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 wantin
g 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.’
Did Di Venuto have a suspect in mind? Sooner or later, she’d find out who, or what, egged him on. ‘Thanks for your statement. We’ll give it careful consideration.’
‘Please tell me you won’t waste time. The man who rang me did so for the sake of Emma’s sister. Karen’s waited ten years, Chief Inspector. She doesn’t deserve to be kept waiting any longer.’
‘We’ll let you know.’
His face reddened and she could tell he was fighting to choke back a furious retort. When he fixed her with his gaze, she refused to blink. He was the first to look away.
‘Go for it,’ Lauren Self said.
‘We don’t have anything to go on other than this message to the journalist. This alleged message. It wasn’t taped.’
Lauren’s eyebrows jumped. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that Tony Di Venuto is fibbing, simply to keep the story alive?’
‘No, but …’
‘As it happens, I know his editor. We’ve had a discreet word. She speaks highly of him as an investigative reporter.’
‘Sure, but the caller may be a crank.’
‘I don’t think the editor of the Post would take kindly to the suggestion that her readers include cranks. Here we have two messages, entirely coherent if a tad cryptic. No hint of self-aggrandisement. Sounds to me as though someone’s conscience is playing him up. This is the beauty of cold case work, isn’t it? Time works in our favour.’
‘But to dig up half a hillside on the strength of an anonymous call …’
‘No need to exaggerate, Hannah.’ The ACC always said that her aim was to achieve consensus, by which she meant getting people to agree with a decision she’d already taken. Denied obedience, she was quick to bring out her claws. ‘The investigation was dead, but Di Venuto has brought it back to life. We can’t ignore what he’s told us. If it turned out that he’d given us a vital lead, but we binned it, we’d be in the firing line. And I’m not just talking about flak from the leader column and letters page in the Post.’
‘The budget may not stand a full …’
‘Leave me to worry about the budget.’
Words to die for, when spoken by an ACC to a DCI. A streak of contrariness tempted Hannah to look the gift horse in the mouth.
‘I’m really not sure …’
The ACC switched to action-woman mode. ‘Sorr
y, Hannah, but if you’re prepared to risk your reputation over this, I’m not. I owe it to you not to let you mess up a delicate relationship with an important branch of the media. Remember, the Post is the voice of the people we serve. We need them on our side. I think we’ve knocked around the pros and cons, don’t you? Let’s get weaving. And I don’t mean tomorrow, Hannah. Right now, please.’
‘Money no object, eh?’ Les grimaced. ‘For crying out loud, she wasn’t talking that way when we were discussing my expenses.’
Hannah swung on her chair. ‘Well, there are limits.’
‘Listen, it’s not cheap renting on this side of the Pennines. Everything round here’s a rip-off compared to back home. You need a bank loan to afford a cuppa in some of these posh tea shops. Any road, what’s the plan?’
‘We’ll start by dropping a camera down the shafts at Mispickel Scar. If that turns anything up, the next question is how to access the old workings.’ Hannah jumped up and started doodling names on the whiteboard in the corner of her room. ‘I’ll talk to the South East Cumbria Mining Trust as well as a specialist in forensic archaeology. Maggie can look into health and safety issues and talk to the Mountain Rescue people. Bob Swindell will hunt out old maps and plans to save time and cost if we make a detailed underground search.’
‘Not if,’ Les said. ‘When. You know the ACC better than I do. She won’t leave any stone unturned when it comes to keeping Mr Di Venuto happy.’
‘There are a lot of stones up on Mispickel Scar.’
‘That won’t bother the ACC. You watch, she’ll insist on being photographed wearing mountain gear and a hard hat.’
* * *
The Arsenic Labyrinth Page 10