Read Online The Arsenic Labyrinth by Martin Edwards - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Edwards
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of sight.
Every inch of his last journey to Mispickel Scar was logged in his brain. From a distance, the crags and the ground below looked unchanging, eternal. But nature kept moving on. Nothing stayed the same forever.
There had been a landslide. Part of the rockface had collapsed, burying a section of the old track. Mispickel Scar was notoriously unstable. From the archives of memory, he retrieved climbers’ talk of a terrifying landslip engulfing the site of the old works, half a century or more ago. History had repeated itself.
A pile of debris, crude and unstable, covered the ground in the depression between the sheer faces of the crags. Ashe clambered up and over the obstacle course, he peered round, trying in vain to spot a familiar pillar of stone, perched so precariously beside the pathway that nobody could ever be sure what kept it standing. Walkers knew it as the Sword of Damocles.
Shit, where’s the Sword gone?
The first time he’d reached this point and stepped past the Sword, he’d thought of the scene in Lost Horizon , when in the midst of the snowy wastes, the travellers suddenly pass into the green and pleasant land of Shangri-La. But Mispickel Scar wasn’t somewhere people lived forever. Quite the reverse. He hauled himself up on to the slippery stone connecting the rocks and gazed down towards the ancient workings.
Jesus Christ.
The sight snatched his breath away. At last he’d solved the puzzle that had tormented him ever since reading Tony Di Venuto’s article – why hadn’t she been found ? Even in this God-forsaken spot, people would descend the most dangerous holes in the ground. After he’d done what he had to do, he’d lugged chunks of rubble to block the access to the shaft, but none would have deterred anyone intent on entering the old miners’ tunnels. He’d assumed it was inevitable that Emma’s body would turn up eventually, discovered by some adventurous explorer. Her death would be put down as an accident. Now the reason why her disappearance remained a mystery lay before his eyes.
The Sword had collapsed into the midst of the stonesscattered below, breaking into two and bringing with it a mass of smaller rocks. The opening of the shaft was no longer visible. There wasn’t a clue to suggest it had ever been there.
He stood rooted to the spot, letting the wind graze his cheeks. His nose was running and he wiped it with his sleeve. If someone wanted to know why he’d come back here, he could offer no answer. So often he did things that seemed logical at the time, but impossible to rationalise later. Yet he was sure it was right to return. He needed to pay his respects.
At last he tore himself away and began to retrace his steps. It felt colder and the mist was coming down. Soon darkness would fall. He must get back to the village. He’d lingered too long, careless of the rules of walking the fells. Not a soul knew where he’d wandered. His boots slid on a patch of ice and his legs gave way.
He raised his arms to break his fall. As he hit the ground, he scraped his hip and hurt his hands. The shock left him gasping.
Shit, shit, shit . If he hurt himself so badly that he could no longer move, nobody would come running to the rescue. Hours would pass before Sarah raised the alarm. It would not take long to freeze to death.
Gingerly, he struggled to his feet. Thank God, nothing was broken. No harm done except for bruising. He forced himself to move, intent on beating the mist and the twilight. The cold chewed at his face and his limbs werethrobbing. He shut out the pain and the memories, shut out everything except the need to keep slithering down the fell.
At last he reached a shelf of rock above Coppermines. He gazed towards the village of slate and the broad sheet of water beyond. He’d made it. So what if he’d been foolhardy? He’d be all right now, he’d got away with it. As usual, Megan would say.
He could hear it now, that familiar lilting reproach, tinged
Every inch of his last journey to Mispickel Scar was logged in his brain. From a distance, the crags and the ground below looked unchanging, eternal. But nature kept moving on. Nothing stayed the same forever.
There had been a landslide. Part of the rockface had collapsed, burying a section of the old track. Mispickel Scar was notoriously unstable. From the archives of memory, he retrieved climbers’ talk of a terrifying landslip engulfing the site of the old works, half a century or more ago. History had repeated itself.
A pile of debris, crude and unstable, covered the ground in the depression between the sheer faces of the crags. Ashe clambered up and over the obstacle course, he peered round, trying in vain to spot a familiar pillar of stone, perched so precariously beside the pathway that nobody could ever be sure what kept it standing. Walkers knew it as the Sword of Damocles.
Shit, where’s the Sword gone?
The first time he’d reached this point and stepped past the Sword, he’d thought of the scene in Lost Horizon , when in the midst of the snowy wastes, the travellers suddenly pass into the green and pleasant land of Shangri-La. But Mispickel Scar wasn’t somewhere people lived forever. Quite the reverse. He hauled himself up on to the slippery stone connecting the rocks and gazed down towards the ancient workings.
Jesus Christ.
The sight snatched his breath away. At last he’d solved the puzzle that had tormented him ever since reading Tony Di Venuto’s article – why hadn’t she been found ? Even in this God-forsaken spot, people would descend the most dangerous holes in the ground. After he’d done what he had to do, he’d lugged chunks of rubble to block the access to the shaft, but none would have deterred anyone intent on entering the old miners’ tunnels. He’d assumed it was inevitable that Emma’s body would turn up eventually, discovered by some adventurous explorer. Her death would be put down as an accident. Now the reason why her disappearance remained a mystery lay before his eyes.
The Sword had collapsed into the midst of the stonesscattered below, breaking into two and bringing with it a mass of smaller rocks. The opening of the shaft was no longer visible. There wasn’t a clue to suggest it had ever been there.
He stood rooted to the spot, letting the wind graze his cheeks. His nose was running and he wiped it with his sleeve. If someone wanted to know why he’d come back here, he could offer no answer. So often he did things that seemed logical at the time, but impossible to rationalise later. Yet he was sure it was right to return. He needed to pay his respects.
At last he tore himself away and began to retrace his steps. It felt colder and the mist was coming down. Soon darkness would fall. He must get back to the village. He’d lingered too long, careless of the rules of walking the fells. Not a soul knew where he’d wandered. His boots slid on a patch of ice and his legs gave way.
He raised his arms to break his fall. As he hit the ground, he scraped his hip and hurt his hands. The shock left him gasping.
Shit, shit, shit . If he hurt himself so badly that he could no longer move, nobody would come running to the rescue. Hours would pass before Sarah raised the alarm. It would not take long to freeze to death.
Gingerly, he struggled to his feet. Thank God, nothing was broken. No harm done except for bruising. He forced himself to move, intent on beating the mist and the twilight. The cold chewed at his face and his limbs werethrobbing. He shut out the pain and the memories, shut out everything except the need to keep slithering down the fell.
At last he reached a shelf of rock above Coppermines. He gazed towards the village of slate and the broad sheet of water beyond. He’d made it. So what if he’d been foolhardy? He’d be all right now, he’d got away with it. As usual, Megan would say.
He could hear it now, that familiar lilting reproach, tinged
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