The Serpent Pool

by Martin Edwards

  ‘That isn’t to allow you to talk, do you understand?’ the man said. ‘I’m not into dialogue. But I would hate you to choke on your own vomit. Too quick, too easy.’

  This was Ro, had to be. But he was Arlo Denstone, the expert on Thomas De Quincey. Marc understood nothing, except that he was in danger. The man had brought him here to die.

  His mouth formed a single word.

  Why?

  ‘I don’t believe in explanations,’ Ro said. ‘Life and death, how can they be explained? De Quincey knew what I’m aiming for. Virginia Woolf said he was transfixed by the mysterious solemnity of certain emotions. How one moment might transcend in value fifty whole years. An impassioned man, Thomas, but he got his kicks from writing, not from the things he did. A difference between us, though I swear he’d share my taste for Grand Guignol. My destiny is to make nightmares come true, the way they came true for me.’

  The dog made a dozy noise. A throaty rumble.

  Ro nodded towards it.

  ‘A wild creature. I bought him illegally, and that isn’t my only crime. I didn’t feed him for forty-eight hours. And then I slipped something into his last supper.’

  Marc forced his gaze away from the pit bull. His heart bumped inside his chest. Much more of this, and he’d have a coronary.

  It might be for the best.

  ‘I named him Thomas, what else? Trust me, when he wakes from his sleep, he’ll be in a very bad mood. And he will be hungry. Ravenous.’ Ro threw a scornful glance at Marc’s skinny, trembling body. ‘He’s a carnivore. Not fussy about the quality of his meat.’

  Tears ran down Marc’s cheek. He couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t dry the tears, either.

  A noise attracted his attention. Someone was moving away the boards at the narrow window. He peered round and saw a face he recognised.

  It was Cassie. Standing outside, looking in.

  Through the opening in the wall of the tower, Marc saw no expression in the gaze she fixed on the man who called himself Arlo Denstone, but the faintest of smiles played on her lips.

  ‘Murder is a fine art,’ the man said. ‘But it evolves with time. It needs updating. This is an age when we watch the world go by, on our television screens or laptops. Cassie, and I, we have turned it into a spectator sport.’

  ‘Wagg was good in bed,’ Cassie whispered. ‘But nowhere near as good as you. No one is as good as you, my love.’

  Marc wanted to scream. It’s a lie, a wicked lie. I only wanted to be her friend. I never even touched her.

  But he knew nothing he might say could save his life, and no words came.

  The man grinned at the dog. ‘Last week, I watched Thomas chew a rabbit that had escaped from a hutch next door. Call it a rehearsal. Took a while, but there wasn’t much left by the time old Thomas was done.’

  Marc shivered uncontrollably.

  Jesus, was the dog stirring?

  * * *

  Undercrag was melancholy in the fog, a sombre, hollow shell. Hannah was no longer sure she wanted to live here, but that was a decision for another day. Marc’s car was nowhere to be seen. Hannah searched the ground floor and then ran upstairs to look into each of the bedrooms. Nothing.

  OK, it would have been extraordinarily crass for Marc to bring Cassie to their home for a quick shag. Hannah was ashamed of herself for having feared it possible.

  But if he wasn’t misbehaving here, that begged the question of where he might be, and what he might be doing.

  Hunger pangs assailed her. She needed to eat. This wouldn’t be a good time to fall down in a faint. She found an apple from a fruit basket in the kitchen, and was starting to peel it when her phone rang. She took a quick bite and shoved knife and fruit in her jacket pocket. Food would have to wait.

  Greg Wharf’s Geordie tones filled her ear. ‘I’m just leaving Sir Julius Telo’s mansion.’

  Sir Julius was the chair of the Culture Company. ‘What did he have to say about Denstone?’

  ‘He’s been fretting about the guy for weeks. He had a great CV, and he was brimming with enthusiasm as well as expertise. The clincher was that he offered to do the job for free. It sounded too good to be true.’

  ‘Did nobody wonder how he could afford to be so altruistic?’

  ‘He said he’d inherited money from his uncle, but the key point was that he loved the Lakes, and was crazy about De Quincey. He’d fought cancer and won, and now he wanted to make every day count, plus raise money for a good cause. This was only a six-month contract, and he saw it as a dream job. A challenge combined with a chance to put something back into the community.’

  ‘So, Sir Julius bit his hand off?’

  ‘Not the done thing to cross-examine a cancer survivor who behaved so selflessly. Especially if you have more money than brain cells. Sir Julius accepted his CV at face value, there wasn’t any due diligence. At least not until the Culture Company realised that the start date of the Festival was drawing near, and there was still a vast amount of work to do. The troops were becoming restless, and there was gossip about Denstone’s habit of disappearing for hours or even days at a time.’

  ‘To shag Cassie Weston, I suppose,’ Hannah said bitterly.

  ‘Some people guessed he was conducting an affair, and that was taking his eye off the ball. Sir Julius rang up the Australian university where Denstone was supposed to have held some senior post, only to be told that the guy’s track record was much less high-powered than he’d led everyone to believe. It’s the old story: there are lies, damned lies, and CVs. Arlo Denstone was a foot soldier who promoted himself to field marshal.’

  ‘Why didn’t Sir Julius take action?’

  ‘He called Denstone in straight after New Year. They met here in Rydal, but the conversation didn’t go to plan. Denstone played the sympathy card. He said the cancer had come back.’

  ‘We know what he really meant, don’t we?’

  ‘We sure do, but Sir Julius fell for it, hook, line and sinker. In his words, he felt he was treading on eggshells. Denstone reckoned he had a wonderful new idea for the Festival. Holding a De Quincey event at a folly near Ambleside.’

  ‘A folly?’

  ‘Yeah, he’d dreamt up a son et lumière production. Said it would give the Festival an added wow factor. Load of bollocks, if you ask me. Even Sir Julius wasn’t convinced it was practical, but he let Denstone go ahead with a feasibility study. The place was disused and locked up, to keep out trespassers, so he made arrangements for Denstone to be given the key.’

  ‘The folly, Greg,’ she said, trying to control her impatience. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? Some place known as the Serpent Tower.’

  Hannah flung on a pair of heavy boots and jumped into her car. She headed down the lane that led to the fell. The last time she’d come this way was on New Year’s Eve. A lifetime ago. She couldn’t drive far, and had to get out and walk once she reached the end of the lane, but every second saved was precious. She couldn’t be certain that Cassie Weston and Arlo Denstone had taken Marc to the Serpent Tower, but it was a decent bet. What they had in mind for him, she dared not guess.

  The shape of a car loomed out of the mist. At the sight of it, Hannah felt her guts churn. She pulled up and gave it a once-over. A purple Nissan Micra hatchback. Empty, but there was some stained matting at the back, as if something had been transported in it.

  Something, or someone.

  She swore under her breath. Her guess had been right, but it wasn’t cause for celebration. God knows what Marc might be going through if they had him. This wasn’t a good time to let her imagination rip. Must keep a cool head.

  Fingers trembling, she dialled Greg’s number and told him what she’d seen.

  ‘You reckon Denstone and Weston are up in the Serpent Tower?’

  ‘Yes. And they may have Marc.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I wish. She works for him. I think…she may have lured him away on a pretext.’

&nb
sp; If he thought she was holding back on him, he was too shrewd to say so.

  ‘Don’t charge in there on your own,’ he said. ‘You need backup.’

  ‘No, in this fog, it will take too long.’

  ‘I said, leave it.’ His voice rose. No doubt he thought she was a loose cannon. Apt to panic if her man were put in jeopardy. And was he that far out? ‘Don’t worry. I’ve left Rydal, and I’m only a mile away. Stay put, ma’am, and I’ll be with you before you know it.’

  ‘I told you to call me Hannah,’ she said, and ended the call.

  Fog snatched at her throat and sinuses as she hurried up the slope. The atmosphere was cold and moist, the dark bushes and trees seemed malevolent as they reared up in front of her out of the grey nothingness, as if intent on blocking her climb.

  She couldn’t wait for the cavalry to come. What if the killers were torturing Marc? She pictured them shoving Stuart Wagg down the well in his back garden, and dragging the metal sheet across the opening as he screamed for mercy. Impossible to live with herself if she hung around while they murdered the man she loved.

  Or used to love.

  It made things worse that Marc had walked out on her and run to Cassie. If she let him down now, people would suspect she’d extracted a form of revenge by letting him suffer. She’d even suspect it herself.

  No, she had to move. Do everything in her power to save him.

  She could scarcely keep her bearings, but she pushed herself on. The Serpent Pool couldn’t be far away. The place where it all began, where the lovers lured Bethany Friend to her death.

  Suddenly, she was there. The fog confused her, and she came within a couple of strides of the water’s edge before stopping short. The pool was as lifeless and sombre as a grave.

  On a good day, the Tower was fifteen minutes away, less if you moved fast. Today, it would take longer. For a moment, she hesitated.

  In her jacket pocket, her mobile rang.

  Greg said, ‘I’m at the end of Lowbarrow Lane. Where are you?’

  ‘At the Serpent Pool, below the Tower. I couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Don’t go any further. Please, not on your—’

  She switched off the phone. Her choice was made, though the truth was that she had no choice. She moved swiftly through the trees, locating the muddy path that led to the ledge on which the Serpent Tower squatted. She looked up and caught sight of the folly rising above her, an ill-defined shape barely visible in the greyness.

  But Greg Wharf wasn’t finished yet. Through the foggy blanket, she heard the police siren wail.

  Oh God, what was he doing? No chance of taking Denstone and Weston by surprise after that fucking cacophony.

  She held her breath. For a moment, nothing.

  And then she heard a woman scream.

  ‘No!’

  For a few moments, nothing happened. Finally, she heard a noise. Footsteps pounding, a racket deadened by the fog. Looking up, she caught a glimpse of yellow in the gloom. A hi-vis jacket, but who was wearing it?

  ‘The police are coming!’ the woman screamed. ‘It’s time!’

  Cassie, it must be, although Hannah could not make out her figure on the narrow plateau up above.

  ‘Two more minutes. Please, I’m begging you. It won’t take long, the dog is waking.’

  Arlo’s voice was unmistakeable, but Hannah couldn’t guess what he was ranting about.

  ‘I can’t live without you, my darkest fear is—’

  ‘Cassie, this isn’t what we planned,’ the man cried. ‘Don’t jump yet.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘Remember what we agreed. Murder is a thing of beauty…’

  They were off their heads. Hannah ground her teeth. That fucking De Quincey, he should never have been born.

  Hannah craned her neck and shouted. ‘Cassie, don’t do it! Let Marc go!’

  ‘Too late,’ the woman screamed.

  A moment of silence was followed by a crash. Something had smashed into the stony ground, twenty yards away from her.

  And then another cry of wild pain tore the silence. Followed by a wild, unintelligible roar, a flash of yellow tumbling from the ledge above the Serpent Pool, and seconds later, another sickening noise.

  Hannah was sure it was the sound of death.

  She hauled herself up the fell, driven by desperation. Every few seconds it seemed that she missed her footing, and collided with jagged rock, collecting one more gash on hand or cheek. But she was beyond pain. Only one thought in her mind. To find Marc, if he was still to be found.

  As she climbed, she mumbled incoherently to herself. Praying to a God in whom she wasn’t sure she believed. The fog around her was nothing compared to the fog in her brain. One day she’d clear her head, but for now, all she knew was that she had to reach the Serpent Tower.

  At last it rose in front of her. A narrow structure, like a Victorian chimney. Dark stonework, the only decoration those serpents entwined above the entrance in a macabre embrace. What had possessed that long-dead landowner to build such a dismal monument?

  She peered at the door. The key was still in the lock. Denstone had meant to shut Marc in, she supposed, but Greg’s siren had spooked him.

  She threw the door open.

  First she saw the dog, then Marc.

  Hanging naked from the wall. A pitiful, degraded spectacle. She covered her mouth, fearing to throw up as he had done.

  The pit bull lay on its side, eyes half-closed. Even as Hannah took in the sight of the creature, it twitched. A convulsive movement. The dog was coming round. Striving to get its bearings.

  ‘Save me!’ Marc hissed.

  She took a step forward. He shook violently. A strip of tightly wrapped plastic cord linked his wrists to the hook on the wall. Another bound his feet.

  The pit bull made a throaty rumble.

  ‘Quick!’

  A quick fumble inside her coat. Thank God, she hadn’t tidied away her last hope of keeping Marc alive. The knife she’d taken to peel the apple at Undercrag was still in the pocket.

  She sawed at the cord. Christ, Marc stank. He’d wet himself, but it didn’t matter. All she cared about was setting him free before the dog came round.

  ‘Faster!’

  The pit bull had opened its eyes and panted hard as it tried to struggle onto its feet.

  Hannah sawed harder. The cord was tough, but had begun to fray. This wouldn’t take long.

  ‘Please, please, hurry!’ Marc was dribbling, but it was too late for disgust or nausea. Numb with cold and horror, she felt herself sweating as she tried to cut the cord.

  Suddenly, it snapped.

  Marc would have collapsed to the ground if she hadn’t caught hold of him.

  She needed to sever the cord around his ankles too, but the pit bull was clambering to its feet.

  The animal’s gaze met hers. In its eyes, she saw only hate.

  Wrapping her right arm around Marc, she bundled him to the door. He was a dead weight.

  The dog found its voice and bellowed. A cruel roar, brimming with fury.

  She pushed Marc through the door and threw herself out after him. The dog was moving, but it slipped on the rock, unsteady on its legs after a long drugged sleep. The stumble gave Hannah the chance to turn the key in the lock.

  She stood with her back braced against the door, as the pit bull charged into it and then howled in pain as its head struck the unyielding oak.

  Marc lay on the patch of mud in front of her. Eyes open wide.

  Pleading for forgiveness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘A bloody good result,’ Fern said as she munched from a packet of prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps. ‘So, how is Marc?’

  They were in a bar off Stricklandgate. At the next table, Greg Wharf was regaling Donna and Maggie with a lusty account of his part in the murderers’ downfall. Everyone was in celebratory mood, except for Hannah, who was sipping lemonade. Half an hour earlier, she’d sat at Marc’s bedside in Westmorl
and General.

  He was a wreck, but the doctors reckoned he’d make it through without too many scars. At least, not physical scars. The last thing Hannah wanted right now was to spend the evening in company; the urge to run away and hide was overwhelming, but it was vital to make an effort. No choice, she must tough it out. Couldn’t have everyone feeling sorry for her. Pity so easily tipped into scorn.

  ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘And learn, I bet.’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  Fern leant towards her. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, kid. Men are all the same. She was a gorgeous woman, and she set out to snare him.’

  ‘Didn’t have to make it so easy for her, did he?’

  ‘Give it time.’ Fern hesitated. ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘You like Daniel Kind, don’t you?’

  On the way here, Hannah had called Daniel. It was only fair to tell him the news, before he heard it on television, and she’d thanked him for pointing her in the direction of Arlo Denstone. He sounded subdued and said Louise was showing signs of depression. The reality of discovering Stuart Wagg’s remains was kicking in.

  Hannah supposed his book about De Quincey and murder would become a best-seller after this, but he wouldn’t find that much consolation. He and his sister had been through the mangle during the last few days. They needed time to come to terms with everything that had happened.

  ‘Fern, don’t go there, OK?’

  ‘All right, all right. Keep your hair on. Last thing I want is to sour the mood. Not on a day like this, when we’ve solved three cases at a stroke. And claimed a special bonus by saving the courts the time and expense of putting on a double trial.’

  The bodies of Cassie Weston and Arlo Denstone had been recovered. Their bloody corpses lay in a thicket yards away from the Serpent Pool. Greg’s siren had disrupted the killer’s plan, but Hannah was sure Arlo intended them both to die once they’d feasted on the spectacle of Marc’s death – as, she guessed, he’d drooled over the sight of Cassie pushing Bethany Friend’s head under water. The symmetry would have appealed to him. Two lovers, dying together at the scene of their first crime. An elegant example of murder and suicide as a fine art. Not even De Quincey could have made it up.