Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

Laura and I looked at each other. ‘Letters from Samuel?’ I said.

‘No, no, from his ancestor.’

‘William Buckley.’

‘That’s him.’

Godfrey passed me a brown A4 envelope. There were three letters inside — letters from William Buckley to Reuben Wheeldon. I glanced at the dates, and saw they followed closely the two I already had.

‘I’d never heard of Reuben Wheeldon until Samuel mentioned him,’ said Godfrey. ‘He must be related to me, but it’s too late for me to care now.’

‘But the letters—’

‘Samuel gave them to me to look after. I suppose he must have had his reasons.’

I remembered how I’d got Godfrey’s address from Mrs Wentworth, and the package she wanted me to ask him about.

‘You sent something to Samuel recently,’ I said. ‘It arrived after his death and was delivered to his neighbour. A parcel of some kind?’

‘Oh, that.’ He smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It was nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely.’

Then there came a moment when Godfrey seemed to make a decision. It was as if we’d passed a test.

He said: ‘Did Samuel mention a box?’ He grinned when he saw me hesitate. ‘The canal owners’ box.’

‘Yes,’ I said, not sure whether I should tell him that I actually had it in my possession.

The old man nodded, tilting his head sideways as he looked at me. ‘Samuel was funny about that box. He told me it was important, but he wouldn’t say why. He could be very mysterious when he wanted to. Also, he made me keep these. But they’ll only get thrown away when I kick the bucket. Take them, will you?’

He pulled something from a pocket stitched into the lid of the suitcase. It was wrapped in a bit of newspaper, folded and sealed with tape.

‘You’re his family, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Family meant a lot to Samuel. With some people, friendship is more important. But with Samuel, it was the Buckleys above anything else. It was his family he always talked about, all the time. So I reckon you’re the one he wanted me to give these to. He must have trusted you.’

I took the object from him. Even through the paper, I could tell straightaway what it was. Godfrey had given me a set of keys.

Laura and I ate a late lunch at a pub near Chester. While we waited to be served, I pulled the tape of the little package Godfrey had given me and unfolded the newspaper. There were two keys on a ring. Much to my disappointment, they looked nothing like the two big iron keys that fitted the canal owners’ box. These were smaller and more modern, gold coloured keys like something made for a Yale door lock.

Laura watched me as I folded them back up and put them away.

‘Not what you expected?’ she said.

‘It’s hard to know what to expect any more.’

‘I know what you mean.’

I looked up at her in surprise. Her tone of voice was different, a suggestion of some underlying sadness that I hadn’t noticed before. I wondered what her story really was. All that stuff about walking the dog on Cannock Chase, her father’s successful business — it was all too superficial. I realised I didn’t know anything much about her at all. What reason did she give for being back in Staffordshire from her home in London? She didn’t, did she? She’d evaded the question.

The trouble was, it only made her more intriguing. I needed to find out more.

We were back in Lichfield before the end of the afternoon. I was wondering how to broach the subject of dinner and what we might do together in the evening, but Laura asked if we could call at Fosseway, and I postponed the subject.

At Fosseway, work on the lock was almost complete, and they were about to start clearing the earth and debris that filled the canal basin. Between the lock and the wharf had once stood a bridge, but it had been demolished many years before, leaving only the stumps of its buttresses, which now stood out from the undergrowth like broken teeth. Brickies were busy laying coping bricks on the wing walls of the bridge, while a new butyl membrane had been laid in the channel of the canal itself, and the towpath had been surfaced with crushed stone. The lock area was looking in good shape.

To one side, a tracked excavator and two massive six-tonne dumpers had arrived on the site, ready for the major job of tackling the basin and the wharf. The dumpers completely dwarfed the vehicle normally used by the restoration trust, and the excavator was even bigger. Equipment like this was expensive, but necessary. When the abandoned wharf began to re-emerge, it would all be worthwhile. Every bit of old brickwork was an encouragement, physical evidence of the past reappearing from its premature grave.

‘We’ve had a chap down here today claiming to be your cousin or something,’ said Andrew. ‘He was asking a lot of questions. Seemed a bit jumpy, though. Odd sort.’

‘Was he thin, with ginger hair, thinning on top?’

‘That’s him. A strange family you’ve got all of a sudden, Chris. Where are they all coming from?’

Laura looked at me quizzically.

‘Frank Chaplin,’ I said. ‘Not really my cousin. He’s Alison Chaplin’s son.’

‘What would he be doing down here?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe he was looking for you, Chris. Perhaps he wants you to take him in for a while.’

‘He’ll be lucky.’

‘You don’t like him, then? What’s he done to you?’

I bit my lip, annoyed at her inquisitiveness. I didn’t mind when it concerned dead ancestors, but with living relatives it was a different matter. Even a step-cousin. There was no way I was going to drag out Frank Chaplin’s sordid story for Laura or anybody else.

She shrugged and turned to go back to the car. I was about to follow her when Andrew took my arm to hold me back.

‘Chris, have you heard about our big event tomorrow?’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘We’ve got our celebrity coming down for a visit. That’s why we’re working flat out today to make sure there’s something to show him.’

‘I didn’t know you had a celebrity.’

‘Yes, you did. You’ve seen him. You thought he was impressive. Our junior minister.’

‘What, Lindley Simpson?’

‘The man himself. He’s asked for a guided tour, so some of us will be down here tomorrow to meet him. It’ll be a bit of a photo opportunity, and the local press will be here. Why don’t you come along?’

‘I might do that.’

Andrew leaned closer. ‘Nice,’ he said, nodding his head towards Laura. ‘Are you taking her out somewhere?’

‘We’re just coming back from a day out in Cheshire actually,’ I said, pleased to have impressed him. ‘A place you might know — Ellesmere.’

‘I do know it — there’s a big waterways museum there.’

‘We didn’t go to the museum. We were visiting a friend of Samuel Longden’s.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Somebody as exciting as the Captain, was it?’

I laughed. ‘Interesting maybe. But I’d hardly call Godfrey Wheeldon exciting. He’s rather a lonely old man in a nursing home.’

‘Well, that might be the fate for all of us one day, Chris. Don’t keep her waiting, will you?’

I caught up with Laura and we walked back to the Escort, stepping to the side of the mud as far as possible.

‘Where to next, madam?’

‘Back to the George, I think. I could do with a shower and a change of clothes after all that mud and all those animals.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But then, later on — I think there was some talk of dinner? Does the offer still stand?’

‘You bet it does.’

I didn’t get back to Maybank until nearly one o’clock in the morning. I was feeling exhausted, but pretty pleased with myself. Having dinner with Laura had succeeded in pushing Samuel Longden and all those Buckleys completely from my mind for a while. I was tired, but bursting with self-satisfaction.