Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘I can do all that.’

‘But I’ve told Rachel—’

Laura cut across me. ‘It would be better if we just kept this between the two of us. The fewer people involved the better.’

I was ready to go along with anything, yet I was wondering why this was so important to her.

‘Don’t you agree?’ she said.

‘All right.’

We drove on a bit further, and soon we were in Hopwas.

‘Was there anything else that Samuel left?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes, there’s a box. Did Andrew tell you about that?’

‘Yes, he did. Very interesting.’

‘I’ll let you see it some time. But there doesn’t seem to be anything in it.’

Laura drove into the car park of the Red Lion, where I’d left the Escort. She declined the invitation to go in for a drink, which was probably for the best, since I’d sunk too many already.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we’re going to enjoy working together.’

I was sure too. I thought I was going to enjoy it very much.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘you realise what it means if the inquest comes in with an unlawful killing verdict?’

‘No, what?’

‘You’re unlikely to get probate through until the killer has been identified.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘A murderer isn’t allowed to profit from his crime, such as by inheriting the estate of his victim. So probate is likely to be delayed until they’re sure none of the beneficiaries are going be charged. Think about it.’

I thought about it. ‘Oh, right. Well it’s not asking much, is it? To earn my fifty grand, all I have to do is finish the book, publish it — and prove who killed Samuel Longden. It should be a doddle.’

When I got home, Rachel had returned the first letter to me. She’d pushed it through the door while I was at the funeral. I slid the letter from its protective plastic envelope. It was written on thick paper that felt warm and alive in my hands, and the handwriting was in faded black ink, scrawled in busy, slanting lines across the pages. The writing was difficult to read, and the flourishes blurred in front of my eyes. I turned instead to the neatly typewritten sheet attached by Rachel. For the first time I read the actual words of my distant ancestor, William Buckley.

Pipehill, Lichfield, Staffordshire. Thursday 2nd Jan. 1800.

To Reuben Wheeldon Esq., Warner Street, Ellesmere, Cheshire.

My dear friend,

I have to report that there seems no end to the troublesome dispute in which the Company finds itself. The Colliery Arm constructed at the behest of Mr N. has been the source of considerable disagreement. For myself, my Estimate shewed that the expence of completing the Navigation might bear little Proportion to the Benefits which would result from it. The failure of the Works has resulted from the want of that vigilant attention which has latterly been bestowed on the construction of the new Reservoir at Cannock Heath.

I am most inclined to impute the Failure to the actions of Mr N. himself. But to attempt to state precisely the cause or the continued causes of this failure would be in vain. If we could compel confession from the Many who were employed in the execution, much light might be thrown on the Subject, but their secrets are buried in the ruins. My Assistant Engineer complains of unreasonable interference on the part of Mr N. and his agents. I know I can maintain my ground on every Position, and have little Doubt that the evidence will enable me to convince the Committee of the rights of this matter. I pray that we might avoid an action in Chancery Court, of which there is much talk at present.

The latest news is that Mr N. has obtained a new Ally in his Cause. Though I entertain as high an opinion of his Judgement as any Man can, both of his knowledge and good sense, yet I am convinced that he has been misled in his association with such a man as M. presents himself to be.

But who is M., you ask? M. is a Gentleman but lately come to the City seeking employment. His Appearance I cannot adequately describe to you. His Manner of Dress puts me in mind of our own Doctor Johnson, as depicted in Mr Boswell’s Life . He commonly wears a full Suit of plain brown Clothes with breeches fastened at the knee with a silver buckle and black worsted stockings. He wears a very wide brown cloth Greatcoat with vast Pockets, a Beaver Hat and Hessian Boots.

He differs from Johnson, however, in that his figure rather more resembles that of Gentleman John Jackson or some other of those Fighters whose names and likenesses are recorded in our Popular Journals. The gossips report that he was obliged to retire from the Ring on account of a weakness of the lungs, and they say the Ladies are wont to faint away at the sight of him, for fear of his savage visage. Would that M. were of as civilised and sociable a Nature as the good Doctor.

Of my family, of whom you so kindly enquire, I am able to send you good tidings, which I hope will give you satisfaction. Sarah is well and contented with her lot. Her Happiness was evident on the occasion of our Son’s first birthday some weeks since. You will easily comprehend that Edward is a great source of pride to us both. I pray that you may set eyes on him for yourself soon.

Your friend,

Chasetown seemed to consist of one main road with a few shops and pubs. Streets of housing backed on to a trading estate with a Goodyear tyre factory and a new Safeway supermarket. Beyond them lay an expanse of heathland on the edge of Chasewater itself.

I turned past Chasetown Football Club’s ground into a neighbourhood of small bungalows, with bare trellises on their front walls and dark conifers in their back gardens. A man was walking a dog, and children were playing in the yard of a school.

Number thirty-four was a brick bungalow exactly like all the others. It had an open garage to one side, with a brightly polished blue Vauxhall Cavalier parked inside. There was a neat lawn, lined by flowerbeds planted with severely pruned rose bushes. In February, it looked damp and dead and devoid of colour. The bungalow itself was built in the 1970s or 80s, with white woodwork and an imitation cartwheel propped outside the bay window.

Sally Chaplin answered the bell. She had her shoes and coat on, ready to go out, and she didn’t look pleased to see me.

‘I don’t know why you want to talk to Frank,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’

‘It was Frank who wanted to talk to me,’ I pointed out.

‘Well, as far as I can see, he’s just using it as an excuse to stay at home and get out of helping me with the shopping.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disrupt your arrangements.’

‘We always go shopping on Saturday morning,’ she said.

‘Perhaps I should come back another time.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. You’d better come in.’

I stepped onto a hallway carpet that smelled of Shake ’n’ Vac, and stood near an imitation mahogany hall table while Sally shouted into a back room.

‘Frank! He’s here. And I’m off now.’

‘Will you manage all right, love?’ Frank’s voice drifted towards us from a distance.

‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’

‘Sorry.’

‘You might as well go on through,’ she said to me. ‘You’ll find him in the conservatory, of course.’

Frank was watering a row of geraniums that were thriving in an atmosphere that verged on the tropical. The bungalow itself had been warm, but in the conservatory the heat and humidity made my skin prickle. There were cacti on shelves along one side, and trays full of seedlings under plastic sheets dripping with moisture. The air smelled of water and damp soil, and that pungent, fruity scent peculiar to geranium leaves. Many of the plants were in abundant flower, despite the season, and their sprawling colours were in startling contrast to the regimented aridity of the front garden.