Drowned lives, p.13
Drowned Lives, page 13
Just inside the entrance of the multi-storey car park was a small cabin, and I could see someone moving around inside. The car park was the type where you ‘paid and displayed’ by putting your money into one of the automatic ticket machines on the parking levels. There was no barrier to pass through at the exit, and no need to have any contact with the attendant. He was there merely for security, and to check on vehicles that had overstayed the time on their tickets.
When I knocked on the door of the cabin, a thin, middle-aged man in a uniform appeared, clutching a mug of tea. At first, he didn’t seem to understand what I wanted. I got the impression that people usually came to the cabin because they couldn’t find their car. But at last I got through to him that I wanted to know about the accident in which the old man had been killed the week before. His suspicions cleared when I mentioned I was a relative.
‘Oh yes, terrible,’ he said. ‘Course, I didn’t see it, you know. I told the police that. I was up on the top level at the time. I’m supposed to watch the cars that are in, not the ones that are going out. But I’ll say this – some of them go at a hell of a speed down the exit ramps. It’s like a Grand Prix circuit some nights. There’s one bloke burns so much rubber off his tyres in here, you’d think he was trying to keep the Goodyear factory in work single-handed. And as for the noise—’
‘You must be good at taking notice of people. Do you remember anybody in particular being around that night?’
‘Not really. It wasn’t very busy by that time. The shop and office folk had mostly gone home, and the evening crowd hadn’t arrived yet. The only thing I can remember … well, it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘What?’
‘Well, when I was up on level two, I could tell there was a bloke fetching his car from just below, even before I heard his engine start up. That must have been right before the old chap was killed. Sound carries something terrible inside here, so I could hear it clearly. It made me think of my old dad, who smoked himself to death before anybody even thought to tell him it might be dangerous.’
‘The man you heard …?’
‘Yes, terrible cough he had. Terrible. I heard him quite clearly, right the way up to the top level.’
‘The police said there was a witness.’
‘Not me, anyway. Not really. There were a few people who appeared after the accident – not that they could do much to help the old chap. Though, now you mention it, there was a woman standing over on the corner there at the time. Maybe she saw what happened. I don’t know if the police ever spoke to her.’
My next stop was the County Record Office, located on the upper floor of a library building in The Friary, which had once been the Friary School.
I climbed the stairs and pushed through double doors into a large room lined with shelves. Microfiche machines stood at one end, and an assistant was dealing with an enquiry at a desk near the door. There were one or two people sitting at tables or using the machines, but the room was almost empty. Walking past the enquiry desk, I found a series of shelves down one wall marked ‘Local Studies’, and located a section devoted to waterways history.
Since I was taking a logical approach to the problem, the first thing to do was check Great-Uncle Samuel’s facts. If I did this at every step of the way, I’d feel much more confident that I was on the right track, that Samuel wasn’t just sending me down a blind alley.
The formal notification of Samuel’s funeral had arrived that morning. It gave no hint of the novel occasion that Mr Elsworth had forecast, except that on Wednesday the funeral procession would leave from the Red Lion Inn at Hopwas, instead of from Samuel’s home at Whittington, as would have been normal. Somehow, the black-edged card made my errand seem more urgent. I felt as though I ought to begin my project before Samuel had completely departed. I had to grab the baton he’d offered me before it vanished from sight into the great black hole that was the past.
The Local Studies Library and County Records Office seemed like a good place to make sure the background of William Buckley was accurate. Presumably William was some sort of very distant relative, six generations away at least. Samuel had considered him important, though. He’d thought William Buckley and the year 1800 were where it all started, or where it all finished – his thinking seemed confused on the point. Samuel had at least given me the opportunity to start at the beginning, and move forward in time. I could establish that I was building on firm ground before I began to construct the House of Buckley.
My knowledge of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal was confined to the present and the recent past – it had never occurred to me to research beyond its closure in the 1950s. But according to Samuel’s manuscript, William had been the resident engineer on the canal scheme. At some stage, he’d vanished under suspicion of corruption and embezzlement, leaving behind his wife and young son. My ancestor had evidently been a notorious crook. So what was the mystery?
As I scanned the shelves, I quickly identified a couple of books that had chapters on the history of local canals, and I took them with me to one of the tables in the middle of the room. I pulled out my notebook and pen and began to take notes as I turned over the pages.
But I’d hardly begun to write when a presence loomed over my shoulder. It was the librarian from the desk, a tall woman with an overly large nose and her hair permed into short, tight curls.
‘Excuse me, are you looking for something?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Something on local canal history.’ I indicated the two books, to show her that I’d found something and therefore didn’t need any help at the moment.
‘These tables are reserved for people who book them for researching the archives,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to move over here.’
She ushered me towards a smaller table at the side, where some of the space was taken up by microfilm machines. Behind me, she straightened up the chair I’d vacated, pushing it exactly into line with the others at the row of empty tables. I almost expected her to disinfect it.
‘I’m afraid you’re not allowed to use a pen in here,’ she said, as I settled down again. ‘Only pencils.’
She offered me half a pencil, about three or four inches long, and I obediently put my pen in my pocket. Presumably I had the look of a book vandal who’d scrawl obscene messages in the pages. Maybe I would too, once her back was turned.
‘And could you sign your name in the book at the desk, please.’
‘I take it I’m breaking all the rules,’ I sighed, as I began to get up.
‘As long as you do it before you leave,’ she said. And the look in her eye suggested it wouldn’t be any too soon as far as she was concerned.
Finally, I was able to continue my notes, switching from blue ballpoint in mid-sentence to grey lead pencil. I’d have to be sure to transcribe my notes onto the computer before they faded out of existence. And I’d have to be careful not to press too hard. I couldn’t afford to break the point, as I certainly wouldn’t dare go to the counter to ask for another pencil. There was bound to be a rule against it.
I found references to the origins of the Ogley and Huddlesford, and to some of the people who’d been behind the scheme – the Reverend Thomas Ella, Daniel Metcalf, and the Nalls. There were also those whose conduct was said to have brought the canal company into disrepute. Two men had been transported to Australia for theft when money was found to be missing from the company’s accounts. But the resident engineer, William Buckley, had evaded justice for his suspected crimes.
The information tallied with what Great-Uncle Samuel had written. One of the books quoted several times from the Assembly Minutes of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal Company. I took these assemblies to be a sort of Annual General Meeting. A footnote told me that the minutes were kept in the County Record Office, having been transferred there from the British Transport Historical Records. Unlike some of the other canal companies in the West Midlands, the more detailed minutes of the monthly committee meetings were missing.
I eyed the dragon behind the desk speculatively, then looked at my watch. It would have to wait for another day anyway. I handed in my pencil and signed my name in the book, so that I could be identified if any obscene graffiti came to light. The air on the outside of the double doors felt much fresher.
Back home in Stowe Pool Lane, I pulled out Great-Uncle Samuel’s files and stacked them on my desk. The pile looked daunting, like a notorious Himalayan peak not to be tackled without a base camp and a team of Sherpas.
Nervously, I put aside the blue folder, which contained the unfinished manuscript. What was in the box file? Letters, among other things. Two of them, bound in string and written on thick, yellowing paper. The writing was difficult to read, and was beyond my patience to decipher. They really needed transcribing. In fact, there was a whole load of stuff here that ought to be put into proper order before I could begin to make sense of it. I needed some help.
There was only one place I could go. I tucked the file under my arm. Then I looked at the long wooden box and remembered Rachel’s offer to clean it up. I picked that up as well, went out of the front door and walked round to number four.
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.’
19
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.
Within a few more yards we’d passed out of Hopwas altogether into a rural stretch of canal, where the silence around us was palpable. The River Tame ran close to the canal, and woods rose to the west. According to a sign, this was the furthest reach of the firing range at Whittington Barracks. Another danger area.
Two swans with tags on their legs followed the boat under the next bridge. They eyed us malevolently and hissed at us quietly through orange beaks. The arch of the bridge was low, and sunlight reflected off the water onto its lichen-covered bricks. Past the bridge, the trees were different. They had rough bark, and their branches divided low on their trunks to reach out across the water. The passage of the boat set up slow ripples that spread out behind us and nudged the banks, stirring the weeds and disturbing a moorhen. A cool breeze sprang up on the open section of canal. Petals slipped from the wreaths and drifted onto the water like confetti.
The journey to Whittington took about forty-five minutes. As soon as the novelty of the boat had begun to wear off, I was able to study the other mourners closely. No doubt they studied me too. From a galley near the stem of the boat, a woman in an apron served us with cups of tea and biscuits, and the atmosphere became more relaxed, as it does on these occasions when refreshments arrive. The people sitting near me began to eye me curiously.
