Drowned Lives

21

The cold air outside the pub did little to clear my head or stop my hands from trembling. The encounter with Caroline Longden had left me shaken. The depths of her animosity had been undisguised, and her words had bitten deep. On such an occasion, there was no way to answer back, no words I could use to justify myself. I could only bite my lip and hang my head, and get away from the confrontation as quickly as possible.

Now I stood on the edge of the canal basin, staring blankly at the Swan Line boats, letting the wind numb my face and dash the occasional burst of spray on my feet. The bright colours of the boats seemed to blur in front of my eyes, green merging into white, and red into green, like a nauseous kaleidoscope.

I realised it had been a bad mistake to come to the funeral. I’d felt alone and shunned from the moment I arrived on the landing stage at Hopwas. Apart from the boaters who’d spoken to me, the reaction had been an attempt to freeze me out. The Chaplins had seemed afraid of me somehow. And Caroline openly despised me. I knew myself well enough to recognise the beginnings of the maudlin phase that followed too much alcohol. I was starting to feel very sorry for myself.

‘Excuse me.’

I turned at the sound of a voice and saw a woman. Now, she certainly wasn’t on the boat. I would have noticed her. She was small and dark, with glossy hair and a way of moving in her short black skirt that was very distracting. She was staring at me curiously.

‘You’re Chris Buckley, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ I said, feeling the grin slip onto my face a bit too readily. The wine had numbed my lips, and I was afraid that I might be leering. ‘The very same.’

‘I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.’

‘Here I am. Talk away.’

She looked around at the mourners still leaving the pub. ‘Could we walk on a little way?’

There were people further down the towpath, so we walked to the footbridge at the head of Junction Lock to cross to the Coventry side. The bridge moved slightly as we stepped onto it, and our footsteps reverberated on the iron plates.

‘I understand you’re a bit of an expert on the waterways,’ she said, pausing in the middle of the bridge to gaze out over the water. Her words were almost an echo of something Great-Uncle Samuel had said to me the first time we met.

‘Not at all. In fact, today was the first time I’d been on a narrowboat.’

She frowned, slightly puzzled. ‘But surely...’ she said. ‘It is true, isn’t it? I mean, you are finishing the book for Samuel Longden?’

Beneath us was a narrow drop between sheer brick walls covered in blackened moss and dripping with water. The wine had made me a little unsteady on my feet, and I was glad of the rail in front of me. As I looked down into the chasm, I instinctively reached out to clutch it for safety, afraid I might tumble into the murky water. I was unfamiliar with the height of the rise in locks on the Trent and Mersey, but this one looked particularly deep from where I stood. The space between the walls seemed barely wide enough for a narrowboat to pass through. Anyone who fell from here would brain themselves on the unyielding brick before they ever hit the water.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The famous book.’

I forced my feet to move, and within a few paces I’d crossed the bridge and was back on solid land. A path rounded the corner of the house and followed the line of the Coventry. Lily, Excalibur and Billabong were ahead of us. Billabong had a thin trail of smoke rising from its funnel, indicating that someone was on board. I imagined it must be pretty cold living on a narrowboat during the winter. Cold, and inescapably damp.

‘I don’t know about famous,’ said my companion. ‘Not yet anyway.’

‘Do you have a particular interest?’

She smiled apologetically. Her smile was everything I’d hoped it would be, full of life and subtle promise. ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself,’ she said. ‘My name is Laura Jenner. I know Andrew Hadfield.’

‘Ah. So I suppose you already knew about the book before I mentioned it in there.’

‘Andrew told me, yes. It’s an interesting story. About you and Samuel Longden, I mean. Meeting up after all these years. But Andrew wasn’t certain whether you were going to go through with the project.’

‘I wasn’t sure myself when I spoke to him.’

‘But you’re sure now, are you?’ she asked seriously, as if the answer was important to her.

I thought of Caroline and her contempt for me, her refusal to discuss the book. There was no reason why I should worry about her feelings on the subject. Whatever I did would make no difference. Then I remembered the Chaplins, and their reaction to the mention of the book. I already had a chance to visit them on Saturday to talk about it. Not only was I committed to the book by the promise of Great-Uncle Samuel’s money, I’d already started my research.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘That’s good.’

But just when I expected her to explain why, she went quiet and said no more. She stopped at the swing bridge, and put her hands on it to try to move it, but didn’t have the strength. Her hair swung across her cheek and emphasised the impression I’d got when I first set eyes on her face outside the Swan.

‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?’ I said.

‘God, that’s an old one.’

‘No, really. Was it at one of the restoration sites?’

She looked at me strangely, pushing the hair away from her face. I noticed a faint scar that ran from her forehead into her scalp. ‘It might have been, I suppose.’

‘It’s funny, though. I think I would have remembered the occasion. Your face is one I wouldn’t forget.’

She smiled sceptically. No doubt she was used to getting compliments from men all the time, but I couldn’t help it. Laura was dazzling me.

We’d reached a section of towpath opposite Fradley Wood. By unspoken agreement, we turned and began to walk back again towards the junction.

‘Or have I come across you somewhere else? Where do you work?’

‘I’ve been working as a researcher for a television company in London, but I’m in between jobs at the moment.’

‘I know how it feels.’

‘You too? The worst thing is there isn’t even anything useful I can do to keep my hand in, rather than sitting around idle while I’m looking for work.’

‘I see.’

She looked at me, concerned at my pained expression. ‘Are you all right?’

The truth was that the pressure of the alcohol was straining my bladder. Though I was reluctant to part from Laura, I was going to have to slip away before there was an embarrassing accident.

‘I’ll have to pop back inside. Will you wait a minute?’

‘Sure.’

I tried to sneak unobtrusively through the pub, hoping not to be noticed by the last few mourners lurking near the bar. But I failed badly. I was in the gents, feeling the flood of relief against the porcelain, when I heard the door open and sensed a threatening presence just inches from my back. There are few places you feel so vulnerable as standing at a urinal, and the intimidating growl in my ear made me almost splash my shoes.

‘Driving home, friend? No? Pity. You might have ended up in a ditch. You’d be no loss to anybody, from what I’ve heard.’

I rolled my eyes nervously over my shoulder, but didn’t really need to see him to know it was Simon Monks.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘Only one thing. You’ve caused enough grief in Caroline’s life already. Stay out of it from now on, okay? I don’t want to hear that you’ve been doing anything to upset her. Anything.’

He remained standing close behind me, making no pretence of being there for a genuine purpose. My flow of urine was reduced to a trickle as my bladder contracted with apprehension.

‘Are you threatening me?’ I asked feebly.

Monks laughed as if I were the star act in the cabaret. Then he leaned closer to speak into my ear, a repulsively intimate gesture that brought his hot breath onto the back of my neck. ‘Just remember, if Caroline doesn’t want you to publish this book — it means no book. Nothing.’

I closed my eyes, waiting for something to happen. But after a shaky moment, I heard the door close and realised he was gone.

I waited a few minutes after Monks had left, trying to control my breathing and splashing cold water on my face. To regain a bit of self-respect, I had to walk back out of the pub without my legs giving way. But amazingly, by the time I got outside a smile was creeping back onto my face. While I’d been thinking about how I could safely show Monks that I wasn’t so easily intimidated, a very tempting prospect had suddenly opened up in my mind, involving Laura Jenner.

To my surprise and delight, she was still waiting for me, leaning on a rail to watch the water.

‘Laura,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you’d be willing to help me?’

‘What with?’ she said, turning to stare at me.

‘The book, of course. Samuel Longden’s book.’

‘Why do you want help?’

‘I need some family research doing. And since you’re in London anyway and at a loose end — I mean, between jobs — you could do a bit of research for me at Somerset House, or wherever.’

‘Registers of births, marriages and deaths haven’t been kept at Somerset House for a long time,’ she said. ‘They’re at the Family Records Centre now.’

‘There you are, you see,’ I said triumphantly, as if her knowledge had clinched the argument.

She didn’t answer directly. ‘So you’re definitely taking the project on?’

‘Yes, I am. It’s what Samuel wanted. He said so in his will.’

‘I suppose there’s a lot to do.’

‘Absolutely. And I can’t do it all on my own. I need somebody to follow up leads, do the research, talk to people. You’d be good at that, I’m sure. I wouldn’t be able to pay you until the book was published, though.’

‘I don’t want money,’ she said.

‘Are you willing, then?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing I had in mind. It’s a bit parochial.’

I was hurt at that. ‘It could be really interesting. Following the development of a family through two centuries, charting the rise and fall of six generations. It’s like a snapshot of social history over the last two hundred years, with a human perspective.’

She laughed. ‘It’s nice to hear somebody being so enthusiastic about a project. But then you’re personally involved, aren’t you?’

‘Did you come in your own car, Laura?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Will you do one thing for me?’

‘What is it?’

‘I came here on the boat, and I left my car at Hopwas. Will you drive me back there and let me talk to you about it a bit more?’

‘All right.’

The sight of Laura’s car surprised me. I’d never imagined that television researchers had well-paid jobs, but her lime-green Mercedes made my Escort look sick.

The combination of the cold, the brief exercise and the encounter with Simon Monks had sobered me up, but when we got into Laura’s Merc I felt a bit dizzy again. Cars come to smell of their owners after a while, and I became very aware of her heady scent in the enclosed space, as well as the proximity of her hand as she operated the gear lever. By the time we were headed away from Fradley towards Lichfield, I was amenable to anything. But Laura began to give me a thoroughly professional grilling.

‘So how far have you got, Chris? With the book, I mean.’

‘Not far. I haven’t had the chance, to be honest. What with the will and the funeral, not to mention the police, it’s all been a bit of a whirl this past week.’

‘The police? How do they come into it?’

‘Well, don’t you know how Samuel Longden died?’

‘A car accident, wasn’t it? It was in the paper.’

‘Yes, but not an ordinary accident. A hit and run. They’ve never traced the driver, as far as I know. The police interviewed me because I was one of the last people to see him alive. In fact, it was the police who broke the news to me that Samuel was dead, when they came to see me next morning. It was quite a shock.’

‘But they haven’t bothered you since?’

‘N-no. I had to go to the police station to make a statement. But I only saw some PC, not the detectives who came to my house.’

I was hesitant because of the tone of my meeting with DS Graham, which gave me the impression they hadn’t eliminated me entirely. I’d been expecting a second visit. I’d even begun to imagine that people passing in the street or sitting in cars in Stowe Pool Lane were watching me. Under surveillance, wasn’t that the expression?

Probably someone taking an objective view would say my reaction was the result of a guilty conscience. I desperately wanted to ask the police about the witness who’d seen the accident, but I had enough sense to realise that such an enquiry from me would immediately raise their suspicions several notches. And no police officer in his right mind would give the identity of a witness to a suspect. It was a frustrating fact, because the woman the car park attendant had seen standing on the corner might be the key to the whole thing.

‘But you’ve read Samuel’s manuscript, haven’t you?’ asked Laura. ‘You must have had time for that.’

‘Only the early stuff about the canal company proprietors and the appointment of William Buckley as resident engineer.’

‘William Buckley, yes. The manuscript is a long way off being finished, though, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? I don’t know. What makes you say that?’

‘Well, it must be. Otherwise why would Samuel want you to continue it?’

‘Hmm, true.’

‘And there are other documents?’

‘Yes, lots.’

‘Letters?’

‘Some.’

She nodded. ‘Good.’

‘Why?’

‘Letters are true contemporary documents. A direct record from the time, unlike anything that might have been written since. They’re original source material. Very valuable.’

‘They’re rather difficult to read,’ I said. ‘I’ve asked Rachel to transcribe them for me.’

She braked suddenly, as if a cat had run out into the road. I didn’t see any cat, but I’d been admiring Laura’s profile all the time she’d been speaking, and wondering how she’d got the scar. I hadn’t even realised that we were already approaching Whittington.

‘Who’s Rachel?’ she said.

‘My next door neighbour. She can type, you see. She was interested in the project, and I thought she could be helpful transcribing the letters. That’s all. It’s not a problem.’

I wasn’t sure why I was sounding defensive about Rachel. Could I really be imagining that Laura was jealous? Were two helpers one too many?

‘Is that all she’s doing, Chris?’

‘Well... she did say she’d do some family history research for me. The Buckley family, I mean. Rachel is a trained librarian.’

‘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.