Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘At least you survived.’

‘Oh, I survived. With two broken arms and broken ribs and lacerations on my body from the shattered glass. And this.’ She flicked back her black hair to show the scar on her forehead. ‘But there were also internal injuries.’

‘So why did you stay in Lichfield?’

She shrugged. ‘I was still working for Samuel. He took me back on after I recovered. But he began to use me more as a researcher than a secretary. I had less and less to do with his business affairs, and I got more and more involved with his other interests. You can guess what I was researching for him, I suppose.’

‘The Buckley family.’

‘The Buckleys and the Parkers, yes. As well as the family history, Samuel particularly wanted to keep an eye on Leo Parker. But he also kept track of what you were doing, Chris. I was the one who found out about the dot-com venture, by talking to Dan Hyde when we identified him as your friend.’

‘Some friend.’ I was gradually focusing on what she was telling me. Was she the one person who could give me the answer to a question that had been perplexing me? ‘Samuel must have been tormented by the accident that killed Alison. He got a strange idea in his mind, from what I hear.’

‘What idea was that?’ she said.

‘He told Leo Parker that Alison was pregnant when she died. That she was carrying his son. But, as you said, she was fifty years old.’

Karen Mills shook her head and looked away. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong.’

‘But that’s what he told Frank, too.’

‘Frank Chaplin misunderstood. Of course Alison wasn’t pregnant.’ She paused. ‘But I was.’

‘You?’

Her manner was cooler and more distant now. I couldn’t see how I’d ever found her attractive. She told me the facts without passion, as if they referred to somebody else entirely.

‘Yes, I was six months gone at the time of the crash. There were no air bags on Alison’s car, and thanks to the impact of the steering wheel I wasn’t pregnant any more by the time they got me to hospital.’

‘The internal injuries.’

‘Exactly. A ruptured uterus, among other things. My unborn baby died in that car.’

There seemed to be little to say that would sound sympathetic. Not that she gave the impression of wanting sympathy.

‘But I still don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I might have got that part wrong. But Samuel specifically claimed it was his son who died in that crash on the A38.’

She nodded, her lips held in a tight line, and she began to gather herself ready to leave. I watched her movements, willing her to answer the final question that I didn’t want to ask. Samuel had been an old man already at the time of the crash, while Karen Mills had been no more than twenty-one.

‘As I told you,’ she said. ‘He was paying me very well.’

Nine months later, The Three Keys was published. A local publisher had agreed to take it on, counting on the publicity from Andrew Hadfield’s trial. The police had been successful in producing evidence only of manslaughter in Great-Uncle Samuel’s case, and of assault on me at Fosseway. There was nothing to connect Hadfield to the fire on board Kestrel . And Godfrey Wheeldon, of course, had died of a stroke.

But the details of the case had been enough to provoke interest for a while after Hadfield was sentenced to ten years in prison. There had been a certain amount of speculation in the papers, fuelled by ambiguous references by the prosecution to an ancient feud between the Buckleys and the Parkers. The speculation had been heightened by Hadfield’s steadfast refusal to offer a motive for his actions.

The result had been a happy publisher as the book sales took off, if only on a local basis. There was a curious, pleasing symmetry to the structure of the book. It started with William Buckley and his role as resident engineer at the birth of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal, then dealt with Josiah and Hannah when the canal trade was at its height. Great-Uncle Samuel himself had become the subject of the third part of the book — he was the man who brought the story full circle.

One morning, buoyed by a glowing review in the Lichfield Echo , I decided to do a job I’d been putting off for years. I found a roll of black bin bags in the kitchen cupboard, and walked slowly upstairs. I hesitated for only a moment on the landing, bracing myself mentally, then pushed open the door of my parents’ bedroom. The trace of my mother’s perfume and the sight of my father’s suits in the wardrobe were no longer associated with any memories I wanted to keep. It was time to put the past aside.

I worked quickly, and didn’t stop to examine anything. It all went into the bin bags. Clothes, shoes, make-up, hair-brushes, even that pair of favourite cufflinks. I’d take everything to the tip.

It was only when I’d finished and the last bag was twisted tightly shut that I stopped, straightened up, and took a deep breath. I found I was sweating, and the room was full of an acrid dust that bit at the back of my throat. I remembered reading once that ninety per cent of house dust consists of fabric fibres or flakes of human skin, and the thought revolted me.

I threw the window wide open, the first time it had been opened for a long time. A cool breeze blew in from the street and stirred the curtains. And suddenly I laughed as I felt the wind on my face. I was sure I could see all those old memories being swept away over the roofs of Lichfield in a swirl of musty air.

There was one other outcome from the successful publication of The Three Keys . As required by the terms of Samuel Longden’s will, I’d sent one of the first copies off the press to Mr Elsworth. Publication was within the deadline, so I’d met all the requirements for the legacy.

The solicitor’s response was prompt, and came in the form of a covering note and a second envelope from Great-Uncle Samuel. Inside the envelope was a letter — and a key.

Dear Christopher,

The fact that you’ve received this letter means you’ve completed the task I presented you with. You should now know almost everything there is to know about your family. You should know what I did, and about Mary, and about your grandfather. I make no excuses. It’s far too late for that.

I hope you also know about the Parkers. In this respect, I believe I did my best, but it wasn’t good enough. I thought I might find there was some justification for the hatred the Parkers had for us. But I found none, Christopher. Perhaps I wasn’t objective enough. Perhaps you’ll find some cause where I could not. The solution is in your hands. It is in your power to stop it.

Of course, it all goes back to William Buckley. William was as close to me as my grandfather is to you. I can tell you my memories of my grandfather. And my grandfather could have told me his memories of William Buckley. If only William hadn’t died too soon.

When I began to explore the history of our family, the fact that one of my ancestors was the resident engineer for the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal seemed to complete a remarkable circle. But then I found more, and yet more.

William died because he exposed the dishonesty of Francis Parker. Josiah died after a dispute over contracts with a rival carrying company, run by a branch of the Parker family. Alfred, your great-grandfather, was a hard man. How could he be anything else after fighting through the Somme and Ypres? He had no sympathy with the malcontents and agitators who sabotaged trains and buses during the General Strike. One man who lost his job after the strike thanks to Alfred was Ralph Parker, Mary’s uncle. So a Parker found himself having to go on the Parish and be means tested for charity handouts. Did this justify what Mary did?