The Arsenic Labyrinth (8 page)

He pooh-poohed the suggestions with a flourish of an age-spotted paw. ‘I might claim, Chief Inspector Scarlett, to be worldly wise. It was apparent from our first meeting
that Emma was a lesbian. A man of sensitivity and experience can recognise the signs, let me assure you.’

How easy to take a serious dislike to Alban Clough. Six feet three and broad as a bull, with self-esteem to match, he had the unruly white hair, hooked nose and booming voice of a hellfire prophet, but his most profound conviction was evidently of his own infallibility. He didn’t have his daughter’s dress sense; there was a button missing from his cuff, and his shirt wasn’t properly tucked into his elderly slacks. Yet he struck Hannah as a man to be reckoned with.

‘Did you approve of the relationship?’

‘For as long as it brought Alexandra pleasure, most certainly. I feared it would not last, but a parent’s lot is to worry about their offspring’s happiness. Do you have children, Chief Inspector? If so, you will understand.’

Hannah let that whistle past. ‘You questioned Emma’s motives?’

‘Because she saw sleeping with my daughter as a passport to a life of comfort of plenty? By no means. I believed her affection for Alexandra to be genuine, though falling short of undying devotion. In my presence, she was good-natured and deferential.’

I bet, Hannah thought. Emma might be an elusive character, but she was no fool.

‘Then what?’

‘My daughter is a highly intelligent and remarkably sensible woman, but in personal relationships apt to wear her heart on her sleeve. That wasn’t Emma’s way. It
seemed significant to me that her only other friend was the woman from whom she rented a room.’

‘Not her sister?’

‘Karen Erskine and her husband visited the museum, I suspect out of curiosity rather than any deeply felt interest in my life’s work. Jeremy Erskine made it clear that a history master at Grizedale College could not approve the unsourced speculation in which I indulge concerning the origins of local myths and legends. Alexandra took pains to make them welcome, but Emma had little in common with Karen. I speculated that Erskine had taken a shine to Emma, and that was a cause of
froideur
. If so, he was wasting his time.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. Emma was not interested in men.’

For a wild moment, Hannah wondered if Alban Clough had first-hand experience of rejection by Emma. Or maybe it wasn’t so wild? The way he’d considered her appearance when his daughter introduced them downstairs verged on the lascivious. An age gap of thirty-five years might not have deterred a man in the habit of getting his own way. Hannah’s closest friend, Terri, had decided after three failed marriages to try her luck with internet dating and she’d reported with glee that one of the men she’d met, though old enough to be her father, had the stamina and lust of a nineteen-year-old. He also turned out to be an undischarged bankrupt with three convictions for false accounting.

Suppose Alban had propositioned Emma after she’d
broken up with Alex, that might account for the stress she’d suffered. What if they’d had a surreptitious affair? And if Emma had indulged in a little quiet blackmail …

‘What about Tom Inchmore, did he realise that?’

‘Alas, poor Thomas. To adopt the modern idiom, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the block. He took a shine to Emma while she worked here, she was always very good with him. As you may be aware, he’s dead now, so he cannot defend himself. But let me say this on his behalf. He may have been a Peeping Tommy, but he was no murderer.’

‘Suppose he made overtures which she rejected. It’s a situation that often leads to violence.’

‘Your colleagues explored that hypothesis in – shall we say, considerable depth? – ten years ago. Frankly, I was surprised that they failed to thrash a confession out of him. He was pitifully weak. That he steadfastly denied guilt proved that he found the notion of harming Emma horrific.’

‘I presume he was descended from whoever built this place?’

‘Indeed.’ Alban puffed out his cheeks and Hannah realised that she was in for a lecture. Presumably in winter he pined for the chance to pontificate to tourists with time on their hands. ‘During the nineteenth century, Clifford Inchmore ran a successful business, mining the Coniston Fells and earning a knighthood to accompany his fortune. My great-grandfather, Albert Clough, joined the firm as a young man and rose to become a partner in the firm. But
Clifford’s son, George, was not cut from the same cloth. Albert left to set up on his own and George set about squandering his inheritance with unwise commercial ventures. Long before the influenza epidemic of 1919 carried off Albert, George had been made bankrupt. He lived long enough to suffer the indignity of seeing his son William go cap in hand to Albert’s grandson for work. Armstrong Clough, my father, took him on and was rewarded by William absconding after the war ended. He stole one thousand pounds, and we heard he died in Crete five years later without a penny to his name. Nonetheless, my mother insisted that we had a duty towards the family that gave Albert his first opportunity in life.’

‘That’s remarkably forbearing.’

‘My mother was a remarkable lady.’

‘So you gave Tom Inchmore a job out of the goodness of your heart?’

‘Because my mother had a good heart, which is not quite the same. Tom’s parents both died young, in a car crash twenty-five years ago, and from then on he was looked after by his grandmother, William’s wife. Edith Inchmore was herself a formidable woman. She died only last year at the age of ninety.’

‘The two old ladies were friends?’

‘They kept their distance from each other. While the Inchmore residence was a cramped two-up, two-down riddled with dry rot, my mother was chatelaine of this magnificent hall. It cannot have been easy for Edith Inchmore to bear, but she had only her husband’s family
to blame. As for my mother, she had a fanatical sense of duty towards others less fortunate than herself, even if she disliked them.
Noblesse oblige
, if you like. It is a mark of my devotion to her that I resisted the temptation to sack Tom Inchmore, despite being one of the least competent young men I have ever met. That explains why he fell off a ladder when repairing a leaky roof. To suggest that he became cunning and successful for the first time in his life on resorting to murder is sheer fantasy.’

Not the most generous character reference Hannah had ever heard, but it was time to change tack.

‘You know Francis Goddard, I take it?’

‘Indeed. I cannot pretend that we have much in common. The meek may well inherit the earth, but that does not make them interesting.’

‘Emma lived under his roof. Might something interesting have occurred between them?’

Alban laughed so hard that his eyes started watering. ‘A deliciously sordid speculation, Chief Inspector! But regrettably wide of the mark, if I am any judge. Moreover, I have known Vanessa Goddard for many years. She is dedicated to outreach work, establishing partnerships between the libraries and other agencies. She lost her first husband to another woman, but Francis is well and truly under her thumb. I cannot conceive that he would have the spunk for a dangerous liaison with Emma, even were he not devoted to his wife.’

‘And you don’t have any reason to doubt that devotion?’

‘Certainly not. Vanessa and Francis have always had eyes only for each other. Emma herself confirmed it.’

‘What did she say?’

His wicked smile made him look like a gleeful old troll. ‘In the first flush of happiness after she embarked on a relationship with my daughter, I overheard her saying to Alexandra that she would be glad when she could afford to move into a place of her own. She indicated that, although the bedroom walls at Thurston Water House were by no means thin, Vanessa and Francis were raucous as well as uninhibited in their love-making. I find it pleasing to hear of a genuine love match, they are so very rare these days, but Emma found it embarrassing to be forced to eavesdrop on their passion. Poor girl, at heart she was something of a prude.’

Did this prove that Vanessa and Francis were incapable of straying? Hannah dabbed at a smear of sweat on her forehead. The heat and the old man’s salacious humour were overpowering.

‘Very well, Mr Clough. I’m grateful for your help.’

Her host treated her to a wicked smile as she hauled herself to her feet.

‘You’re not going so soon, Chief Inspector? Oh dear me, please linger for a few minutes more. Let me explain to you what it is that women most desire.’

Daniel was in the kitchen, looking out over the cottage garden and tapping notes into his laptop. John Ruskin’s life story proved that having it all was an illusion. Artist, critic, social philosopher, he was ‘the pre-eminent intellectual genius of Victorian England’. Yet his marriage was annulled due to non-consummation, he spent years lusting after a girl who lost her mind and died young, and he proposed to another teenager when he was seventy. After Whistler sued him for libel and won the princely sum of a farthing in damages, depression defeated him and he spent his last years in Coniston leading a reclusive and child-like existence, cared for by his cousin Joan.

Daniel switched off the laptop and read a few more pages of
Unto this Last
. He found the title haunting. Ruskin never finished the book, but failure to complete wasn’t an option for a twenty-first-century author who
needed to keep the publisher satisfied and Daniel had started and discarded a couple of synopses. The malady was easy to diagnose. A historian was, by definition, an archive rat. But he still lacked documentary sources to provide a backbone for a book. He needed something he didn’t yet possess.

His thoughts wandered to Hannah Scarlett.

I could call her, why not? Where’s the harm?

He dialled Hannah’s number without answering his own question. Straight through to voicemail. It would have been so easy to hang up, but he heard himself speaking.

‘Hannah, this is Daniel Kind. I was wondering … how are things? Maybe we could talk sometime. Perhaps meet up.’

‘So,’ Alban Clough demanded, ‘do you know what it is, Chief Inspector, that women most desire?’

‘Break it to me gently.’

They had retraced their steps from Alban’s eyrie in the tower to ground level and she’d started shivering again. Alexandra Clough was nowhere to be seen and everything was still except for their footsteps echoing on the floor. For all his age and supposed infirmity, Alban strode briskly across the main hall and Hannah could do no more than glance at the dusty displays featuring the phantom army of Souther Fell and the fabled wizard of Burgh under Bowness.

She ought to escape from this grotesque old man and
his cobwebbed world and get back to Divisional HQ. But he intrigued her more than any exhibit in his museum. A few more minutes would not hurt. And she might learn something while he lowered his guard, showing off his expertise in Lakeland lore.

‘Do you not know the tale of the Loathly Lady?’ When Hannah shook her head, her host harrumphed and said, ‘I take it you are unfamiliar with the ballad of ‘The Marriage of Sir Gawain’?’

Hannah thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. After so many years living with a bookseller, she ought to be well-read, but there were limits, and medieval ballads strayed far beyond them.

‘Remind me.’

Her host led the way into the King Arthur Room. ‘Few parts of Britain do not lay claim to a connection with the old monarch but my belief is that the old counties of Cumberland and Westmorland were as rich in Arthurian associations as Glastonbury or Tintagel. Take a look at that map. Each yellow crown represents a location boasting a story about Arthur, Merlin, or one of the Knights of the Round Table.’

Why were men so obsessive about their interests? If it wasn’t football, fishing or philately, it was old books or even older legends.

‘Fascinating,’ she murmured.

His beam confirmed it was a good lie. ‘I could tell the moment we met, Chief Inspector, that you were a woman of discernment.’

She ought to point that out to Marc tonight. Giving her host an enigmatic smile, she looked about her. Below the high ceiling, and running all around the room, an elaborate hand-painted frieze depicted gorgeous hills and shimmering tarns. Shameless really, when you remembered that Clifford Inchmore had built this house out of the profits made from scarring the landscape with mines.

‘You were going to tell me what women most desire?’

‘Indeed.’ Alban Clough cleared his throat. ‘In the days when King Arthur held court at Carlisle, he was riding out by Tarn Wadling when he encountered a bold baron with a club. The baron said that if the King was to avoid combat, he must answer a riddle.’

‘Namely?’

Her host raised bushy white eyebrows and hissed,
‘What is it that women most desire?’

Despite herself, Hannah felt her body tensing. In her mind, she’d nicknamed the old man King Leer – but he was a born story-teller.

‘Arthur chose the riddle and in his search for the answer, he encountered a woman as ugly as sin, sitting between an oak and a green holly. She offered to help him and he promised her the hand of Gawain in marriage if she told him the answer. She assented, and when Arthur returned to Tarn Wadling, he informed the baron that what women most desire is to have their own will.’

‘Don’t tell me. This legend was dreamed up by a man, right?’

Alban Clough bared yellowing teeth in a fearsome grin. ‘The lore of our land, Chief Inspector, reaches far deeper than superficial notions of sexism and political correctness. Gawain was celebrated for his courtesy and expressed his willingness to marry the hag. Upon hearing this, she transformed into a woman of peerless beauty. Alas! Her looks endured either by day or by night – but not both. Gawain said he would prefer to enjoy her beauty while they were in bed at night. In distress, she said that then she must hide away, for it would humiliate her to appear at court, warts and all. Good and gentle Gawain said she must choose whatever suited her best. His compassion broke the curse put on her and her brother, the baron, by their wicked stepmother – he to challenge passers-by to solve his riddle, she to remain ugly until a fellow took her hand in marriage and permitted her to have her own way.’

Hannah said nothing, but shifted from foot to foot. Alban Clough noticed the movement.

‘You are a busy lady, Chief Inspector. Enough of Gawain. Follow me to the Room of Spirits and I will tell you about the boggles and barghests that populate our land of lakes. Stories that go back centuries and yet have resonance in this grubby, sterile age. The eternal nature of our legends, their ageless qualities, are integral to their enduring appeal.’

Hannah shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I must go.’

He bowed his head. ‘A pity. If I may say so, Chief
Inspector, I hope that you will come back to keep me company again before long.’

His wink was so roguish as to leave Hannah lost for words.

Money was tight, that was the only fly in the ointment. Guy had identified a nice little restaurant where he was going to take Sarah this evening. It would be a night to remember for her, all the more delightful because they had not yielded to temptation at the first opportunity. But he liked his wallet to bulge with high denomination notes – women always found that impressive – and as he checked his wallet while studying the menu in the window of the restaurant, he realised there would be no more treats without a further injection of funds.

Striding back towards the Glimpse under a sky the colour of lead, he told himself his lack of cash was Megan’s fault. In the days leading up to their break-up, she had become increasingly stingy, no longer so quick to whip out her credit cards when something needed paying for. Guy’s preferred lifestyle relied on his companion of the moment matching his generosity of spirit with a willingness to foot the bills. Although he’d raided Megan’s purse before leaving Llandudno – she shouldn’t begrudge him a few quid after they’d shared so much – it had yielded measly pickings.

He turned into Campbell Road. Casual inquiry about Sarah’s finances had revealed that her only substantial asset was the Glimpse. Her husband had transferred it
into her name under the divorce settlement and paid off the mortgage, but he contributed a paltry sum in alimony and the money she made out of tenants was largely off-set by living costs. Shame. Guy was confident that he could persuade her to follow his expert advice and entrust a decent sum to him with a view to establishing a diversified portfolio of equities and bonds, if only she had something worthwhile to invest. This lack of ready funds explained why she hadn’t spent much on her home. Apart from a surprisingly swish PC, she didn’t seem to have much of value and the building needed maintenance. The good news was that, with property prices in the Lakes sky high, the equity must be worth a packet. He’d fallen on his feet. Sarah was worth more than she realised.

Back in her car, Hannah checked her mobile. Two messages: one from Les Bryant, the other from Daniel Kind. Which first? No contest.

‘Daniel, this is Hannah.’

‘Thanks for returning the call. Hope you don’t mind my …’

‘Of course not.’ She answered too quickly, not wanting him to think her precious. ‘Marc said he’d seen you at the bookshop.’

‘How are things?’

Last time they’d met, she’d mentioned the miscarriage. Marc and her best mate Terri were the only other people who knew. She was usually so wary about imparting
confidences, she could scarcely believe she’d told him. He was still almost a stranger, and yet because he was his father’s son, it was as if they knew each other intimately.

‘Fine. And you? Marc tells me you’re researching a new project.’

‘An excuse for mooching round bookshops.’ He took a breath. ‘Hannah, it would be good to catch up with you. I was wondering if we might meet sometime.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Then …’

She didn’t stop to think, or worry about seeming eager. ‘Do you have any free time in the next few days?’

‘Miranda’s down in London at present. My time’s my own. You’re not around tomorrow, by any chance?’

‘Do you know Café d’Art in Kendal?’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘If you can make it for six-thirty, we could have half an hour before I dash off home.’

‘Perfect.’

As she dialled Les Bryant’s number, she felt dizzy with elation. It took her back to schooldays and the excitement of a date. Stupid in a woman of her age, let alone a woman committed to a long-term relationship.

‘You’re going to love this.’ Les, at his dourest.

‘Don’t tell me. Lauren’s over-spent on media relations and run out of funds for the team’s competency payments?’

‘I’d put nowt past her ladyship, but actually it’s your mate, Di Venuto.’

‘No mate of mine.’

‘He’s determined to get you to review his favourite cold case. Three times he called asking for you before he condescended to speak to yours truly.’

‘What’s he want?’

‘To share his latest scoop. He reckons he knows where we can find her.’

‘On the check-out at Asda, where Elvis Presley stacks the shelves?’ She wasn’t usually facetious, but talking to Daniel had left her on a high.

‘Not exactly. According to Di Venuto, she’s buried beneath the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

‘The what?’

‘The Arsenic Labyrinth. It’s only a mile or two from where Emma lived. So Di Venuto’s like a dog with two dicks. Even if he is barking up the wrong tree. He wants to see you today.’

‘Yeah, right. I’ll see if I’ve got a window in my busy schedule.’

‘Something you ought to know. He happened to mention that his editor is vice-chair of Cumbrian Women in the Professions.’

Hannah groaned. Lauren had recently been elected to the committee of CWIP. Her networking skills were legendary.

‘Hear that creaking noise? The window just opened.’

Hannah put down her teacup and said, ‘So tell me about the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

Tony Di Venuto stretched out in his chair and lifted his legs. For a moment Hannah thought he was going to put his feet on the meeting room table, but he caught the look in her eye and decided against. She was determined not to let him get above himself.

‘Never heard of it? Well, no disgrace in that. Neither had I and I’ve lived in the Lakes for twenty years since my parents moved down from Glasgow. After taking the call last night, I did some research. There are Arsenic Labyrinths dotted around the country, mainly in the south-east, but only one in Cumbria. Up in the Coniston fells.’

This was a man who liked listeners hanging on his every word. He paused to allow her to press him for details. When Hannah zipped her mouth, he was too pleased with himself not to carry on talking.

‘Back in the nineteenth century, Coniston had its very own arsenic works. Imagine – a poison-making business, hidden in the hills.’

‘In demand, was it, by Victorian gentlemen who fancied disposing of their wives?’

‘Or wives who wanted rid of their husbands, who knows? The works were tucked away up on Mispickel Scar.’

Despite herself, Hannah leaned forward. ‘And the labyrinth?’

‘A zig-zagging flue that drew the arsenic off in saleable
quantities. But the project flopped, maybe there weren’t enough wannabe spouse-killers in Cumbria. By the time the arsenic works closed down, it had bled the main business of cash. The buildings were pulled down, along with the chimney. All that remains are a few stone footings from the Arsenic Labyrinth.’

‘And your caller claims that Emma is buried beneath it?’

‘The labyrinth was on ground level, but there are shafts and tunnels from the mines winding around the length and breadth of the Scar.’

‘So the body might be anywhere?’

He stifled a yawn. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude. I spent most of the night trawling for information on the net, and by seven this morning I’d arrived in Coniston. It’s a tricky walk to Mispickel Scar in icy conditions and I have gashes on my knees to prove it. But the labyrinth doesn’t cover a large area. If the man who phoned me is telling the truth, you won’t have too far to search for Emma’s remains.’

‘If.’

‘He didn’t sound like a nutter. I’d guess that her death has preyed on his conscience, all these years. My story about the tenth anniversary was the last straw. He needed to tell someone, to do the right thing.’

‘You believe he murdered Emma?’

‘Not necessarily. He didn’t admit to killing her, for what that’s worth. Perhaps the culprit confided in him. Or
he may have been a hired hand. Paid to murder a woman someone wanted dead.’