Mortal Remains

At a quarter past twelve Claire left the public library. Her face wore a look of satisfaction; she had managed to pick up no fewer than four books on her college reading list.

The weather was fine, pleasantly warm. She strolled without haste towards the bus stop. Never any rush to get back to Fairbourne in the middle of the day, Edgar was never at home for lunch during the week.

Ahead of her on the other side of the road lay the imposing premises of Calthrop’s, auctioneers and estate agents. She glanced over at the frontage, ran her eye along the windows, as she had done lately whenever she went by, ever since the day towards the end of August when she had come across the paragraph about Robert Ashworth in the local paper.

She came to an abrupt halt, her heart thumping. She stared across at the middle window on the first floor. A tall man, thirty-five or so, stood with his head half turned away, talking to someone behind him. He moved his head and she saw his face: Robert Ashworth, almost exactly as she remembered him. Her heart beat so fiercely she feared she might faint.

Robert glanced down, his eye lighted on her. He froze. She stood looking up at him, incapable of movement.

He leaned forward, smiled down at her, raised a hand in greeting. She felt a great rush of release. She smiled, waved back.

A young man carrying a sheaf of papers came up to Robert, spoke to him. Robert turned from the window, casting a final look in her direction.

On the bus home she sat lost in thought. The moment she closed the front door of Fairbourne behind her she dumped her things in the hall and went down to the basement, kept in immaculate order by her husband. She went to the shelves where he stacked old newspapers and magazines until he took them along to the recycling depot. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for: the local weekly paper from the end of August.

She knew precisely where to find the item about Robert’s appointment: halfway down the third right-hand page. She gazed intently at Ashworth’s image, sharp and clear for a newspaper photograph. She scanned the paragraph with close attention but it yielded nothing fresh, no forgotten detail. Only the same facts implacably confronting her: Ashworth was married with two young children, his family would be joining him later.

She restored the paper to the pile and went slowly back up the stairs. She changed her clothes, made herself a snack lunch before setting diligently about household chores. She was busy in the sitting room when the phone rang. Her face lit up. She ran into the hall, snatched up the receiver, spoke her number.

‘Claire?’ asked a male voice at the other end.

CHAPTER 3

Summer gave way to autumn, the leaves turned gold. Dusk and dawn were veiled in mist, the pungent smoke of garden bonfires rose blue on the weekend air.

The Acorn dinner-dance marking the centenary of the club took place on the last Friday in October. A glittering occasion, much talked over before and after, fully written up and photographed for the local press.

On the evening of the second Thursday in November Harry Lingard left work and drove home in his little van. He liked to leave promptly, there was always some pressing chore or urgent piece of business awaiting him.

The bulk of his spare time during the latter part of every week was taken up delivering copies of the Bazaar, a local freesheet, long established; he had been one of the earliest recruits to the distribution team. His territory had grown over the years as distributors in adjoining districts fell by the wayside, and his round was currently the largest and certainly the best conducted; it earned him a very useful sum. He liked to vary the way in which he covered his territory, it helped to keep his interest alive. He prided himself on getting his deliveries finished by Saturday evening. Some distributors were still shouldering their satchels on Sunday morning; Harry considered that a slack way of going on.

The bundles of papers were dropped off at his house around two o’clock on Thursday afternoon, they were stacked on the bench in the front porch, which he left unlocked for the purpose. Before he set off on his first delivery he always glanced swiftly through the For Sale columns, in order to be the first, if possible, to snap up some bargain he could work on, re-sell privately or through the auction rooms. He had often struck lucky in this way.

At six-thirty on this nippy Thursday evening he was ready to leave on his first foray, the official satchel – scarlet, with the Bazaar logo in black and white – slung over his shoulder. He never carried too heavy a load, always took time between trips, if he felt the need, to sit down in his kitchen for a hot drink or a snack. He took care to dress sensibly against the weather. This evening he wore woollen mittens and woollen cap nattily striped in brown and white; his feet were in black trainers, comfortably padded. The collar of his quilted grey jacket was turned up round his ears. In one lapel he sported an outsize red poppy – next Sunday was Remembrance Day, a notable point in Harry’s year.

As he went out, locking the door behind him, he gave his customary good-neighbour glance over at the adjoining semi, checking all was in order. The house was in darkness, it had stood empty since the last tenants had left two weeks ago, to move to another town.

He was halfway through his second trip when he ran into his granddaughter and her boyfriend on their way to a cinema. ‘I’ve just been to tea at Norman’s,’ Jill told him. ‘Mrs Griffin invited me. She went to a lot of trouble, she laid on a marvellous spread.’ She eyed him teasingly. ‘Isn’t it about time you thought of inviting Norman to tea?’

Harry gave her a quelling look. Norman stood by in silence, his expression tinged with amusement. ‘What about next Sunday?’ Jill’s tone was light but Harry saw by her eye that she meant business.

‘Next Sunday’s no good.’ He couldn’t repress a note of satisfaction. ‘I’m going over to see Cyril Shearman in the afternoon, he’ll be expecting me.’ He had served in the army with Shearman, now a widower a few years older than Harry, no longer in good health; he lived in a retirement home in pleasant rural surroundings a few miles from Cannonbridge. Harry went over to see him every couple of months, he certainly wouldn’t miss seeing him on Remembrance Sunday.

‘No problem,’ Jill batted back at once. ‘We’ll come to supper instead.’ Her eyes sparkled with good-humoured determination. You’ll accept Norman one day, her look told him, I’ll make sure you do.

All at once he caved in. ‘All right then,’ he agreed. An engagement, after all, was very far from being the same thing as a marriage. Young women had been known to change their minds. In the meantime he had no intention of falling out with his only granddaughter over such a trifle as Sunday supper.

He plastered a smile on his face. ‘Next Sunday it is. I’ll see you both around seven-thirty.’

Remembrance Sunday dawned bright and clear, perfect weather for the annual parades. Harry would be marching to a special church service alongside other veterans, banners held proudly aloft, brass bands in stirring attendance.

He gave his shoes an extra shine, put on his best dark suit, a spotless white shirt freshly laundered by himself. He pinned his campaign medals to his chest, his poppy on one lapel, the gold regimental badge he always wore, on the other. On his little finger the gold signet ring with his entwined initials that his wife had given him the day they were married; on his wrist the gold watch bought for him two years ago on his seventieth birthday, engraved on the back with name and date, a joint present from Gareth and Jill.

When he was ready he surveyed himself with satisfaction in the long mirror of his wardrobe, then he let himself out of the house and set off for the rallying-point at a briskly military pace.

Tom Mansell’s housekeeper had taken particular pains with today’s lunch. Only the family, Mansell had told her, but a very special occasion. It wasn’t till the coffee stage that Mansell rose to his feet with an air of ceremony.

‘Thirteen years ago today,’ he said, ‘I took control of Dobie and Mansell’s. I give you a toast.’ He lifted his coffee-cup. He allowed nothing stronger than coffee in his house, he had been raised in a strictly teetotal household. ‘To the next thirteen years!’ The others echoed the toast, raised their cups, smiling.

Mansell remained on his feet. ‘I give you another toast. To the new yard, in Wychford!’ He saw the quick movement of all three heads, the look of surprise on the face of Diane and Stuart. But not on Lester’s face. Lester’s expression showed satisfaction, confirmation of something already guessed. Smart lad, Mansell thought with approval, no flies on Lester. ‘We’ll be starting the ball rolling any day now.’ Mansell raised his cup again. ‘To the future!’

Before setting off to see Cyril Shearman Harry checked that all was ready for supper. Traffic was light and he reached the home shortly after three. Shearman was, as always, pleased to see him, they sat in the almost deserted lounge, talking over old times. At half past four several residents came down from their rooms for tea and cake, dispensed from a trolley by a member of staff.

Shearman nodded over in the direction of one of the residents, an old woman with a weatherbeaten face, a countrified look, making her uncertain way into the lounge, leaning on a stick. ‘That’s Mrs Vaile,’ Shearman told Harry. ‘She came here a few weeks back from one of the company’s other homes.’ There were a number of homes under the same management, scattered over a wide area; residents could move, within reason, between one home and another. Mrs Vaile had sold her own house in the summer and had gone initially to a company home by the sea.

‘She’s been a widow for some years,’ Shearman added. ‘Her husband served in the army during the war.’ He mentioned the name of Vaile’s regiment which had fought more than once alongside their own.

Harry was immediately interested, he would like a word with Mrs Vaile. Shearman took him over to where she sat alone, drinking tea. She was pleased to see them. Harry sat down beside her and began to chat in a friendly fashion. He asked about her late husband, told her he would be delighted to do anything he could for her, as the widow of a man who had been – more or less – an old comrade-in-arms.

Before long she was telling him the saga of the last few difficult years, how she had at last decided to sell her house and move into a home. As she talked Harry grew even more interested. He began to ask questions; she answered freely. A gleam appeared in his eye. His questions became more inquisitorial, the gleam in his eye brighter.

Over supper Jill inquired how her grandfather had found Cyril Shearman.

‘He’s in pretty good spirits,’ Harry told her. ‘He introduced me to a new resident, I had a long talk with her.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A very interesting talk.’

‘Oh?’ Jill said idly. ‘What was so interesting about it?’

Harry looked knowing. ‘That’s what Tom Mansell’s going to find out.’

‘Mansell?’ Jill echoed. ‘What has this old woman got to do with Tom Mansell?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘I’m going to tackle Mansell about it in the morning,’ he declared with relish. ‘I’ll sort him out properly this time.’

Jill laughed. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t put the world to rights by now, you’ve been sorting folk out for long enough.’

He pushed his cup towards her for a refill. ‘I’d better make some fresh tea,’ she decided. ‘This isn’t too hot.’ She went along to the kitchen.

‘I’ve got Mansell well and truly by the tail this time,’ Harry couldn’t resist saying to Norman. ‘He’s not going to find it so easy to wriggle out of this one. I’ve had my suspicions once or twice before that there was something going on, a nice little band of brothers operating. I’ve a pretty good notion of the kind of tricks some of these johnnies get up to, given half a chance. But I could never get my teeth into anything solid.’ He thrust out his lips. ‘I’ve got hold of something good and solid this time and I’m not letting go.’

‘What is it you fancy you’re on to?’ Norman asked with interest.

Harry tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never you mind. I’m hardly likely to give you the details, you’re Mansell’s man.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Mansell still hasn’t given me the rise I’m entitled to. We’ll see how he likes what I’ve got to say tomorrow.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Norman asked in amusement. ‘Some ploy to get your rise? You want to have a word with Lester Holroyd, he’ll see you right. That’s what you should have done in the first place instead of shouting the odds at Mansell. You could hardly expect him to take kindly to that. What boss would?’

Among Lester Holroyd’s varied responsibilities was the general oversight of the yard office, though its day-to-day running lay in the capable hands of a middle-aged woman who had worked for Mansell for a number of years; she had the help of two part-timers, young married women.

On Monday morning Lester reached the office earlier than usual. He had woken well before the alarm was due to ring, his head buzzing with ideas churned up by his father-in-law’s announcement at the end of Sunday lunch. He was sorting through the mail when Mansell drove into the yard with Stuart beside him. A minute or two later Mansell put his head round the office door.

‘I want to catch Norman before he goes off out.’ He broke off at the sound of an incoming vehicle and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, that’s Norman now.’ He went off to where Norman was getting out of his van; Stuart followed. ‘I want a word with you,’ Mansell told Norman.

And I want a word with you, Norman answered in his mind.

‘You’re not on the carpet,’ Mansell assured him with a grin. ‘You’re going to like what I’ve got to say unless I’m very much mistaken.’

I very much doubt you’re going to like what I’ve got to say to you, Norman responded inside his head.

Mansell began to tell him about his plans for the new yard, the likelihood of a place in the new set-up for Norman, carrying some responsibility.

Over in the office Lester glanced out of the window and saw the trio standing by the van: Mansell smiling, talking, gesticulating; Norman looking pleased and stimulated, nodding his head; Stuart close by, not joining in but listening, observing.

As Lester watched he saw Harry Lingard’s little van drive into the yard. Harry got out but he didn’t go off about his duties, he remained where he was, his vehicle screening him from the other three. He stood looking intently across at them.

Lester went on watching. Mansell stopped talking, he clapped Norman on the arm in a gesture of friendly encouragement and turned to go. Norman’s pleased expression vanished. He began to talk rapidly, with a serious look. Mansell’s face changed. He stood arrested, half-turned away, frowning down at the ground; Stuart listened with keen interest.

Norman’s flow ceased, Mansell turned to face him. He appeared to fire a series of questions, some of which Norman seemed to deal with at once, others he met with a movement of his shoulders or a slow shake of his head, as if signifying he didn’t know the answer to that one.

The exchange ended. Men were moving about the yard. As Mansell went striding off with Stuart following, Harry Lingard stepped out from the shelter of his van to intercept them. Mansell halted, regarding Harry with a face of steel. Norman Griffin, on his way across the yard, glanced back and saw the two men in fierce altercation, with Stuart a silent onlooker. Norman halted for a moment, then continued on his way.

The office door opened and one of the female clerks came in. She greeted Lester and at once raised a query about an office matter. As Lester turned from the window to speak to her the phone rang. The day had begun in earnest, there was no more looking out of windows.

It was Jill Lingard’s intention to call in on her grandfather on her way home from work on Thursday evening. In the event she left York House a little later than usual, missing the bus she normally caught. It was a raw evening, with a stiff breeze. She decided not to stand waiting in the cold for the next bus but to walk along to the stop by the college, where there was a shelter.

As she approached the college she saw a bus pull up at the other side of the road and passengers alight. Several crossed over towards the college; among them she spotted Mrs Holroyd carrying some books. She was wearing the grey-blue tweed coat Jill had sold her – and a suède beret, she noted with professional interest. I was right about the beret, Jill thought with satisfaction, it goes beautifully with the coat.

Mrs Holroyd saw her, they smiled, exchanged a word of greeting. How well she looks, Jill thought, better than she ever remembered seeing her. Under the street lights she seemed to wear a bloom of health and happiness.

When Jill arrived at her grandfather’s she found him despatching a hasty meal before starting out on the first of his freesheet trips. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she told him. ‘I won’t delay you. I’m going over to Gareth’s tomorrow evening, straight from work, I’m staying with them for a few days.’ She was using up what was left of her annual leave. ‘I rang Gareth and fixed it.’ She was going by train, Gareth would run her back on Tuesday evening. ‘He said he’d like to look in on you for an hour or so after he’s dropped me,’ she added. Gareth worked long hours, it was some time since Harry had seen him. ‘He wants to know if you’ll be in around eight o’clock on Tuesday.’

‘I’ll make it my business to be in,’ Harry responded with energy. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to see him. Give my love to Anne and the children.’

She let herself out into the chill air. She wouldn’t be seeing Norman this evening; she was staying in to wash her hair, pack her bag, get an early night.

Friday evening was overcast and blustery, and though the rain held off it was cold enough to keep the strollers from the common.

Mrs Griffin had a good hot meal prepared for Norman, as she had every evening. By the time he had washed and changed she had it ready for him on the table in the kitchen, cosy from the warmth of the stove. She wore a housecoat, her hair was in rollers. She had just had a bath, and would be dolling herself up to go out as soon as she had cleared the table after Norman finished eating. Friday was one of her social club evenings; she went along to the club two or three evenings a week. She always went by bus but could usually rely on getting a lift home. She enjoyed every visit to the club but Friday nights were special, that was when they had the olde-tyme dancing. Tonight she must get there early, there was going to be a little ceremony before the dancing started, the presentation of a retirement gift to the club secretary.

Norman sat down before his piled-up plate and attacked it with a hearty appetite. His mother hovered about, cutting bread, pouring tea. She ran an eye over what he was wearing: his new trousers, good jacket, smartest shirt. ‘You going out?’ she asked.

‘Might go along to the pub,’ he said between mouthfuls. She gave a little nod. He liked a glass of beer with his mates, more to be sociable than anything else, no harm in that; she never ceased to be thankful he didn’t drink the way his father had done.

By seven she was dressed, ready for the evening. She stuck her head round the door of the little workroom opening off the kitchen where Norman was fiddling with his old radios – they had been his hobby since schooldays. ‘I thought you were going out,’ she said.

He didn’t look up. ‘I’ve decided not to bother. Might as well make use of the time while Jill’s away, it’s a chance to get on with this.’

‘You should change out of your good clothes, ’ she advised. When he made no response she let it go. She very rarely pressed a point with Norman, she had learned long ago that it didn’t pay.

He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll miss your bus,’ he warned.

She was galvanized into motion. ‘Right, then, I’m off. I’ll be back around half-twelve or one.’

In the early hours of Saturday morning the force of the wind greatly increased. It blew strongly all day, driving clouds before it, tossing branches of trees on the common. Late on Saturday night it began to slacken in strength. By breakfast time on Sunday it had fallen calm again.

The day was bright and sunny. Householders emerged to wash their cars, tidy their gardens. In the ground-floor flat of a converted Victorian house on Whitethorn Road, Miss Tarrant, a middle-aged spinster, supervisor of the typing pool in a Cannonbridge firm, woke late: gone half past nine, she saw by the clock.

She got out of bed and drew back the curtains. She wouldn’t bother with lunch today, she’d have a good breakfast and then get on with the hundred and one jobs awaiting her. She had recently bought the flat and was currently in the process of doing it up, furnishing it, tackling the garden.

In the kitchen a little later she discovered to her annoyance that she’d forgotten to buy bread yesterday. Fortunately the corner shop across the common was open on Sunday mornings, she could nip out and get a loaf.

She put on her coat and went out into the sparkling sunshine. She walked briskly up the road, crossed over on to the common. As she drew near Fairbourne she heard the sound of shears. She glanced in as she passed the front gate and saw Mr Holroyd at work a few feet away. She had some slight acquaintance with him in his official capacity; before she bought her flat she had been a council tenant. She called out a friendly greeting. ‘Much better weather today,’ she added. He looked up, gave her a few words in reply.

She halted as a thought struck her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have finished with your copy of the Bazaar? Mine doesn’t seem to have been delivered. I like to read the small ads, I’m still on the lookout for things for the flat.’

Edgar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. My copy hasn’t been delivered either.’

It occurred to her as she resumed her quick pace that she could ask at the corner shop, they might have a copy to spare.

A few yards ahead, young lads, eight or nine years old, were kicking a football around with more enthusiasm than skill. The ball suddenly came straight at her; if she hadn’t jumped aside it would have struck her in the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ she called out sharply.

One of the lads came racing after the ball, throwing her a grin of apology as he darted by. A few moments later another random shot sent the ball soaring over the gate of the last house on this part of the common. Some of the boys snatched open the gate and ran in after the ball. They began to search about in the long grass bordering the drive, the drifts of dead leaves. One agile lad climbed nimbly up into a tall tree and directed his gaze over the ground below.

Miss Tarrant strode over to the gateway. She clicked her tongue at the sight of the youngsters ferreting about; they had no business in there at all, roaming over a private garden. She said as much in ringing tones.

‘It’s all right,’ a lad assured her. ‘There’s no one at home, there never is this time of year. It’s an old couple live there, they always go to Spain for the winter.’

She wasn’t in the least mollified. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to trespass on their property.’

Another lad suddenly spied the football in a tangle of undergrowth and fell upon it with a cry of triumph.

‘Come along!’ Miss Tarrant ordered. ‘Out of here, all of you!’ They ran shouting and laughing out on to the common again. All except the lad up the tree. He was right at the top now, his feet securely lodged, glancing with lively interest.

Miss Tarrant marched in through the gate and positioned herself at the foot of the tree. ‘You too,’ she called up to him. ‘Come along down. At once.’

He seemed not to hear. He craned forward, staring down into the shrubbery. She called up to him again, loudly and forcefully. He made no reply but suddenly began to descend the tree, scrambling swiftly down, dropping to the ground at her feet. He scarcely glanced at her but darted off at once towards the shrubbery. She set her jaw and went after him.