Drowned Lives

36

In the post next morning was a manila envelope with my address showing in a little window, except that it was simply headed to ‘The Occupier’.

The letter came from an Executive Officer in the Traffic Management and Tolls Division at the Department of the Environment, Transport and the Regions, who was writing in response to a printed card I’d signed and sent in protesting against the link road. He informed me that the statutory decision could not be altered, but that the Secretary of State had weighed all the various material considerations in taking his decision.

The tone of his letter was very reasonable. The thing that annoyed me most was that they hadn’t bothered with my name. I was sure the card had included my name as well as my address. Addressing me as ‘The Occupier’ made me feel like a statistic rather than an individual. It diminished me, and denied my identity.

I wondered again about Samuel’s name change. Why had he done that? He’d deliberately denied his identity as a Buckley. It didn’t make sense for a man who’d been so concerned about family. It was just one of the contradictions in my great-uncle’s life. I had bits and pieces of information in my hands, but could see no way to fit them together, like an incomplete jigsaw. And the more I found out about Samuel’s life, the further away it seemed to lead me from the truth about his death.

Rachel came in almost straight after breakfast and found me looking glum.

‘Chin up, number six,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What’s the matter?’

I showed her the ancient stamp DS Graham had given me. It had a nicely turned wooden handle — rosewood, Graham had said. And at one end was an impression of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal Company’s seal set into brass, the image of a pit-head with a stylised beam-engine.

Rachel cooed over it as if it had been a diamond-encrusted tiara.

‘So much history right here,’ she said, turning it over in her hands and stroking its blackened sides.

‘And none of it good.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From the police. I went to see them about the body that was found at Fosseway Wharf.’

‘So you do think William Buckley might have been murdered. And the body could be his?’

I shrugged. ‘It was a theory, that’s all. We’ll never know, since they won’t do a DNA comparison.’

I was conscious of Rachel studying my face, but I avoided meeting her eye.

‘Well, there’s something I want to ask you about anyway,’ she said. ‘That’s why I called round.’

As if she needed any excuses to ‘call round’, I thought. But of course I didn’t say it.

‘Oh, what’s that?’ I asked.

‘This continuing feud.’

‘What?’

‘In one of his letters, Samuel has written a phrase I don’t understand: This continuing feud. What feud was he talking about?’

‘There was some kind of dispute within the Buckley family. The split between the two brothers, Samuel and my grandfather.’

Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think he means that. He seems to be talking about a feud between two families.’

‘But who could that be?’

‘I don’t know. Rivals to the Buckleys? Somebody William upset over the canal scheme? A family angry with Thomas over some girl he got pregnant? And wasn’t Josiah supposed to have got into a fight with someone? It could be anybody.’

‘Hold on, there’s something there — an idea at the back of my mind.’

‘Best place for it, probably, given the sort of trouble your ideas land you in. It’s getting a bit dangerous, Chris.’

‘Find the first bit of Samuel’s manuscript. It’s in the file there.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘There’s a name on the tip of my tongue.’

She pulled out the file. ‘What exactly am I looking for?’

‘Go back to the beginning of the manuscript. Look for the names of the canal company proprietors.’

‘Okay.’

She turned over the pages until she reached the beginning. She didn’t need to read the opening paragraphs, because I could remember the exact words. ‘Major international events in the closing years of the eighteenth century were the key to the future of Britain’s inland waterways system.’

‘There was Anthony Nall and his brother Joshua, who was Deputy Lieutenant,’ said Rachel. ‘There was the doctor, James Allwood. Edward Wilkinson, an apothecary. Adam Henshall... Now that Nall — he sounds a nasty piece of work.’

‘No.’

‘Or there’s Robert Sykes the publican. John Frith the solicitor, and his partner Daniel Metcalf, who was company secretary. The Parker family — Seth and Isaac, the bankers. Did you know that Seth’s son Francis was transported to Australia for theft? That must have caused a bit of upset. And then there was the visionary, the Reverend Thomas Ella, of course.’

‘Parker.’

‘What?’

‘The Parker family. I knew there was something ringing a bell. What were their names? Seth and Isaac?’

‘Why them?’

‘Leo Parker, that’s why. There’s the connection.’

‘There are nearly two hundred years between them.’

‘So? There’s the same amount of time between William Buckley and me. And why else should Leo Parker turn up now? Of course there’s a connection. That man did his best to get the manuscript and the letters off me when he came here. And with that break-in, I think he’s succeeded.’

‘But why? I don’t understand. It’s all ancient history, isn’t it?’

‘There’s at least one person who doesn’t think it is.’

First of all, I tried Leo Parker’s number from the card he’d left me, but I got his voice on an answering machine and had to leave a stumbling message.

I knew Laura was back in London, but she’d left me the phone number at a house she shared in Shepherd’s Bush. I’d imagined a couple of girls, and I was taken aback when a man’s voice answered and offered to fetch Laura for me.

‘Who was that?’ I asked, rather abruptly.

‘Just one of the people I share with. His name’s Ian.’

‘Oh.’

She laughed at the tone of my voice. ‘Are you jealous, Chris? Don’t worry, Ian’s gay.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ I couldn’t say any more, for fear of presuming too much on our new relationship.

‘But you weren’t phoning to check on my sex life, I suppose,’ she said.

‘I’d thought you’d want to know about the developments here.’

‘Ah. Do tell.’

She listened intently as I told her about the remains found at the wharf and about Frank, and summarised the information Rachel had come up with, which led me to think that the body might be William Buckley’s. I almost told her about the hypothetical feud, but hesitated, and kept it to myself.

‘She’s been busy, this Rachel, hasn’t she?’ said Laura.

‘I think she’s got interested in the project. She hasn’t much else to do, you see. Not since her divorce.’

‘And this woman is living right next door to you? It sounds as though you might need protection.’

I realised I’d told her nothing of the break-in. But I reflected that it might sound as though I was too concerned about Rachel’s welfare, and I kept quiet.

‘Is there an inquest then?’ she asked. ‘Even though the body is so old?’

‘Er, I don’t know. DS Graham didn’t say.’

‘I suppose there might have to be, by law.’

‘They can only give evidence of cause of death anyway. There’ll be no formal identification.’

‘Unless you have this DNA test.’

‘Even that wouldn’t prove conclusively it was William Buckley,’ I said. ‘Only that it was someone related to me. It could be — I don’t know — Thomas Buckley, say.’

‘Who?’

‘My great-great-uncle. Rachel says he died in the Great War.’

‘Was there a famous First World War battle fought at Lichfield then? Will they unearth thousands of dead Germans at Fosseway?’

‘I’m only suggesting him as an example.’

‘I know.’

She sounded vague, as if she was doing something else while I was speaking. ‘Laura, are you listening?’

‘I’m just checking my diary,’ she said. ‘I could run up to Lichfield this weekend, if you think I can be of any help.’

‘Yes, I think you could,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide my delight at the prospect of seeing her again. ‘Will you book into the George again?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Laura — have you managed to call at the Family Records Centre?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a few things to share with you when I see you.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

The Lichfield Echo that Thursday also contained my article and a spread of photos on the visit by Lindley Simpson to Fosseway. I cringed slightly at what they must have said at the Echo office about my report making no mention of the sensational developments at the end of the visit, when the excavator had unearthed human remains. What sort of a reporter missed that?

My professional reputation must be pretty low with the Echo now, just at a time when I might need to call in old favours. But at least they’d used the feature, which meant a bit of valuable income. It was a good spread, too, which the restoration trust would be pleased with.

As if to emphasise this, a call came from Andrew Hadfield, who’d seen the Echo.

‘Your piece was brilliant, Chris,’ he said. ‘Exactly the sort of publicity we need. The committee are delighted with it. They’re all ordering prints of the pictures showing them with Lindley Simpson.’

‘It didn’t get the same prominence as the other story, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, the old skeleton. Never mind. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’

‘Have the police mentioned anything to you about who they think it is?’

‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘Presumably it’s just some Irish navvy. They died in droves on the old canal projects.’

‘Yes, that’s probably it.’

‘Anyway,’ he said briskly, ‘thanks again for the article. I thought I came out of it particularly well. Remind me some time that I owe you a favour.’

Dan Hyde had left two more messages on the answerphone asking me to contact him urgently, and finally I had to face up to it. He wanted to tell me that he’d made an appointment to see the bank manager in a few days’ time to discuss our loan for the start-up — specifically, our inability to pay it back.

‘If he’s in a bad mood, it could be curtains, you know, Chris.’

‘Yes, thanks a lot.’

‘Had the house valued yet?’

‘It won’t come to that,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘Anyway, I wanted to ask you something. About this anonymous backer.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Did this person ever exist?’

‘That’s hurtful. Of course he existed. It’s just that he made it a specific condition of the agreement that he should never be identified. Don’t ask me why. In fact, I don’t even know it was a “he”. I only ever dealt with a lawyer anyway — and you know what lawyers are like. They’re almost as bad as bank managers.’

‘Right.’

It was all very unsatisfactory. I no longer felt I could trust my business partner, or anyone else for that matter. The world was shifting around me, and it felt very uncomfortable.

Later that day, Leo Parker returned my call.

‘I believe you’ve been trying to contact me,’ he said. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

‘I need to talk to you. Not on the phone.’

‘Well, my diary is rather full. I could give you half an hour later in the week.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’m very busy.’

‘It’s about your father.’

‘I see,’ he said, with an uncharacteristic pause.

I hurried to press home my advantage. ‘Do you know Stowe Pool in Lichfield?’

‘I think so.’

‘Meet me there, opposite St Chad’s Church. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘It will be difficult.’

‘Be there if you want to know what I’ve found out about your family.’

I put the phone down. It made me feel good to speak to Parker like that. I knew he would come. He’d already made it clear how anxious he was about the book touching on Samuel’s link with his mother.

I could sense the fear growing around me. And at that point I still thought it possible I could make use of it to my own advantage. It hadn’t dawned on me yet that the fear would be my own.

There was a cold wind blowing across Stowe Pool when I walked up the steps from the corner of St Chad’s Road. I was grimly pleased to see that Leo Parker was there before me. He’d arrived early — that must mean he was keen, and therefore co-operative.

Wrapped up in his waxed coat and a thick sweater, he looked brawny and powerful. The buttons strained across his barrel chest and his dark brow was threatening. I reassured myself by noticing the bald furrows running back from his forehead.

‘Before you say anything, I think I know the purpose of the book,’ said Parker.

‘Do you?’ I said, annoyed that he’d already seized the initiative from me.

‘Yes, Samuel was going to claim that my ancestors not only arranged the deaths of William Buckley and Josiah Buckley, but also that of Samuel’s own son.’

I was stunned for a moment.

‘His son? But Samuel had no son. At least,’ I corrected myself, recalling the depth of my ignorance, ‘no one has ever mentioned a son to me.’

‘No? Well, the old man was clearly mad anyway. You have to understand that, Chris. He was unhinged. He’d developed a delusion that his wife, Alison, was deliberately killed in that crash on the A38. Nonsense, of course.’

‘But I don’t see—’

‘Listen, and you’ll see. According to Samuel, his unborn son also died in that crash. He’d always desperately wanted a son, to carry on the family name. He said he’d revert to being a Buckley once he had a son. He could have done that, too, with his own brother dead. But there was to be no son for Samuel. It was that knowledge that turned his mind in the end. And all the rest followed on from that. It was all delusion, part of a fantasy world he’d slipped into. He was chasing shadows through history, looking for someone to blame.’

‘My feeling was that he blamed himself for that accident.’

‘Deep down, of course he did. But it’s a lot easier to look for someone else to blame than to face up to your own guilt, isn’t it?’

I turned away to look at the cold water of Stowe Pool, afraid that my face might give away how close to home his words had come, how deeply the truth pierced. My own guilt was like a knife twisted in my stomach, and Leo Parker had just given it another turn.

‘There’s no mention of that in his manuscript,’ I said. ‘He talks about the deaths of William and Josiah, yes. But not about Alison, not a word. And even in William and Josiah’s cases, he doesn’t name the Parkers. He only hints at some feud between the families.’

‘So? It simply means that there must be another part of the manuscript somewhere. Otherwise, where else was the story heading? William and Josiah Buckley are historical curiosities, no more than that. They’re not the purpose of the book. Samuel had a point he was working up to, a big climax. Come on, you’re an intelligent man. You must have figured it out for yourself. The missing section is glaringly obvious.’

‘Not to me. I think you’re wrong.’

‘So what has he called the book?’

‘The Three Keys.’

‘Ah, yes. Three mysteries and three keys, but one big secret. That’s the way the old man’s mind worked.’ Parker sighed and shook his head at me rather sadly. ‘I know it’s all about money as far as you’re concerned, Chris. There’s no need to pretend to me it’s anything else.’

‘There are such things as family loyalty, pride, conscience,’ I said, and hoped the breeze would take away the sound of my pomposity.

‘Yes, I know about those. But what do they mean to you? You owe no loyalty to your family, not even to Samuel Longden. As for pride and conscience, they’re luxuries you can’t afford.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I understand that you’re badly in need of money. A little matter of a failed business venture and several creditors demanding payment. Being declared bankrupt would hardly do much for the Buckley family name now, would it?’

‘Get to the point.’

‘Look, I’ll pay you to drop the project. Give me the third part of the manuscript and in return I’ll pay you an amount equivalent to the bequest you expect to get from Samuel’s will. Isn’t that much more suitable to all concerned? You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble, and you’ll get the money sooner too. Perfect, eh?’

‘Go to hell.’

Parker raised an eyebrow and looked displeased. ‘Holding out for more?’

His talk of a missing section of the manuscript had left me in no doubt that Parker had been behind the break-in at Maybank, and the thought of Rachel’s injuries made me want to lash out wildly.

I stood up, trembling slightly with the anger growing inside me. ‘I think it’s time I went.’

He came after me. ‘You’ve got my phone number,’ he said, ‘for when you change your mind.’

‘You still haven’t got the message, have you?’

‘Oh, I think I have.’

I left Stowe Pool deeply dissatisfied. My suspicions about Leo Parker had been confirmed. But the worst thing was that he’d voiced the niggling feeling that I’d felt so strongly myself after reaching the end of Samuel’s manuscript. There had to be more.

‘But if there’s a missing section, why is it missing? He must have intended you to have it,’ said Rachel that night when I told her. ‘Samuel was relying on you to see the book was completed and published, wasn’t he?’

‘So he said.’

‘So where is it, Chris?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Samuel must have given you a clue of some kind.’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Well, think. Remember how eccentric he was. A letter, a cryptic note? A key to a desk or a drawer where the manuscript might be hidden?’

I shook my head. ‘Believe me. I’ve been through everything he left me. There’s nothing of that kind. Except—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, there was a note that his solicitor passed on to me.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘Chris — what did it say?’

‘The exact words were: Here is the second key. The third is in the lock.’

She cocked her head on one side to think. ‘The three keys. That obviously refers to the book. But what lock?’

‘I don’t know. I told you it didn’t mean anything.’

‘But it must do. What lock? One of the locks in the canal owners’ box? But that one would be the first key, wouldn’t it? Not the third.’

‘It occurred to me... well, that he was having a joke. That he wasn’t referring to the sort of lock that a key usually goes in. He was a waterways man, after all. I thought perhaps he meant a canal lock.’ I shrugged. ‘Perhaps that he’d thrown the key into a lock somewhere. I thought when that leather pouch was recovered from the body... well, I was convinced it would be a third key.’

‘But it wasn’t.’

‘No, of course not. So who can say what Samuel meant? Leo Parker said he was living in a fantasy world. He may have decided to throw the key away and was just toying with me in the end. It’s obvious he loved being manipulative. He’s played me on a line right from the start.’

‘I don’t think it’s likely. He definitely wanted you to finish the book.’

‘Oh, maybe. I don’t know any more.’

Finally, Rachel lost patience with my mood and left me to stare at the flickering fish and listen to the tick of the carriage clock.

How on earth had I ended up in this situation? How had I become a man haunted by images from the past? I’d always believed that what happened in the past was over and done with. But during these last weeks I’d spent far too much time looking in the rearview mirror.

I’d begun with what I thought was just a bit of interesting historical research. But, once set in motion, the history of the Buckleys had come rushing up on me from the past like a train whose brakes had failed. There was no stopping it now. Not until the train finally hit the buffers.

And somewhere, in the middle distance, I thought I could already hear the warning sound of its scream.