Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

Rachel looked a little less pleased to see me than usual. She was wearing a huge, baggy sweater and black leggings, with her hair scraped back off her face, as if I’d caught her doing a spring clean or a bit of DIY.

‘Hello, number four,’ I said.

‘Oh, Chris.’

‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘Well, actually—’

‘If it’s not convenient, I’ll come back later.’

‘What is it you want?’

It wasn’t the sort of open-handed welcome I’d been anticipating. At first I didn’t think she was even going to invite me in. But when I embarked on what was obviously going to be a lengthy explanation while standing on her doorstep, she sighed and took me into a sitting room rich in chintz and furnished in shades of green and gold.

‘I don’t see how I can help,’ she said.

‘You already know a bit about what’s involved. You’re the only person who’s already halfway towards understanding the thing.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What it really needs is a professional touch. I don’t know where to start with this sort of thing. I want a family tree doing, I suppose, and a bit of proper genealogical research. I’m completely out of my depth. Won’t you help me, Rachel? Think about it, please.’

‘You know I’m going away to visit my sister on Friday, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ I said, though I’d forgotten. ‘But you’ve got time to make a start before then, haven’t you? Maybe you could just have a look at the letters.’

She still hesitated. I knew an extra nudge was needed. I could sense she really wanted to help with the project, that she was genuinely interested in The Three Keys . But there was something stopping her from agreeing. I looked at the set of her jaw and the coolness in her eye and realised suddenly that it was stubborn pride. I recalled the hurt look in her eyes a night or two before, when I’d rebuffed her offer of help. Had she been sulking since then? Was that the reason I’d seen nothing of her for a day or two? I’d offended her, and she was feeling upset. She wanted one more thing from me, and I’d have to do it if I was going to get her assistance.

‘Rachel — about the other night, I’m sorry if I was a bit abrupt with you. I’ve been under a lot of stress. I’m really sorry.’

She sighed, weakening. ‘I suppose you’d like some coffee.’

In the centre of Hopwas were two pubs, situated on either side of the canal close to the Lichfield Road bridge. On one side stood the black and white Tame Otter, and on the other the Red Lion, both with tables set out in beer gardens on the canalside. There was a small wharf at the bottom of the Red Lion’s garden, where a smart red and green narrowboat waited, its brasswork gleaming. I realised then what was going to be unusual about Great-Uncle Samuel’s funeral.

A small crowd of people in dark clothes were milling around the beer garden, moving in slow, automatic patterns like feeding crows, silent and uneasy. Some of them turned to stare at me as I walked down the steps to join them. They noted my black suit and tie, saw that I was one of their group, and promptly ignored me.

According to a sign on the cabin, the boat had been hired from Streethay Wharf. Samuel Longden’s coffin had already been carried from the hearse that stood above us on the road, and now it rested on the flat roof of the boat, secured with white cotton lines to rails that ran the full length on either side. The funeral director’s men were gathered round the coffin, checking it was secure. Then they began placing flowers around it in great heaps of colour, piling them up until the boat was like a floating garden.

‘He’d really like to have gone on Kestrel ,’ said someone nearby, ‘but nobody is sure whether it’s in good enough condition.’

There was no one there that I knew, except for Samuel’s neighbour, Mrs Wentworth. She was dressed in a black coat and a strange little hat, and she was accompanied by a fat, bald man who might have been Mr Wentworth. She caught my eye, but looked away without acknowledging me. Everywhere there seemed to be dark backs and unfamiliar faces turned away from me, and the atmosphere was thoroughly depressing. I glanced longingly at the back door of the pub, but it was only ten o’clock and the bar wasn’t open yet.

I began a slow prowl towards the bank of the canal, searching for someone who might be a relative. Samuel’s daughter Caroline must be here, surely. She would have flown back from Australia as soon as she heard of her father’s death. But I had no idea what she looked like, or even how old she might be.

And what other relatives might be gathered that I didn’t know about? Maybe I was getting paranoid, but everyone I looked at bore an imagined resemblance to a Buckley. And every one of them turned away from me or stared right through me, dismissing me as an intrusive stranger.

The funeral director was taking charge now, calling people together in a courteous but insistent tone, with the manner of a man used to being in control at such occasions. He was ushering mourners onto the boat via a short wooden gangplank leading into the saloon, where tables and bench seats were installed as if in a railway carriage or a motorway restaurant.

And now it was a simple matter of observation to see that the man was paying particular attention to a black-clad woman and her companion, urging them to take their places at the front of the saloon. As far as I could tell, the woman was about thirty years old, tall and dark-haired. She wore a suit with a knee-length skirt that was a little too tight to allow her to descend the steps into the boat gracefully. Holding her arm was a tall man with a heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, who looked at everyone with the same expression of contempt. At least it wasn’t just me, then. But the one glimpse I caught of his dark eyes made me recoil instinctively, as if I’d turned over a damp stone and found something awful squirming underneath it.

I joined the throng of people and ducked as I stepped down into the boat. The saloon was lined with small windows for sight-seeing trips. Behind me was another door, which led into the rear cabin and out onto the stern counter, where a steerer stood with his hand on the tiller. He was dressed in mourning clothes like everyone else, though whether he was a genuine mourner or an employee of the funeral director, I couldn’t tell.

The woman I took to be Caroline Longden was at the front, with a small group gathered protectively round her. From her age, I reckoned old Samuel must have been well into his fifties when she was born. But wasn’t that what he’d said? That he’d married late in life? It occurred to me that, as a relative of the deceased, I should perhaps be at the front too, near the chief mourners. But I knew none of these people. They could all be relatives, for all I knew. This wasn’t the time to push myself forward where I might be unwelcome.

I settled instead for a place near the stern, where two middle-aged couples joined me. They obviously knew each other, and I sensed they were people for whom Samuel Longden’s death was not a great personal loss. Friends, then. Neighbours or acquaintances, perhaps, or even former employees. The man nearest me was wearing one of those peaked caps, like a weekend yachtsman. Although it was black, it looked strangely jocular and out of place, even on a boat.

Soon the diesel engine burst into life and churned the water under the stern, and we were under way. Across the canal, at the Tame Otter, and along the bridge above us, people had gathered to watch the boat move off. Some had cameras to capture the moment. As Mr Elsworth had predicted, it was a novel occasion.

From the bridge, we emerged into bright winter sunshine. There were private gardens on either side of the canal until we passed a small landing stage and moved underneath a line of silver birch trees stretching towards Hopwas School Bridge. The smell of garlic wafted from a moored narrowboat, and two children stopped their bikes on the towpath to stare and point at us.