Drowned Lives

54

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.

While I sat and stared at the letter, Rachel had carefully cleaned and oiled the third key. She also dripped some oil into the empty keyhole of the canal owners’ box and insisted on waiting for it to work.

‘So this is the third key,’ she said.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘It’s the first.’

‘What?’

‘Remember Samuel’s will? He said he’d left me the second key and “the third was in the lock”. It didn’t make any sense at the time.’

‘But it does now?’

‘Of course. This is the first key. It’s William Buckley’s key.’

I was fidgeting with impatience, despite the fact that I’d waited so long already. I told myself there wouldn’t be anything in the box anyway. But I didn’t quite believe it.

Finally, Rachel allowed me to turn the key. It moved stiffly, but it moved, until it clicked into position with its two companions. Slowly I lifted the lid, marvelling at the smoothness of the action, the craftsmanship that had produced this object. I hardly dared to look in the box when it was open.

It was almost as empty as I’d feared — but not quite. In the bottom lay a sheet of what my mother would have called greaseproof paper, faded like parchment. And just showing through was something I recognised. A red blob of wax, with the image of a pit-head and a stylised beam-engine. The Ogley and Huddlesford Canal Company’s seal.

‘What can it be?’ asked Rachel.

We unfolded the paper and pulled out the documents that nestled inside. The contents made me sit back on my heels before I’d even begun to take in the details. They were recent, and devastating. There were letters, a contract full of mind-boggling figures and copies of certificates listing the directors of companies. I’d never heard of the companies, but some of the directors’ names were familiar, as were the signatures on the letters.

‘Well, that’s it. It looks as though we’ve got the complete evidence on the Parkers.’

‘And Lindley Simpson,’ said Rachel. ‘It doesn’t come as a surprise any more that MPs should be tied up in shady financial dealings.’

‘When the new link road goes through, they both stand to make a great deal of money.’

‘But Simpson is in the Ministry of Agriculture, isn’t he? Could he have any influence on the road scheme?’

‘I don’t know. But that’s probably beside the point. In the present climate, the mere fact that he’s in the government would be enough to create a scandal. He’d be hounded into resigning if this became public knowledge. It was what Andrew Hadfield was concealing. Leo Parker can hardly deny being involved. So Andrew had three people to protect — his uncle, his mother, and his future stepfather. No doubt he was deep into it himself somehow — there’s enough money in the pot to make them all millionaires.’

‘It was about money after all,’ said Rachel. ‘Not family.’

‘They must have found out that Samuel had this information, and they thought he was going to publish it. Parker and Simpson needed to stop the book to make sure their scheme went through.’

I realised Great-Uncle Samuel must have gone to great lengths to get hold of the material he’d hidden in the box. Probably he’d poured much of his resources into employing private investigators. Maybe he’d paid bribes to obtain some of the confidential documents. But they’d been important to him. They were what this was all about — obtaining the power to destroy the Parkers. He’d dedicated the last years of his life to it. And finally he’d laid his plans to pass the information on to me.

Rachel looked at me, and at the papers I held. ‘So what are you going to do, Chris? Send them to the newspapers? That would complete your revenge.’

‘Yes, it would.’

I thought about it for a long while, clutching in my hands the means to hit back at the Parkers. I pictured Leo Parker’s face, his impotent rage when it all came out, the disgrace of Lindley Simpson, the sensational stories in all the papers. And I felt a physical glow of satisfaction, the thrill of knowing that I’d brought retribution on behalf of my family. I smiled at the thought. It would be the culmination of everything Samuel had worked for, a justification for everything I’d gone through. Revenge. It was a sweet concept.

But then I met Rachel’s eyes, and the vision vanished abruptly. What was the point? What would I achieve by perpetuating the feud? I would ruin the final years of a sick old woman, and store up more animosity and bitterness for future generations to deal with. Presuming, of course, that there were going to be future generations of the Buckleys. Events had focused my mind on this issue like never before. When you lose your parents, you’re suddenly in the front line.

Meeting my grandmother had changed my perspective too. The Buckleys and Parkers no longer seemed like two rival families locked in conflict over the generations. As Leo himself had said, we weren’t just related, but inextricably entangled. I’d even been back to his house in Hints to visit Mary again, and had taken her some flowers for her room, hoping for a flicker of recognition, desperate to draw back the curtains and let in the sunlight.

And I knew that a continuation of the feud wasn’t what Samuel had wanted. He’d given me the power to stop it. That was exactly what his letter said. Two hundred years were enough. Instead of a weapon to be used, he’d bequeathed to me a deterrent that would ensure peace. All I had to do was reconcile myself to keeping quiet about the dealings of Leo Parker and Lindley Simpson, and the true motives of Andrew Hadfield. It was a sacrifice. But it was nothing compared to the sacrifice that Samuel had made himself.

And he hadn’t just given me this power, had he? He’d given me the choice to use it, or not. Was this what it had all been about? Great-Uncle Samuel had forced me to grow up, to take responsibility and make my own decisions. Caroline said he’d been keeping an eye on me. And perhaps he was still watching over me now.

‘No, they won’t go to the newspapers,’ I said. ‘I think a safe deposit box in a bank somewhere would be the answer. And a carefully drawn will. No doubt Mr Elsworth could help me with that.’

‘So that’s it, then?’ asked Rachel.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said. ‘It’s all over.’