Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

I took the envelope cautiously. It bore my name on the front in unsteady handwriting, along with the words ‘Private and Confidential’. I recognised the writing from Samuel Longden’s letter and notes.

‘There’s also one other item which I’m instructed to give you,’ said Mr Elsworth. ‘This is a copy of a document that one of the former partners of this firm witnessed some years ago in his role as notary public. My own father, in fact. It dates from the 3rd of March, 1949.’

What surprise was there to come next? I looked at the photocopy blankly, unable to make any sense of the gothic script, the copperplate handwriting and archaic language. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what this is.’

‘It’s a copy of a notarised deed by which our client, Mr Samuel Joseph Buckley, changed his name to Samuel Joseph Longden.’

‘You mean a deed poll?’

‘A deed poll isn’t necessary to change one’s name. This document is all that’s required, and it’s perfectly legal. In fact, even this isn’t strictly necessary, though it constitutes a very sensible record of date and intention. It rather adds weight to the late Mr Longden’s claim of a family relationship existing between you, does it not? It appears his name was formerly Buckley.’

‘But why? Why would he change his name? And if he was my great-uncle, why didn’t I know of his existence?’

Mr Elsworth leaned back in his chair, his job done. ‘I’m afraid I have no more information I can give you. However, this publication my client refers to... a biography of some sort, I presume? Another family member? I take it you do have in your possession the items to which the late Mr Longden refers?’

‘Yes, he gave me a whole heap of stuff.’

‘There’s a clear implication in Mr Longden’s will that there may be other documents you require to help you complete the project. As executor, I’m able to permit you access to Mr Longden’s property, so that you may locate and remove any relevant items. That would be in accordance with the provisions of the will.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If you do require access, give my secretary a call and we can arrange a convenient time, Mr Buckley.’

‘And the money?’

‘I’m afraid it will have to wait for probate. It’s difficult to say how long that might be. It depends how complex Mr Longden’s estate proves to be. There are tax considerations, and the sale of the property of course. If there are sufficient liquid assets, it could be a different matter. But I suspect all that is rather academic, in view of the conditions on this bequest. You’ll first need to produce a copy of the book Mr Longden refers to.’

‘I have to wait, then?’

‘I’m afraid so. The condition is specific that the book must be published before the legacy can be released. But I can’t foresee any problems in that respect. Unless you’re aware of any complications?’

I saw plenty of complications, but none that Mr Elsworth would understand. I shook my head.

‘I understand the funeral will take place next Thursday,’ said the solicitor. ‘Again, the provisions seem to be rather unusual.’

‘In what way?’

‘It seems our client was well known for his connections with the inland waterways system,’ he said, with the air of a man who’d been told of a particularly repulsive sexual fetish. ‘So his funeral will reflect that. It was Mr Longden’s specific request, and there’s money set aside for the necessities in his will. It will be a novel occasion, no doubt. I’m not conversant with the exact details, but I believe you’ll receive a formal invitation within the next day or two, Mr Buckley. As a member of the family.’

One last thing occurred to me, which showed my mind was working after all.

‘Who gets the property? The house and all that?’

‘The principal beneficiary.’

‘And that is?’

Mr Elsworth smiled condescendingly, as if he were performing a huge favour for an ignorant fool who’d just walked in off the street.

‘The main beneficiary of the will is a Miss Caroline Longden. Yet another of your relatives, I believe.’

After leaving the solicitor’s office, I sat in the Escort for a while and opened the package Mr Elsworth had given me. I drew out a letter from Samuel Longden.

Dear Christopher,

By the time you read this, my part will be done. It’s up to you now. I hope you will understand what I’ve been trying to achieve. It all has to be brought to an end.

I thought I might find some justification for what has been done to us. But I found none, Christopher. Perhaps I wasn’t objective enough. Perhaps you’ll discover some cause where I could not. I only found, at times, the efforts that the Buckleys made to fight back, to restore the family’s position in society, just as I’ve tried to do myself in my own way. These things become more important as we get older and we develop a greater sense of perspective. ‘Today’ means less and less to old people, but ‘yesterday’ means more and more.

And then, in the course of my research, I reached 1800. It was in that year your ancestor, William Buckley, vanished without trace. It was said that he’d embezzled money, and that he’d fled to escape disgrace. But was that really so?

You might think that two centuries are much too far back in time to have any relevance. Am I right? Yes, it all seems ancient history to you at the moment, doesn’t it? Dead and forgotten. But there are people with very long memories, Christopher. People for whom a wrong is never forgotten, whether real or imagined. People who will pursue a vendetta for ever, as if the sins of the distant past can in some way be avenged by this continuing feud, and two wrongs can make a right. They seek an eye for an eye, though the guilt has been buried with the dead. Betrayal plants the desire for revenge. Vengeance leads only to bitterness. Evil breeds evil.

And there’s something more than that. I truly believe there’s a sort of family ‘genetic memory’ that we all have, a memory which can be recalled to life once we start to look into our past, and peer into the lives of our ancestors. All we need are a few reminders, little nudges that will re-awaken the recollection and cause pictures to re-form in our heads, however dim and half-understood. It could be a smell perhaps, or a taste.

Have you ever read Proust? Do you remember his madeleine — the cake that created an involuntary memory, containing the essence of his past? Well, I’ve tasted my madeleine. I discovered my genetic memory, Christopher. I hope you will too.

Your great-uncle,

My great-uncle. It seemed so strange seeing it written down, and in Samuel’s own scrawl too. But it was confirmation of something I hadn’t really believed when the solicitor told me. The old man had been my grandfather’s brother. How was that possible?

Then I remembered Samuel telling me at our second meeting that his father had died during the Great War. He’d never mentioned a name. Yet that must have been Alfred Buckley the mercer, the youngest child of Josiah and Hannah Buckley. Samuel Longden’s father was my own great-grandfather. His choice of words had been deliberate all along, a slow drip-feeding of information to mislead me and keep me wondering.

The old man had been a lot smarter than he seemed. And much more devious.

After I’d read the letter, I realised the envelope wasn’t empty. A heavy iron key lay in the bottom — a key of a kind that I recognised. Attached to it by a short length of string was a green luggage label. Scrawled on the label, in the same hand that had written the letter, were just eleven cryptic words:

‘Here is the second key. The third is in the lock.’