Blood Ties Page 3

  By the third night Alec felt comfortable enough to contribute the second pint. He took it over, noting the scatter of books and what looked like maps that Eddy habitually laid out on the table and studied intently. No one else, Alec noted, ever seemed to ask him about them, so he figured this daily scrutiny, like the habitual nursing of the pint, must also have continued for some considerable time.

  Alec set the beer down in the one tiny patch of unused space and Eddy looked up to see who his benefactor might be. He nodded his thanks and drained the dregs of the first glass, setting it carefully on the seat beside him. Alec glanced at the scatter of papers. ‘Interested in history?’ he asked.

  ‘History is where we come from.’

  ‘Um, yes. I suppose it is.’

  Eddy jabbed at the map. Alec looked more closely. It appeared to show some sort of battle plan. Cavalry and cannons were marked in ranks and arrows showed the direction of attack. Sedgemore, he read. ‘Oh, James the second? Monmouth’s lot? Wasn’t that—’

  ‘The last pitched battle fought on English soil. It surely was.’

  ‘Right,’ Alec said. That wasn’t going to have been his next comment, but it sounded more intelligent than what he’d had in mind so he accepted it gratefully. ‘We’re, er, thinking of walking the battlefield sometime while we’re here,’ he said. ‘There’s this leaflet I found at the B&B, tells you all about the trail.’ He broke off. Eddy had fixed him with a stern gaze and Alec suddenly felt oddly inadequate.

  ‘Set up for the tourists,’ Eddy said. ‘You’ll learn nothing about anything that way.’

  ‘Right,’ Alec muttered again, feeling thoroughly inadequate. ‘Well, have a good evening, won’t you?’ He went back to the bar to collect their drinks, feeling like a child who’d just been chastised for infringing some mysterious adult rule.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Eddy,’ Susan said fondly. ‘Not quite right in the head, some ways, though in others he’s sharp as a tack.’

  ‘What’s with all the maps and the history books?’

  ‘Them’s his treasure maps,’ one of the locals laughed. ‘Goes out with his metal detector and his papers. Looking, always looking. Got this idea in his head he’ll strike it rich.’ He turned away with a shrug. ‘Good luck to the old nutcase, I say.’

  ‘Treasure?’

  Susan shrugged. ‘Supposed to have been what some landowner buried to keep it from the crown,’ she said. ‘He backed the wrong side in the rebellion, knew he’d lose the lot, so, the story goes, he sent his daughter off with a servant and told them to get as far away as they possibly could, to avoid the repercussions, you know. The king sent that Judge Jeffries down here and he hanged folk just for talking to the rebels.’

  ‘And did the daughter escape?’

  Susan shrugged. ‘Depends who tells the story. One tale is the servant killed her and ran away with the lot; another says they had to hide it to keep it from the army and that they never did get back to collect it. That’s what Eddy believes. Been looking for it all the time I’ve known him and I’ve known him since I was a teenager. He used to come to the farm with his metal detector and such. Dad always gave him a meal and—’

  ‘And so now you do,’ Alec said.

  ‘And why not? He’s got no one to look after him, poor old bugger.’

  ‘I think it’s nice,’ Alec said. ‘I think Eddy is very lucky.’

  ‘Not lucky enough to find what he’s looking for,’ Susan said ruefully. ‘You ask me, the whole thing’s just a story.’

  Alec went thoughtfully back to their table and their meal arrived shortly after.

  ‘We should do the battlefield walk,’ Naomi said.

  ‘Not tomorrow, though. Rain is forecast for the entire day, so I suggest we do something inside. I’d like to go back to Wells, if that’s all right, and take some more pictures.’

  ‘Fine by me. Then we can look round all those little shops that we didn’t get time for last time.’

  Alec laughed. ‘More silver?’ he asked. Lately, Naomi had started a collection of little silver boxes, loving the way the repoussé work felt beneath her fingers. That, and a collection of strange cutlery; it seemed to Alec that the Victorians had invented a spoon or a knife for every purpose known to mankind and that his wife was intent on owning an example of every single variation. Odd, he thought. Neither of them had taken a particular interest in antiques before, when Naomi could actually see what she was buying. Now it had become a major hobby and something they enjoyed together when so much else in their lives separated them. Work, for example.

  ‘There’s an evening concert too. I think it might even be tomorrow. We can check when we’re there, have a meal in Wells. I bet the acoustics are amazing,’ Alec said.

  ‘Sounds good. Did you notice what it was?’

  ‘Um, no. Something classical and choral. Sorry.’

  Naomi laughed. ‘Whatever it is will be lovely,’ she said. ‘It’s ages since we heard any live music.’

  ‘True.’ It was hard to book advance tickets when work could be relied upon to interfere and, lately, it had done that a lot.

  Alec leaned back in his chair and looked around. Through the hatch in the bar he could see their waitress coming out with their order. She smiled across at him.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Naomi said.

  ‘Not worth it,’ Alec told her. ‘Not a thing on my mind worth paying for.’

  FOUR

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Eddy shuffled into his slippers and pulled his dressing gown on. The tapping on the front door wasn’t loud but it was insistent. Who the hell would it be, that time of the night?

  He put the landing light on and hesitated, shuffling his slippered feet on the frayed carpet at the top of the stairs as he gazed down at the front door and tried to make out, through the window of coloured and frosted glass, just who was knocking. Finally, he headed down.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Bit late for a visit. You’d best come in.’

  ‘You said to call round, collect those things. Sorry, I know it’s late, I didn’t think.’

  ‘You never bloody do. Come on then, you’ll be wanting a cup of tea, no doubt.’

  ‘Be nice.’

  ‘You know where to go.’ Eddy pointed down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll be with you in a tick.’

  He made his way back up the stairs, grumbling as he went but secretly pleased to have the company, even if it was well after bedtime. Going into the spare room he picked up a backpack that had been left lying on the floor. A shirt and a pair of jeans lay folded on the bed. Eddy had washed them the day before. He stuffed those inside, and then oddments that had been placed on the bedside table, and then, just as he was about to leave the room, he turned back to the tall cupboard standing in the corner of the room. He thought for a moment and then, as though suddenly making up his mind, he opened the door and peered inside. Spare bedlinen occupied the top two shelves; the bottom one was occupied by old sheets and rags that Eddy kept to tear up as dusters. When he remembered. He slid his hand beneath the pile of old rags and pulled out a little bundle wrapped in the remains of a torn pillowcase. The fabric was faded now, but smiling at it, Eddy remembered the crisp blue linen trimmed with white lace that Martha had so triumphantly carried back from some big sale somewhere. She had loved her bargains, had Martha, loved the pretty things.

  He closed his eyes and, just briefly, he pressed the little bundle to his chest before, utterly resolved now, he shoved it deep into the backpack and pulled the drawstring tight.

  ‘Am I making a big pot?’ the voice of his late guest floated up to him. ‘Got any biscuits?’

  ‘Yes to both,’ Eddy called back. He sighed, already regretting his impulse, but feeling it was too late to backtrack now he made his way back downstairs and dumped the pack beside the kitchen door. ‘All ready for you,’ he said. ‘I washed your shirt and jeans.’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered with that, but thanks anyway. Now, you reckon y
ou’ve got biscuits, but I’m damned if I can find them anywhere.’

  Eddy laughed. ‘You should use your eyes,’ he said, opening the cupboard door and retrieving a pack of custard creams, knowing his visitor was as big a kid as Eddy himself where favourite biscuits were concerned. None of this grown-up, digestive oaty muck.

  ‘Good man. Now, sit and drink your tea and I’ll show you what I found up in Bakers field this afternoon.’

  FIVE

  Dawn brought the promised rain, cold and steeply slanting as they dashed for the car that morning, but it had eased to simply drenching by the time they reached Wells.

  Napoleon had accompanied them on all of their forays so far, but a day of browsing in small shops and admiring architecture seemed an unnecessary burden for the patient dog, and when Bethan suggested they leave him at the farm, Naomi agreed. There were two other dogs at the farm, both retired and given to mooching and sleeping. Napoleon would have a wonderfully restful day.

  Theirs had been equally pleasant, she reflected as they sat in the choir of Wells Cathedral that evening. She had added to her collection of odd cutlery – a fish slice shaped like a fish, a sifting spoon with a trail of leaves on the handle and an odd-shaped and very small ladle made in Scandinavian silver.

  ‘It’s for toddies,’ the shop owner had told her, and it was now Alec’s mission to find out how to create the best possible recipe.

  Lunch had seen the rain clear and a damp sun appear. Naomi had enjoyed the slight heat of it on her face while Alec had made full use of the digital SLR camera she had bought him for the previous Christmas and to which he had become very attached. She’d been told he had a good eye and she really wished she could confirm that for herself. He and a friend, another police officer, had tentatively discussed the possibility of putting on an exhibition somewhere and she was doing her best to encourage that thought.

  It turned out the concert Alec had spotted was on another night, but there was an evensong, and so, at the end of a very satisfying day, here they were, seated in the choir along with the choristers and celebrants.

  Most cathedral choirs were enclosed, but the one at Wells, Naomi thought, was almost like a walled garden, and, as walled gardens intensified the scent of the flowers, so this sheltered spot intensified and amplified the already powerful waves of sound. Voices shifted and built and drifted and enveloped her. She closed her eyes, as she would have done in her sighted days, seeking to drain every last drop of enjoyment from this performance dressed up in religious clothes. Neither she nor Alec went to church or had much interest in the spiritual in any form, but drowning in music, Naomi felt she came close to understanding what other people must gain from such an immersive, all encompassing religious experience.

  ‘Beautiful service,’ Alec commented as they paused, after it was over, to speak to someone Naomi assumed must be an official something or other.

  ‘Thank you,’ a male voice said. ‘We have a very proud tradition here and the acoustics are fabulous, and somehow the dark nights outside seem to make it all the more intense, don’t you think?’

  Alec agreed, but Naomi could hear in his voice that he was worried he was going to be dragged into a religious debate. Inner light, outer darkness, the dark winter of the soul. She gripped his hand sympathetically, but the male speaker had moved on to exchange platitudes with someone else and Alec was spared.

  ‘It was a lovely service though,’ she said. ‘Do you think we’re cheating a bit?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, just enjoying the bits we like. Not subscribing to the whole religious thing that goes with it?’

  She was teasing, but Alec seemed oddly affronted. ‘I love the way these places are built,’ he said. ‘I get a kick out of good music, wherever it comes from. You don’t need the rest of the package. A place like this isn’t just a religious building, it’s a monument to everyone that ever carved a stone or sang a song here.’

  ‘Sang a song?’ Naomi giggled.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  They had reached the entrance now and Alec paused, peering out. ‘More rain,’ he announced. ‘Low cloud. Miserable.’

  And a cutting wind, Naomi thought as they hurried back to where they’d parked the car. The cold dragged her breath from her body and clamped her lungs tight. ‘Lazy day tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Lazy day it is. We’ll get up for breakfast and then spend the day in bed watching the telly. I’ve always wondered what it was like to do that.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ll be bored before eleven,’ she predicted, reflecting that it was a very long time indeed since either of them had had time for that particular state.

  Back at the farm Napoleon greeted them with tail beating enthusiasm and they sat up for a while with Bethan and Jim, eating sandwiches Jim had made and drinking tea.

  ‘Good as gold, he’s been,’ Bethan told them. ‘We’ve had another booking cancelled,’ she added. ‘I mean, I know it’s late in the year, but we’ve usually got at least a trickle up until Christmas.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad,’ Jim agreed, ‘but the past three summers have been a bit below par too. Still,’ he sighed, ‘what can you do? It’s as cheap to take a package to Spain as it is to stay in Blighty and the weather’s at least got a chance of being better. Bring on this here global warming, I say.’

  ‘Well, anyway, the upshot is, plenty of room if you want to stay on for a few more days,’ Bethan added.

  ‘Got a job to get back to,’ Alec said regretfully. ‘You never know, someone might be desperate for a bolt-hole and book in out of the blue, like we did.’

  ‘Got to be optimistic,’ Jim agreed.

  But Naomi could not help but feel, as they made their way up to bed, that Jim and Bethan were anything but optimistic for their future, and this put a major dampener on what had been an erstwhile damn near perfect day.

  Susan Rawlins locked up at The Lamb, bid goodnight to her chef and sat in her car, uncertain of what to do. Eddy hadn’t appeared that night. That wasn’t like Eddy. On odd occasions he might be late, but it was as much a part of his routine to come into The Lamb of an evening, as it was to get up in the morning. It was just what Eddy did – and, besides, it was the one way he could be sure of having a decent meal at the end of the day. He’d been doing it for so long that Susan almost saw him as a tax deductible expense.

  She started the engine of her old Volkswagen, grateful that age had done little to inhibit the vehicle’s reliability. Old faithful, it was, just like Eddy, and probably about the same vintage too. The car had belonged to Susan’s father, much loved and much restored as a result. In her more rational moments she realized it was a bit like the proverbial shopkeeper’s broom – only five new heads and four new handles in twenty years – but she still thought of it as her father’s car and loved it for all the memories its rather rattly, drafty body encompassed. ‘Eddy’s then,’ she said aloud. ‘Then, when we find out he’s just fallen asleep in front of the telly, we’ll get off home, shall we?’

  Eddy’s place was a scant mile down the road, set back down a short, rough track that he called a drive. It had been a farm worker’s cottage long ago, had been near derelict when Eddy and his wife had taken it on; now, wife long gone and Eddy alone, it was falling back into its former state.

  Susan hurried across the muddy frontage and hammered on the door with her fist. There was a knocker, in the shape of a Cornish pisky – she had asked why, but Eddy had professed not to recall – but it was rusted solid by long years of disuse. Quite a few people came to visit Eddy; of those, hardly any tried to use the knocker.

  No reply.

  ‘Eddy, it’s me,’ she shouted through the letter box. She didn’t want to let herself in without a bit of warning, fearful of scaring the old man.

  ‘Eddy?’

  Still no reply. Susan bent lower and peered through the letter box. There were no lights on anywhere, so like as not he’d probably gone off to bed. Susan hesitat
ed. Squinted harder, trying to make out the odd shape at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Oh my God, Eddy!’

  Large planters stood either side of the front door. Susan tilted one and retrieved the key she knew he kept there. She flung the door open and reached to turn on the light, but even as she stepped over the threshold, she knew it was too late and her fears had all been horribly confirmed.

  ‘Oh Eddy,’ Susan groaned. The old man was so obviously dead. His body still lay partly on the stairs, but his head rested against the tiled floor of the hall, neck bent at an unnatural angle so that his pale grey eyes seemed to be looking back at her. It was clear from the angle that his neck was broken.

  Her mobile was in her bag and that was still in the car. Somehow, it felt wrong to go back out and fetch that. Instead she reached for the phone that stood by the door on a high, faux bamboo table that had, Susan remembered out of the blue, been home to a large planter full of bright geraniums when Eddy’s wife had been alive. Fingers shaking, she managed to dial and ask for an ambulance.

  ‘He’s fallen down the stairs,’ she said. It was only after she laid the receiver back on its cradle that she realized she had not told the operator Eddy was already dead.

  SIX

  Naomi and Alec got the news of Eddy’s death the next morning at breakfast.

  ‘He fell down the stairs. That’s what the police reckon. Susan says she was forever warning him about that worn carpet.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ Alec said. ‘He seemed like a nice old man.’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t that old, not really,’ Jim said. ‘Late sixties, early seventies I suppose. That’s no age these days, is it? No, but he’d had a lot of grief and I suppose that does add the years.’

  ‘Grief?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘Lost his wife and then his daughter. She, the wife, died of cancer. I don’t recall about the girl. Car accident, wasn’t it?’