Drowned Lives

42

I can’t say the visit to the bank manager was an easy one. For a start, the atmosphere between Dan Hyde and myself was decidedly cool. He was under no illusions that I blamed him for the financial disaster we were facing. But, as far as the bank were concerned, we were equal partners, jointly responsible for repaying the debt. We just had one chance to convince them we’d be able to pay, before they took us to court.

In a tiny, overheated office, the bank manager made it quite clear from the outset that he had no faith in any prospect of reviving the fortunes of our dot-com business. He shook his head sadly at the foolishness of suggesting that it might be a going concern. It was difficult to believe this was the same man who’d accepted our proposal with keen interest and handed us the loan to launch our start-up. Now, he said we had no proper business plan. And he was right.

It was an ill-fated project, of course. For my part, I thought my biggest mistake had been trusting Dan to have the finances under control. You can’t stint on investment in the early days of a new venture. We’d poured money in, full of optimism. But in the excitement of our own enthusiasm, we’d badly overestimated. If we’d managed to keep afloat for a few months longer, things might have been different. There’s nothing like the appearance of stability and success to attract money. But we were destined never to make it that far.

While the bank manager lectured us on the art of cash-flow analysis, I found I could hardly concentrate on what he was saying for worrying about my own future, which was very much on the line. Re-establishing myself as a journalist was an uphill task I found daunting.

I’d wanted to look to the future, but somehow the past had crept up on me and I couldn’t escape it. My one positive inheritance from the venture was a good computer set-up at home, which was at least paid for. Now I’d have to go back to the beginning and re-learn my trade, if I wasn’t to starve as a result of my folly.

When it finally became obvious from the direction of the discussion that the axe was going to fall, I knew I’d have to throw in my one final ace — the book, and Samuel Longden’s legacy.

‘Well, well,’ said Dan afterwards, as we emerged into the drizzle, sweating from the suffocating heat and anxiety of the meeting. ‘That was a bit of a surprise, Chris.’

‘I shouldn’t have had to do it.’

‘Still — fifty grand. Very handy.’

‘I haven’t earned it yet. I’ve got to publish the book first.’ We stood on the pavement on the corner of the market square. Dan was carrying a document case with our accounts, unpaid invoices and failed business plan all neatly collected for inspection. In front of us, the market was in full swing, and Dr Johnson’s statue looked embarrassed among a stack of orange crates and bags full of cauliflower trimmings.

‘Well, maybe we can come to an arrangement there,’ said Dan.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A little business proposition.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Why?’

‘After the dot-com?’

‘That was just a bit of bad luck, Chris. We got the timing wrong, that’s all. You’ll see, somebody else will get in there in a year or two and take the market. It’s a pity. Perhaps we ought to have another go some time.’

I snorted. ‘Count me out, Dan.’

I began to walk fast towards Bore Street, where I’d found a space to park the Escort near Sarah Siddons House and the shops in City Arcade. Dan ran to stay at my elbow, talking all the while, trying to convince me of some new dream. He was the same old Dan.

‘All right, forget that. But I was thinking of diversifying anyway, Chris. Putting online retail on the back burner for a while.’

‘Found another market to corner, have you?’

‘That’s right. Heritage.’

‘What?’

‘Heritage. Local history, nostalgia, traditions. All Your Yesterdays, Your Town in Old Postcards, The Way We Were. You know.’

‘I see. And that’s big business, is it?’

‘It certainly is. There’s lots of money floating round in the grey sector these days, and the demographic trends are definitely indicating a growth in market opportunities.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Dan.’

‘Look, take my word for it, nostalgia is the thing in publishing these days. Business is booming, I can tell you. I thought you’d be interested, Chris. Your project sounds just the sort of thing.’

I stopped in front of the tourist information centre and turned to face him.

‘Do I take it you’re offering to help publish my book?’

‘Well, let’s say I’d be available to discuss terms. Do you want to meet up some time?’

‘No.’

‘Family history. Unsolved mysteries. Memories of the canal trade. It’s good stuff — lots of local interest.’

‘I don’t think so, Dan.’

‘We could team up. I’ll handle the printing and marketing. Maybe we could make it a real seller. What do you say, Chris? History is the future.’

‘Forget it.’

I could almost have laughed then, as we stood in front of the elegant Georgian facade of Donegal House and the half-timbered Tudor building next door that had been converted into a restaurant. A few yards away was the Guildhall, where you could still ring the bell and ask to see the dungeons. History was all around us, and here was the man who’d nearly ruined me telling me that it was the future. He ought to have teamed up with Great-Uncle Samuel — they’d have made a good pair with their big plans for my life.

By the time I reached the car, Dan was starting to fall behind. I had my keys in my hand before I had a sudden thought.

‘Dan — that anonymous backer.’

‘Chris, I’ve told you—’

‘No, wait. This is important. Just tell me who the lawyer was that you dealt with.’

‘Oh, it was some stuffy old bloke from a local firm. They’ve got offices in Lichfield. Just round the corner from here, in fact.’

‘Surely you know the name.’

‘Yes, hang on. I’ve got it here. There’s a letter somewhere.’ He unzipped his document case and shuffled through the papers in it. ‘Yes, here it is. Elsworth and Clarke, that’s it. I dealt with a Mr Elsworth.’

I’d reluctantly agreed to let Frank stay for a day or two in the spare bedroom at Maybank while he made his peace with Sally and ‘got his head together’. I was glad that he seemed happy to keep to his room and not get in my way, because when I got home I couldn’t wait to use the phone to try out the idea that had just occurred to me. Luckily, I got straight through to the man I wanted.

‘Mr Elsworth? Christopher Buckley.’

‘Ah, Mr Buckley. Are you phoning concerning Samuel Longden’s bequest?’

‘No, something else. An anonymous donation made through you to our business start-up, winningbid.uk.com.’

Mr Elsworth was eloquently silent for a moment. I could almost see his raised eyebrow down the phone line. ‘May I ask what your interest is in this matter?’

‘I’m one of the partners in the venture. Or I was, until you pulled the plug on us.’

‘Really? I dealt with a Mr Hyde on that matter.’

‘My so-called partner.’

‘Mmm.’

I’d never heard anybody put so many meanings into one sound. It wasn’t even a word, yet it was infused with surprise, interest, courtesy, an unasked question, and a good measure of professional caution and reticence.

‘I hope you’re not going to ask me on whose behalf I was acting, Mr Buckley.’

‘Yes, of course. That’s exactly what I’m going to ask you.’

‘But I’m sure you realise that I can’t tell you. My client insisted on strict anonymity. That was made clear to Mr Hyde, I’m sure.’

‘But, Mr Elsworth, it seems to me that I have the right to ask why the funding was withdrawn.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you. It was purely a business arrangement, and there was a clear condition allowing my client to withdraw at any time.’

I was obviously getting nowhere, so I decided to try a full-frontal assault. ‘Was it Samuel Longden?’

‘Really, Mr Buckley — client confidentiality is paramount in my considerations. I can’t possibly answer your questions.’

‘Well, thanks very much, Mr Elsworth,’ I said sarcastically.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any further assistance.’ He changed the subject smoothly. ‘How’s the book coming along, by the way?’

‘Somehow there seem to be far more obstacles in my way than I ever imagined possible.’

‘Oh dear. I do hope you manage to overcome them. I’m looking forward to receiving a copy when the time comes for you to claim your bequest.’

A few minutes later, Rachel bounced into the house singing ‘Memories’, with her notebook clutched to her bosom. She was smiling and had put on some make-up. I’d never seen her look so happy and glowing as she did just now.

‘Good afternoon, number six.’

‘Number four. Is that more research you’ve got there?’

‘Ah yes. More revelations about the Parkers. The pieces are falling into place, Chris.’

‘Do you reckon so?’

‘Get the coffee made and pin your ears back.’ She flourished the notebook. ‘It took some time going through the parish records to find this. But I traced William Buckley’s marriage back to 1796. He and Sarah were married at St Michael’s. Have you ever seen the handwriting those old vicars used in the eighteenth century? I think they invented some of the letters themselves. And as for the spelling—’

‘Why are we interested in his wedding? There was nothing odd about it, was there?’

‘Not the wedding, but the bride.’

‘Sarah? She was the daughter of one of the canal proprietors. That was in Samuel’s manuscript.’

‘Hasn’t it dawned on you yet that there was a lot Samuel Longden left out of the manuscript? I think he did that deliberately. He expected you to find these things out for yourself. It was part of the way he manipulated you.’

‘Okay,’ I sighed. ‘Tell me.’

‘Well, what he doesn’t say is which canal proprietor Sarah was the daughter of. Now, does he?’

I thought back. ‘No, he doesn’t. He never refers to her family by name. “Sarah’s father” and “Sarah’s brother” he calls them.’

‘Right.’ Rachel paused for dramatic effect. ‘But the fact is, they were Parkers.’

I sat up suddenly. ‘The Parkers. Do you mean Seth Parker, the banker? He was Sarah’s father?’

‘Right. And Francis Parker, who was transported—’

‘He was her brother?’

‘You’ve got it. They were all Parkers.’

‘And so was Sarah herself.’

‘Obviously.’

‘And when William disappeared... “When he was murdered”, I suppose you’ll say... Sarah went back to live with her father. So little Edward was brought up in the Parker household. Yet William Buckley had blown the whistle on corruption and embezzlement in the canal company. It was William’s evidence that got Francis Parker convicted and transported.’

‘Yes.’ She looked at me meaningfully. ‘So what do you think that means?’

‘That he was a man to whom honesty and integrity were more important than anything. More important than his wife’s family, certainly. He took the honourable course of action and exposed Francis Parker’s crime.’ I thought it through a bit further. ‘But to the Parkers, it must have seemed like a betrayal.’

‘You can just picture old Seth, with his favourite son languishing in a prison hulk at Portsmouth. Imagine him plotting how he could take revenge on the traitor, William Buckley, without alienating his daughter. It was very convenient for the Parkers that William disappeared amid all those rumours about the work on the Colliery Arm. It meant he was out of the way, and Seth got his daughter and grandson to himself. I don’t doubt the rumours about William were put about by the Parkers.’

‘And William was murdered by them?’ I said. ‘By the Parkers.’

She nodded. ‘It looks very like it. Or by someone employed by them at least. You believe that now, don’t you?’

Instead of answering, I quoted a line from one of William’s letters: ‘“Nothing, I fear, but a Miracle can save me.”’ Then I looked at Rachel. ‘And there was no miracle, was there?’

‘The accepted story was that William had absconded with the missing funds,’ said Rachel. ‘And nothing could be proved, because he was never found, alive or dead.’

‘Until now,’ I said, thinking of the human remains resting somewhere in a mortuary, still officially unidentified.

Rachel met my gaze. ‘The next thing I looked at was the dispute many years later between Edward Buckley’s son Josiah and the other canal carriers over a coal contract. We have William Buckley’s letters. But we don’t know as much about Josiah, do we?’

‘Well, he was a boatman. Josiah and his family lived on the canal. I don’t suppose he wrote letters very much. Perhaps he wasn’t even literate.’

She nodded. ‘Alfred was the child who went on to do well. He was the one who got an education, living on land with the Bensons. The family has gone through some ups and downs.’

‘That’s an understatement.’

‘So you remember Josiah was found drowned in the canal?’

‘Of course. His head had been battered against the wall of the lock when the sluices were opened. They said he fell in, and couldn’t swim.’

‘That’s right.’

I detected some implication in her tone. ‘Are you going to tell me Josiah was murdered by a rival?’

‘Well, I checked on the companies he was competing with. Would it surprise you that one of the companies he beat to that contract was owned by the Parker family?’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘There’s more,’ she said.

‘Really?’ I could see her expression was more serious now. I sensed that her researches had come closer to the present than 1796.

‘Another wedding. This one in 1949. Matthew and Mary.’

‘What about them?’

‘According to the parish register from Stonnall, there was a wedding there between Matthew Parker and Mary Parker, both of Stonnall Court. You see? The interesting thing is that they were not only Parkers after the wedding, they were both Parker before it.’

‘So Mary was calling herself Parker already by then? Before she married Matthew? That’s very odd. Why did she take his name so early?’

‘She didn’t,’ said Rachel. ‘She’d reverted to her maiden name.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t you get it yet, Chris? Matthew Parker was Mary’s second cousin. She didn’t need to change her name to his. She already had it. Mary was a Parker too.’