He leaned over the desk. The after-shave was more pungent than ever.
‘Jeremy Erskine called on her just before she vanished. Supposedly for the benefit of his bad back. But he’s vain, you only have to speak to him for five minutes to realise that. He wouldn’t be put off by the fact a woman was a lesbian if he took a shine to her. He’d regard it as a challenge. My theory is, he made a play for her, she told him to fuck off, and he decided to take revenge.’
‘He didn’t kill her there and then, did he? Bruised self-esteem might explain a heat of the moment murder, but – twenty-four hours later?’
Di Venuto shrugged. ‘I told you I don’t have any evidence. There may be more to it. But when I interviewed him, he was evasive. All he wanted was for everyone to forget about Emma. Thank God his wish has been denied.’
‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask. What put you on to the case in the first place? I mean, most people have forgotten all about Emma.’
He folded his arms. ‘It was the upcoming anniversary, that’s all. We keep an eye on these things in the Press. Pegs to hang stories on, they matter to us.’
‘It was quite a story. Not just a rehash of old stuff. Jeremy wasn’t happy with the way you tackled it.’
‘The Post has a complaints procedure and Erskine didn’t use it.’ The smug smile was back. ‘And for good reason, Chief Inspector. All I was doing was trying to get at the truth. Erskine’s problem is, the truth hurts.’
Hannah remembered Karen’s rare outburst. This isn’t about discovering the truth. So what was it about?
She stood up. ‘When we have more from the pathologist, I’ll call another press conference.’
‘I’d appreciate a nod and a wink in advance, Chief Inspector. Given all the help I’ve provided.’
Don’t push your lucky, smarty pants. ‘I’ve already told you more than your colleagues who were at the briefing.’
‘Trust me, Chief Inspector.’ His wheedling smile suggested the dodgiest used car salesman in Cumbria. ‘Take a closer look at Erskine. He may seem like Mr Respectable, but it’s a charade. The man is one huge ego. He dumped his first wife the moment he started snuggling up to Karen. Who’s to say he wouldn’t betray her too?’
Hannah wasn’t convinced. Not least because she suspected that the journalist recognised characteristics in Jeremy that he possessed himself. Above all, she yearned to puncture his self-assurance.
‘Better be careful, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Only this. If Jeremy Erskine was willing to kill his sister-in-law because she turned him down, he’s a dangerous enemy. Better not let him get wind of your thinking. We don’t want to have to spirit you away into a witness protection programme, do we? It’s not a glamorous life. Cumbria Constabulary doesn’t run to swish gaffs in beach resorts. A bed-sit in a back street in Maryport is as good as it gets.’
Vanessa Goddard was crestfallen. ‘I only wish we could help, Mr Kind. But as you can see, our archive is primarily a gathering of Ruskin’s writings in different editions, together with background materials, for everyday consultation by members of the public. I feel rather guilty that we don’t have much that is unique.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ve been very helpful.’
She shut the door behind her and he followed into the office. It occupied the rear of the converted Wesleyan chapel housing the county’s Ruskin Archive, and it was full of clutter. Lever arch files were piled high on every available surface and she had to shove a couple of them on to the floor so that he could sit down on the other side of a desk. Behind her head hung a large rectangular cork board covered in staff notices and a trade union calendar. The walls were festooned with book covers and posters advertising library events. On the desk stood family photographs, all depicting a young boy: toddling across the living room carpet, struggling into a school blazer, wielding a cricket bat, dangling a fishing rod into a peaceful tarn. Daniel wondered if his father had kept any pictures of himself and Louise as kids. Or had Ben preferred to draw a line under the past once the divorce was through, and start again in his new job, in his new home, with his new girlfriend?
Vanessa cleared her throat. ‘Even if we owned rare manuscripts, we’d probably be told to sell them off to pay for a few more computers in the branches.’
‘So you can’t tell me anything about Ruskin’s relations with the owners of the arsenic works at Coniston?’
‘I’m sorry, no. Why do you ask, I wonder?’
‘I heard on the news about those bodies up by the Arsenic Labyrinth. Driving here, there seems to be a police vehicle on every street corner.’
‘It’s very sad.’
She fingered the birthmark on her face. There were dark lines under her eyes and he guessed she hadn’t slept. According to Hannah, she had been close to Emma, and part of him shied away from adding to her misery. But curiosity held him captive.
‘I read about that woman who went missing ten years ago.’ He’d combed through the old cuttings as well as recent stuff by Tony Di Venuto. ‘Perhaps she’s one of the victims.’
‘I expect we’ll know soon enough.’
‘Poor woman,’ he persisted. ‘How dreadful, to die like that.’
Her face tightened, as if tempted to scold him for gossiping out of turn. But he was Daniel Kind, the historian, he’d been on TV, for God’s sake. For once it was a blessing to be nearly famous. She had to be polite.
‘As it happens, Emma Bestwick was a good friend of mine.’ Vanessa coughed. ‘She was a lovely woman. If – if one of the bodies is hers, then it’s an utter tragedy.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He felt a pang of genuine remorse. Had his father felt like this, intruding into private grief? Did Hannah?
She took a breath, straightened her shoulders. ‘The only consolation is that she lives on, with us. Those of us who knew her, that is. Now, can I help with anything else?’
He couldn’t let go just yet. ‘Are you familiar with the Arsenic Labyrinth?’
‘I’ve never walked up that far beyond Coppermines Valley. People say there’s not much to see. Just a few lumps of stone dotted around a cold and windswept nook in the fells.’
‘I can’t believe Ruskin approved of a poison factory in his beloved Lakeland.’
‘He once gave a lecture about the fells in Kendal, but I never heard of him writing about the arsenic works. You ought to speak to Alban Clough, he owns the Museum of Myth and Legend down the road.’
‘Thanks, I’ll call there on my way home.’ He paused. ‘I’ve also arranged to meet up with the chairman of the Grizedale and Satterthwaite tomorrow, see if he or his colleagues can cast any light. He sounds very knowledgable, perhaps you know him? His name is Jeremy …’
‘Erskine,’ she said quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I used to know Jeremy rather well. Though not as well as I thought I did. He was my first husband.’
Daniel felt his cheeks burning. Hannah had forgotten to mention this. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘No problem, it was a long time ago. Jeremy went his way, I went mine. It wasn’t easy for a while, but in the end things worked out wonderfully well for me.’ She gestured towards the photographs. ‘It’s a long time since I last saw him. Time to bury the hatchet – and I don’t mean between his shoulder blades. Will you pass on my regards?’
He nodded. ‘Jeremy isn’t an expert in Ruskin by any chance?’
Vanessa fiddled with the publishers’ catalogues on her desk. ‘Not to my knowledge, but that shouldn’t stop him sharing his opinions with you. Jeremy believes he’s an expert in everything.’
* * *
‘So we have two bodies in the shafts below the labyrinth and both of them were buried there at different times – decades apart?’ Hannah said.
Grenville Jepson fiddled with his bright yellow bow-tie, a habit that irritated Hannah like a flea bite. The bow-tie was a fashion crime; she couldn’t believe that anyone would wish to draw attention to the thing.
‘No doubt about it, Detective Chief Inspector. No doubt about it whatsoever.’
He was a tiny man with a voice oddly high-pitched, verging on a squeak. This too got on her nerves. But Grenville was as capable as any forensic pathologist she’d ever met. He was never afraid to express a definite opinion, yet he didn’t shoot from the hip. Once he formed a conclusion, it took cross-examination worthy of Marshall Hall to shake it.
Les Bryant slurped loudly from a cup of water. ‘Could either of them have finished up there by accident? I mean, people are so bloody careless, aren’t they? If you’re wandering around an area riddled with mineshafts and you don’t look where you’re going, next thing you know, you’re arse over tip and …’
He made a throat-slitting gesture. Grenville turned his pointed nose up in distaste. The pathologist spent his working life in the company of the dead and decaying, but he prided himself on his refinement. He’d been known to hum Vivaldi while conducting a post-mortem.
‘With regard to the older corpse, I would say it is out of the question. As to the younger body, it seems highly improbable. The likelihood is that she was forced down the shaft, when either dead or unconscious, breaking an arm and a leg on her way to her resting place.’
‘And no doubt that the more recent deceased was Emma Bestwick?’ Hannah asked.
Grenville sat back in his chair, swinging his little legs back and forth. He took a packet of Polo mints out of his pocket and popped one in his mouth, as if to aid deliberation. It didn’t occur to him to offer them round.
‘Of course, we need to do further work on identification for the coroner’s benefit. There are no signs of surgical procedures, so we will have to fall back on dental records or DNA evidence. There is a sister, you said? Have the liaison officer take a swab from her. But off the record, this is not so much a working hypothesis, more a racing certainty. Everything fits. The clothing, the size of the bones.’
Hannah picked up a red marker pen and scribbled a couple of notes on the whiteboard. ‘How much older is the other corpse?’
‘If I were a betting man, I’d say by half a century, give or take. The contrast is stark. Virtually no clothing left, just a few skeletal remains and a tiny amount of skin around the finger ends. We have odds and ends yielding a few scraps of DNA, so identification may be possible one of these fine days. Already I can say with some confidence that the bones belong to a male rather than a female. The murder weapon is sure to be the knife found lying a couple of yards away from the corpse.’
‘Two murders fifty years apart, with both victims stuffed down neighbouring mineshafts?’ Maggie Eyre asked. ‘Beggars belief, doesn’t it?’
‘Frankly, I don’t agree. To my mind, it’s not at all surprising.’ Grenville crunched his mint noisily, disappointed by the DC’s naiveté. ‘As you know, most murderers are lamentably lacking in originality and imagination. If one killer stumbles across an ideal location for the disposal of a body, hidden away in a remote corner of the fells, it is entirely within the bounds of possibility that years later, a second murderer might come up with the same bright idea.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Forgive me, DC Eyre, but this is more than mere supposition. Sixty years ago, the fells were lonely. Not like today, when they seem as crowded as Blackpool beach. One may speculate that the knife was taken to the scene with the express intention of killing the first victim. Regrettably, one presumes that even if we can pick up any identifying material from the knife or the soil surrounding the site where the body was dumped, the culprit is now safely interred in his grave as well.’
‘We ought to be glad,’ Hannah said. ‘Two crimes to clear up rather than one is a pain in the backside, but at least we don’t have to worry that we might have a serial killer prowling the Coniston fells.’
‘Unless …’ Grenville’s hand strayed to his bow-tie again, setting Hannah’s teeth on edge. ‘There is always the distant possibility that the first crime was committed by someone in his teens. He might have kept his secret safe for a long time. But what if your Ms Bestwick stumbled across it? There would be a temptation to repeat the success of the earlier crime. But this would require a suspect with the ability and the will to commit murder in, say, his sixties. Unlikely in the extreme, one hopes.’
‘Unlikely, yes.’ Hannah considered. ‘But not impossible.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘In my younger days, I read a little Ruskin.’ Alban Clough waved towards the calfskin-bound tomes surrounding them; a regal gesture, suggestive of a monarch acknowledging his subjects. ‘I suspect I am the only Clough who so much as glanced beyond the titles of works such as Fors Clavigera, let alone ploughed through the damn things. Nowadays, I lack the patience. You will only catch me returning to Ruskin if in search of a cure for insomnia.’
He and Daniel were in his private library at Inchmore Hall, ensconced in hard leather armchairs opposite a mahogany desk and chair. Glass cases, crammed with enough first editions to make Marc Amos’s tongue hang out, lined all four walls, leaving precious little space for the door and a small mullioned window looking out on to the frosty fells.
‘Even though Ruskin shared your love of myth?’
‘The dark sayings of nature, as he called them. But his tastes were classical compared with mine. My own love of ancient lore derives from nothing more sophisticated than a schoolboy’s wide-eyed fascination. I confess to a continuing frisson at the mere mention of Sunkenkirk Circle or the Fiend’s Fell.’
Daniel stretched in his chair and looked around. ‘This is an amazing place.’
Despite the stale air, for all the dust and the cobwebs, the idiosyncracies of Inchmore Hall had caught his fancy. To step over the threshold was like entering a time warp. A world of drowned churches and haunted mines, of sea ghosts and giants’ graves. Easy to forget that within walking distance was a modern murder scene, marked off with tape and crowded with men and women in white overalls, intent on discovering the names of the dead and how and why they had been killed.
‘Thank you, Mr Kind. In the company of an academic historian such as yourself – even a telly academic, if you will forgive me – I claim to be no more than a humble dabbler. A dilettante.’
Daniel offered a smile, but no flattery. Alban Clough’s ego was healthy enough without it. He wasn’t a historian, but a teller of tales. Lack of evidence didn’t worry him. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.
‘I have little patience with the way Ruskin spent so long pondering the Symbolical Grotesque. But on one issue we would have agreed. I mentioned it last year to another visitor researching Ruskin’s Coniston connections. Let me see if I can recall the reference.’
He opened the cabinet and pulled out a book, blinking at the puff of dust as he opened the cover, murmuring to himself as he leafed through the brittle pages.
‘Ah yes, I have it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Whenever you begin to seek the real authority for legends, you will generally find that the ugly ones have good foundation, and the beautiful ones none. Be prepared for this; and remember that a lovely legend is all the more precious when it has no foundation.’
‘Did the curse of the Mispickel Scar have good foundation?’
‘Our little drama has clearly captivated you.’ Alban bared his teeth in a fearsome smile. ‘The scream of sirens and flashing blue lights almost persuaded me that I had been transported from Coniston to Chicago.’
Daniel rubbed his hands together, for warmth rather than because he shared the old man’s amusement. Thank God he’d kept on his outer jacket.
‘It isn’t every day that two bodies turn up, buried under a strange old site in the fells.’
‘How true. One’s first assumption is a tragic accident, sadly not uncommon in rocky terrain. Yet village whispers suggest the police are treating their finds as a double murder case. My goodness, if that is so, Coniston will not have seen such excitement since Donald Campbell met his tragic end.’
‘And Mispic
kel Scar?’ Daniel persisted.
‘Merely to visit Mispickel Scar is supposed to bring bad luck cascading down like Aira Force.’ Alban Clough spread his arms. ‘As for the origins of the jinx, they are lost in the mists of Lakeland. I doubt whether Collingwood mentions it, let alone Ruskin. Because of its obscurity, we give the story no more than passing mention in our displays, but I am sure it dates back long before George Inchmore’s arsenic business failed. It may reflect a yet more ancient fear.’
‘Of arsenic itself?’
‘Indeed. Arsenic is an extraordinary poison, attracting fear and fascination in equal measure for centuries. As you may know, the peasants of Styria had great faith in its aphrodisiac properties. So did James Maybrick, murder victim and one of the horde suspected of being Jack the Ripper. In Cumberland, the natives were wary of the stuff. Its dangers were common knowledge. No wonder our forebears said the Scar was cursed, before even a roof collapse brought copper mining there to an end. It explains why George found trouble recruiting decent staff for his enterprise, though in part it was due to his unpopularity.’
‘Why didn’t people take to him?’
‘He was spoiled and selfish and a sore disappointment to his father. Neither he nor his descendants were men of character. All were weak-willed and selfish to their bones.’
His voice burned with contempt. Daniel was puzzled. Why so scathing? After all, the Cloughs had profited from the Inchmores’ decline and fall.
‘I noticed those family trees near the front door.’
‘My crude attempt to capture the genealogy of the Inchmores and the Cloughs, indeed.’ Alban strode to the desk and rummaged in a drawer, extracting two sheets of paper. ‘Take these copies with my compliments. I recall you have written about Victorian dynasties founded by entrepreneurs with half an eye on immortality?’
Daniel nodded. The family trees had been produced on an old-fashioned typewriter with several letters out of alignment. The museum literature, like the rest of the place, was past its sell-by date. He glanced at the Inchmore names and recalled Hannah mentioning that the youngest had been questioned after Emma Bestwick’s disappearance.
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