Hannah could understand what drove Emma off to the sanctuary of Thurston Water House. Inchmore might be marvellous, but it was also dark, vast and intimidating. The architect must have read too many Gothic novels. After a day closeted in here, a rented room surrounded by people who made no demands might become a longed-for haven.

‘Did you remain friends?’

‘I couldn’t accept that our affair had passed its sell-by date. Working so closely together made matters worse. Each day I was giving her instructions, and she wanted to be left to her own devices. It was bound to end in tears.’

‘And did it?’

Alex Clough said softly, ‘The last day she worked here, she cried her heart out.’

She hadn’t mentioned this during the original inquiry. That was an upside of cold case work. Interviewed after a gap of years, people forgot past evasions, as well as details of the lies they had told.

‘Why?’

‘She’d taken a couple of days off sick and was falling behind with her jobs. I asked if she was working to rule. Not very witty, but I was shocked when she burst into tears, and devastated when she accused me of bullying her because our affair had hit the buffers. I was sure she didn’t mean what she said, and I tried not to let my feelings show. I told her to go home and get over it. She never came back’