Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

Though I entertain as high an opinion as any man can, both of N.’s knowledge and good sense, yet I am convinced that he is entirely wrong on this occasion, and I am persuaded that if he had seen the state of the Works he would not have decided as he has. He deservedly stands too high in the Public Esteem to be afraid to confess an error when he is advised of it. I sincerely hope I have converted at least some among the Proprietors — the very existence of the Canal now depends on their determination.

As for the Chief Engineer, the Committee wrote to him to insist that he allow nothing but the most pressing circumstances to call him away, which he promised he would do, but he has neglected his promise. I am most inclined to impute the failure generally to the want of the necessary diligence, though Danger and Difficulties are constant attendants on the Works, and credit and satisfaction are always Strangers. But I believe the Company behaved harshly in refusing arbitration over and over again and sticking to the letter of the contract in spite of inflation.

I am extremely sorry to have given you any uneasiness, but I will call on you tomorrow week. I hope also to bring you the documents of which I spoke.

Your friend,

On Sunday morning I went looking for Andrew Hadfield at Fosseway. I wanted to ask him about Leo Parker, and what his connection was with Lindley Simpson. I’d found Andrew a valuable source of information, and I knew he’d seen Parker at the Boley Park meeting.

But for once, Andrew was missing from the work party. Phil Glover shrugged when I asked where he was. He was too busy examining a large brick chamber constructed inside the head of the lock to allow the drain water to cascade seven feet to the lower level. It was the last obstacle before the completion of the lock.

I realised I’d have to catch Andrew on the phone, and Phil reluctantly broke off to find his number for me.

While I was at the site, I took a closer look at the lock. Another row of sponsored pilings had been hammered into the bank just beyond the wing walls. There, among the inscriptions on the pilings, I saw a familiar name. ‘Samuel Longden 1916–1998’. It was brand new, put in during the last few days, presumably paid for by Caroline, since her father’s death. But it made me look closer at the other inscriptions, remembering that Samuel had been known for his generosity to the restoration scheme. Had he sponsored pilings during his lifetime too?

A few yards further along I found them, close to the bottom entrance to the lock. There were two, and they were poignant. ‘Samuel Buckley’ said the first. It was almost the only written record of Samuel’s previous name, apart from the document which Mr Elsworth had given me. The piling next to it recalled Samuel’s other fascination. It was inscribed simply ‘ Kestrel ’.

I remembered Mrs Wentworth, Samuel’s neighbour, who’d told me about Kestrel . There was something else she’d said, which was nagging at me. It had been the first time I called at Whittington, and it was only a very brief conversation. ‘He might have gone to see his friend in Cheshire,’ she’d said. What friend? If Samuel had been visiting an old friend recently, I needed to know who it was. He could be the ideal person to talk to — someone outside the family, without the prejudices that went with it.

I drove to Pipehill before I found a phone box, cursing the fact that I couldn’t afford a mobile phone. I had to get Mrs Wentworth’s number from directory enquiries, and when I dialled I was connected to a British Telecom Call Minder service suggesting I might want to leave a message. I left my name and home phone number, reminding her who I was, and asked her to give me a ring.

But I couldn’t wait in the house and hope she rang me back. The need to be doing something was itching in me, and there was one person who hadn’t been telling me what he knew. It was time to exert some pressure on the family.

There was no reply at the bungalow in Cop Nook Lane, but the blue Cavalier was standing in the drive. I walked down the side of the building and peered through the glass of the conservatory, but there was no sign of Frank among the dripping foliage. I figured that if Sally was out somewhere, there was only one place Frank was likely to be.

I drove into the car park near the football pitches and walked up the slope towards the old railway embankment to look across the heath. At first the whole area seemed deserted. But when I got to the top of the embankment, the panorama of gorse bushes, sandy hollows and water spread out before me, and I saw Frank almost immediately. I recognised him only by his ginger hair, a small strand of it moving in the breeze. He was lying on the ground, close to the crest of a rise, sheltered by some clumps of whinberry, and only his head broke the skyline.

I couldn’t figure out what he was doing at first. But something stopped me from calling out to him. Instead, I set off down the embankment and made my way across to the spot where he was lying. He didn’t hear me coming, and he seemed totally absorbed in something beyond the rise. Was that a pair of binoculars he had in front of his face, or a camera? Quite likely he was a keen birdwatcher, to go with the fondness for plants. What birds would be out here, in this dry heath, among the empty, rattling seed cases of the gorse?

The impression was so odd that I walked right up to Frank without saying a word. It was only then that I saw beyond the slope, and into the hollow beneath the whinberry. A movement in the coarse grass resolved itself into a tangle of pale limbs and a pair of naked, thrusting buttocks. At the same time, I saw Frank was pointing a camera with a long lens propped against the ground.

‘Jesus Christ!’

Frank rolled over suddenly, his eyes wide and frightened, as he pulled the camera to his chest. His reaction made me duck in guilty unison, pulling my head below the whinberry in case the couple below should look up at the noise. Frank was white with shock, his eyes bulging with fear.

‘Chris! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing, Frank.’

He looked angry at first. Then he grinned weakly, looking for a bit of boys-together complicity. ‘I’m not doing any harm.’

But I had no sympathy. ‘Does Sally know about this?’

‘Of course not.’ Immediately, he looked frightened again. ‘For God’s sake, you won’t tell her, will you?’

‘What would be the point of that?’

‘You swear?’

‘Yes, whatever.’

‘Thanks, Chris. You’re a mate.’

I shook my head, baffled by the pathetic sordidness I’d stumbled into. ‘I just don’t want to know about it.’

‘What was it you wanted anyway?’ said Frank. ‘Did you come to ask me something? About Samuel Longden? I wasn’t very helpful yesterday, I suppose.’

He was suddenly all too eager to please. And I found that I really didn’t want to ask him questions about Samuel any more, in case he gave me answers for the wrong reasons. Then we both might regret it later. But I still had to find the friend in Cheshire.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Frank. ‘I remember something about him.’ He scratched his head, miming his effort to come up with an answer for me. ‘Samuel used to write to him, mostly. But he did go and see him too. Cheshire? That sounds right.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

He looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t think I ever knew it. Sorry. Is it important?’

‘It might be.’

Frank’s confidence seemed to be coming back, now that I’d promised to keep his secret.

‘Well, I’ll let you know if I remember.’

‘Of course you will.’