James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

I carried two ales from the bar to the table Kaz had claimed by the fire. I’d filled him in earlier on the details of Sir Rupert’s request to determine if Peter Wiley was his son. We were here to look for Michael Withers, but in a small village pub it was best to bide your time and not shoot your mouth off first thing. Besides, the ale was fine and the fire warm. We were in no hurry to get back.

“You the visitors up at Ashcroft?” one of the men at the next table asked. “Is it true what we’re hearing, that the squire’s dead?”

“Sir Rupert, if that’s who you mean, yes,” I said. “He had a heart attack today and died.”

“Sad thing, that,” he said, and went back to his drink, not entirely grief-stricken.

“Did he ever come to the pub?” I asked, to keep the conversation going.

“Rupert Sutcliffe? Not likely,” he said. “Hardly stopped in the village at all. It was India, London, the big house for him. North Cornworthy? No.”

“Not like the Pembertons?”

“Ah, they’re all gone now, except for the old lady. Cruel swant, they were,” he said.

“Pardon me?” Kaz said. “They were cruel?”

“No, no,” he said. “Sorry, that’s how we say right proper ’round here. Very proper people, the Pembertons. The old viscount would come in here and buy a round of drinks and chat with the fellas, ask about the mill and the crops. Not like the cropeing lot up there now. Never seen one o’ them; they don’t mang with the common sort.”

“Cropeing?” Kaz said, ever the student of language. “Not proper?”

“G’wan, Evan, you’re laying it on a bit thick for these folk,” another man said. “He means stingy, and they don’t mix with the likes of us. Of course, Evan thinks anyone who doesn’t buy him a drink is cropeing, eh?” Evan didn’t disagree, a mischievous gleam in his eye telling me he’d enjoyed flummoxing the newcomers.

“I’m Michael Withers,” our translator said. “My daughter said you might come looking for me.”

“Please, sit down,” I said, before doing the introductions and heading back to the bar for three refills, not wanting to be thought of as cropeing. I returned to find Kaz deep in conversation with Withers, exploring the Devon dialect.

“Billy, this is quite interesting,” he said. “I never knew how much Old English was retained in the West Country dialects. They still use thee in everyday speech. Fascinating.”

“Ooh arr, we do,” Withers said. “But only wi’ each other. The rest of the land thinks we’re country rustics enough. So tell me now, what can I do for you?”

“Alice told me you knew Ted Wiley pretty well. Grew up with him,” I said. “His son, Peter, is stationed nearby and came to visit Ashcroft. I thought he might want to chat with someone who knew his father.” Peter had decided on an early night, and I’d told him I’d fill him in on anyone who knew his father. Ted Wiley, that is.

“Ted and I were chums, true enough. It’s been a long time since I thought of him. But you know how it is, you grow and go your separate ways. I didn’t have much to do with Ted after he went to work up at the house.”

“Alice said you talked about him often,” I said.

“Sure, stories about youthful adventures,” Withers said. “Raiding the orchard for apples, fishing and swimming in the river, that sort of thing. It was a simple time back then: chores, school, and playing outdoors. A good time to be a child. But then the war came, and we both signed up when we became of age in 1917.” He took a long drink and set down his glass nearly empty. “Ted and I were the lucky ones. We came home, and in one piece.”

“You were changed,” I said.

“ ’Course we were,” Withers said. “Ted and I met here now and then, but we’d become men, see? Light-hearted boys no more after more than a year in the trenches. I think it was hard for us to stay pals after the war. Maybe we reminded each other of how much we’d lost, even though we’d survived.”

It was time for another drink. I nodded to Kaz and he made the trip to the bar.

“Had Ted always been sweet on Julia Greenshaw?” I asked.

“Yes,” Withers said. “From the moment he laid eyes on her. Finally got up the nerve to ask for her hand when she said she was leaving for America. Everyone wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.”

“Is she why he went to work at Ashcroft?”

“Well, I think he would have anyway,” Withers said. “Ted was the kind of man who wanted to better himself. Had no interest in village life. Now me, I think this is grand. Work close by, a good wife and three kids, and a warm pub to pass the time in. What else could a man want?”

“What did Ted want?” I asked as Kaz returned with our drinks.

“To make something of himself, he’d say.” Withers stopped to take a healthy swallow and smacked his lips as he set down the glass. “What that was, I never could pin down. Respect, I think it came down to. Ted was a smart one, even when we was kids. If he saw something he wanted, he grabbed it. Could usually talk his way out of trouble, too. Fitty, he was. Clever.”

“His son’s an artist,” I said. “Paints watercolors.”

“He must have got that from his mum,” Withers said. “Ted couldn’t draw, and his penmanship was worse. I could barely make out the one card he sent from America.”

“Maybe I’ll bring Peter by in a day or so,” I said. “I’m sure he’d want to meet you.”

“Do that,” Withers said. “I’ll tell him a few tall tales. Be a pleasure to meet the boy.”

“What about Roger Crawford?” I asked. “Did he know Ted?”

“No,” Withers said. “Crawford came here from the South Hams after Ted left. Poor bugger.”

“I heard stories about him bringing things in from France,” I said.

“Stories, eh? I thought you came here to help Ted’s boy, not to ask questions about hardworking fishermen.” His eyes narrowed, and I saw Evan turn in his chair, watching us.

“Sorry, no harm meant,” I said. “It was only something I heard today.”

“Gossip is for old ladies,” Withers said. “Now I’ll bid you goodnight.” He rose and went to sit at Evan’s table, where they were soon huddled together, heads close and voices low.

“One question too many, Billy,” Kaz said, raising his glass in salute. “Here is to knowing when to stop.”

“Better than one too few, Kaz.” We finished our drinks and gave up on waiting for Tom Quick. He was probably busy helping the local constable with paperwork and arrangements for the body. We walked past Withers, and I nodded as our eyes met. He looked away, but Evan’s whisper was loud enough for me to make out his words without understanding them.

“I tell thee, appen the janner will find the shord as well,” Evan said, and laughed coarsely as Withers hushed him.

“I have no idea what he meant,” Kaz said as we got into the jeep. “We’ll need to find a translator. Perhaps David will know. He’d be interested in local dialects.”

“Sure,” I said. Appen the janner will find the shord. “Or maybe we had one too many.”

It was late enough that we went around to the back door at Ashcroft, unsure who might still be up and which doors were locked. The blackout curtains were all drawn, and not a sliver of light escaped the house. The kitchen door opened, and we found Mrs. Dudley and Williams seated at the table, both in their dressing gowns, a bottle of wine and three glasses between them.

“Thank you for coming in this way,” Williams said as he slowly rose to his feet. “Less noise to disturb the family.”

“Please sit,” Kaz said. “We do not wish to disturb you. It has been a difficult night.”

“Indeed,” Williams said, twirling his wineglass.