“Debatable,” Dan said. “There were no signs telling us to keep out, and we’d been told we could explore the grounds. I don’t think the police would’ve been interested.”
“That’s not the point.” Alan paused for breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, his tone more patient. “I have a reputation in the local community, and I don’t want to get sly looks and stupid remarks every time I return a library book. Do you understand that?”
Dan hesitated before replying. “Yes. I can see that. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. It was my idea to go into that garden, and I probably pressured you into it.” He paused. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been lectured to?”
“Years of practice,” Alan said with a wry smile. “Old habits die hard.” He paused, his expression softening. “Anyway, there’s no need to apologise. I made my own decision to go nosing around at Knightsbrook, and I’ll have to accept the consequences. I’m just frustrated by the whole thing.”
“So, does that mean you don’t want to go to the church?”
“Well, we could drive home that way. If we go through the town, we’ll get to the church, then there’s a lane that’ll take us straight to the cemetery.”
Dan grinned. “Excellent. I would’ve come back on my own, but with two of us, it’ll be much quicker.”
“And more fun,” Alan offered.
“Definitely.”
They were able to park directly opposite the Church, and as they opened the gate to the churchyard, Dan read the sign. “The Church of St. Peter, St. Paul and St. Thomas. Isn’t that hedging your bets?”
“Heathen,” Alan said, following him onto the stone steps that led toward the church.
“No offence intended. Are you a regular churchgoer?”
Alan shook his head firmly. “No, I just like to show respect for people’s firmly held beliefs, that’s all. It’s called tolerance. You should try it.”
“I tolerate all kinds of things, but I won’t bow my head to a wrathful God I don’t believe in. Why should I? Where’s the consistency in that?”
Alan’s gaze rolled skywards, but he made no reply, and they trudged in silence to the nearest row of graves.
“I’ll take this row, you take the next one,” Dan began, then he turned with a start.
Across the churchyard, an elderly man rose stiffly from his knees beside a grave, a blue cloth in his hand. He was grey-haired, perhaps in his seventies. His craggy features were emphasised by the wrinkles in his brow, and he was smartly dressed in a tweed jacket and a pair of dark brown corduroy trousers. His expression was sombre, and he seemed surprised to have been disturbed, blinking as he stared at them.
“I’m sorry,” Dan said quickly. “We didn’t mean to intrude.”
“That’s all right,” the man said, his voice mournful but not unkind. “I was just keeping the headstone clean. It gets algae on it otherwise. It’s the rain.”
“Of course,” Alan said. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
“No, no, you carry on,” the man said. “I was just leaving, anyway.” He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket, stuffed the cloth inside, and with a fond glance back at the gravestone, he walked away without a word, his back straight and his head erect.
Dan watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight. “I never thought about anyone else being here,” he said. “I just assumed the place would be empty.”
Alan shot him a meaningful look. “Let’s make a start, but we’ll go quietly. And don’t go treading all over the graves.”
“That goes without saying,” Dan replied. “I’ll start here. Are you happy to take the second row?”
Alan nodded, then they began their slow journey across the churchyard, picking their way carefully between the graves, and occasionally stopping to read an inscription from a headstone.
Dan’s first pass yielded nothing useful, and since Alan was still strolling casually along the second row, he went ahead to the third row and headed back towards their starting place. This is starting to get to me, he decided. Reading the names of the dead, one after the other, and calculating their ages, his mind wandered to a dark place: the unvisited region of his consciousness where death and decrepitude lay in wait, and the remaining days of his life were measured out, second by second.
His gaze lost its focus, and he began skipping over the names, searching only for the date of poor Cyril’s demise: 1918. But suddenly, he stopped. What was the name on that last stone? He retraced his steps, staring down at the simple headstone of dark polished slate, and there it was.
“Alan,” he called out, trying to keep his voice from becoming too loud. “Come and see this.”
Alan hurried to join him. “Have you found him? Is it Cyril?”
“No.” Dan pointed to the headstone, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice. “But I have found a couple of family members. And from Knightsbrook, too. We saw a painting of Gerald, didn’t we?”
“Yes. A portrait.” Alan rubbed his chin as he read the rest of the inscription aloud, “In memory of Helen Kenning, a wonderful wife and mother, died 12th September 2005. And Gerald Kenning died 15th November 2005. A devoted son and husband, and a loving father.” He nodded thoughtfully. “It looks as though Gerald died of a broken heart, barely two months after his wife passed away. You hear of it happening all the time.”
Dan didn’t reply. Thoughts of his own parents crowded his mind. He should call them. They’d be worried about him, wondering why he’d taken himself off from his home, his friends, his commitments. I’ll call later, he told himself. When I know what my plans are. Then he pushed the thought away. He had no idea how long he intended to stay in Devon, and no idea what he was going to do next. None. And in the meantime, Alan was staring at him. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you look a bit…” Alan waved his hand in the air. “Listen, if you want to go home—”
“I’m fine,” Dan interrupted. He forced a smile. “Okay, so you were the one hanging on Arthur’s every word. What can you remember about Gerald?”
“Not a great deal. He was Gordon Kenning’s son, and he inherited Knightsbrook House. He ran the pharmacy chain for a while, but I got the impression that he didn’t have his father’s entrepreneurial flair. After a while, he sold the business and lived off the profits.”
“Very good,” Dan said. “We’re getting closer to the elusive Cyril. And there’s something else. Look at the stone. It’s spotless.”
“It’s certainly more recent than most of the others in this part of the churchyard.”
“True, and that’s why I almost walked straight past it, but that’s not the point. This was the stone that the elderly man was cleaning. Look, you can see where he was kneeling on the grass.”
Alan’s mouth hung open a little. “No. Do really you think he was one of the Kenning family?”
“Absolutely. He must’ve been…let me see, Deborah’s father. What was his name?”
“David,” Alan replied. “Arthur mentioned him on the tour, but from the way he talked, I thought that David had passed away. He certainly doesn’t live at Knightsbrook. The owner’s name is Martin: Deborah’s brother.”
“I expect it’s a full-time job running an estate that size. If that man really was David, he was certainly a pensioner. He would’ve retired some time ago.” Dan looked over toward the gate, but of course, the man was nowhere in sight. “It’s a damned shame. We could have asked him some questions.”
“No, we could not. The man was tending to a grave, paying his respects. How could you even suggest such a thing?”
Dan held up his hands. “I wouldn’t have hounded the poor man, I just thought…we could’ve talked.”
“He had a lucky escape. You have all the tact of a gently lobbed hand grenade.” Alan returned his attention to the headstone, sighing gently. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Even though we never knew them, it still gets to you.” He sniffed, looking up. “It’s the fact that they died in li
ving memory; it makes it seem real. The graves from a hundred years ago are interesting, but this one is different. It must be one of the newest graves in the place.”
“Yes. It seems a little out of place somehow. I wonder why he was buried here and not in the cemetery.”
“Maybe he was involved with the church,” Alan offered. “And the family were well known. It couldn’t hurt to have been the owner of Knightsbrook.”
“Is that how it works? Give generously, turn up every Sunday, and you’re in?”
Alan shot him a pained look. “Cynic. For all you know, the Kennings were pillars of the community. Give someone the benefit of the doubt for once.”
“Hm.” Dan looked away, scanning the neat rows of graves that they’d yet to explore. Alan’s down-to-earth pronouncements took some getting used to. In Dan’s world, friends smiled and joked and bought rounds of over-priced drinks, all the while seething with jealousy and resentment, waiting eagerly for others to make mistakes, always an eye to the main chance. Cynicism and mistrust had always been essential; was there another way to treat people? A gentler, better way to live?
“Whatever the reason,” Alan went on, “this could be the family connection we were hoping for. We should keep searching. Cyril might be nearby.”
“Agreed,” Dan said, and they returned to the hunt. But when they reached the final gravestone, over an hour later, they’d found no other graves of the Kenning family.
“The cemetery?” Alan asked, and Dan nodded.
“The cemetery.”
It was a short journey to the cemetery by car, but as they turned in through the stone pillars of the gateway, Dan’s heart sank. The rows of graves stretched out into the distance, and a thorough search would clearly take hours.
“I’ll park here,” Alan said, halting the car on a narrow strip of tarmac just inside the entrance.
“Is it worth it?” Dan asked. “We haven’t got all…” But he let his sentence go unfinished, because there, striding toward them along the path, was a familiar figure.
Alan followed his gaze and let out a gasp. “Is that…? My God, yes, it’s him. David Kenning.”
“I know. But what do we do?”
“Nothing. Leave him in peace. And don’t stare.” Alan rummaged through the contents of the pocket in the door beside him, pulling out a tattered map and unfolding it. “Here. Look at this. Pretend we’re lost.”
Dan stared at him. “Seriously? You want me to pretend?”
Alan nodded. “So, if we take this road, there’s no telling when we might get home because this is a road map of…” He checked the front cover. “Belgium. Thought so. Have you ever been?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who might’ve been to Belgium?”
Alan smiled. “Yes, actually. You’d fit right in. It’s a lot more cosmopolitan than most people give it credit for.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but meanwhile, David is right in front of us. If we don’t talk to him now, he’ll get away, and we’ll lose him again.”
“Good,” Alan said firmly, keeping his eyes on the map. “I must go on holiday again soon. I fancy Berlin.”
Dan didn’t say a word. David Kenning was marching ever closer, his dogged strides bringing him directly toward the car, and for some reason, Dan couldn’t look away.
David Kenning’s senses were clearly undiminished, and his bright eyes flitted from Dan to Alan and back again, a frown furrowing his brow.
Dan fought the urge to wave, but when David was level with the car, he fidgeted in his seat, unfastening his safety belt.
“Don’t even think about it,” Alan muttered. “Let him go.”
“But—” Dan started, but Alan didn’t let him speak.
“You are not going to pester an old man, and anyway, there’s no need to upset him. We can see which row he came from. It’ll save us time.”
Dan’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue. He tilted his head until he could see David in the wing mirror, and he watched him make his way out of the gate. “He’s gone. Come on.” He opened the door and stepped out, waiting while Alan climbed out and locked the door. “Is that necessary?”
“Habit,” Alan answered, making a show of trying the door. “Now, I first spotted David over there by that crooked white stone. We can start there.”
“Yes,” Dan said, leading the way, walking quickly.
Alan kept pace, and a moment later, they were studying the stones. “Here!” Alan cried out, pointing to a squat slab of white marble. “I’ve found Gordon.”
Dan leaned forward to read the inscription. “In memory of Gordon Kenning, died 3rd February 1972 and Diana Kenning, died 10th March 1983. We are returning by the road we came.” He straightened his back. “No mention of Cyril though.”
“I don’t know. There’s something about that quote. I remember it from somewhere, and it doesn’t seem right.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ll look it up,” Alan said, reaching for his phone. “I usually get a reasonable signal in town.”
Dan blinked, looking out across the fields and hedgerows that surrounded the cemetery. “You call this in town?”
“Bovey Tracey is a fully fledged town,” Alan replied without looking up from his phone. “It has a mayor and everything. Ah! Here it is. That line is from a poem by Siegfried Sassoon.”
“The war poet.”
“Yes; one of them. But here’s the thing. The title of the poem is To My Brother.”
“Odd thing to write on a stone shared by a husband and wife,” Dan mused. “We don’t know if he chose it himself. His wife might’ve added it, or maybe someone else who just happened to like the sentiment of the words.”
Alan frowned. “I’d be surprised if a woman were to choose that particular poem. It goes on:
Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,
And I am in the field where men must fight.”
He pocketed his phone. “It’s the kind of poem a soldier might choose. Sassoon wrote it on the death of his own brother who was killed in action, and I can’t help thinking it was Gordon’s way of making a reference to Cyril.”
“Okay, but does it take us any further forward? Why would Gordon refer to his brother in such an obscure way? Epitaphs are usually definitive, aren’t they? Here I am. I was born, I lived, I died. End of story.”
“For the most part, but I think Gordon must have been an odd character. Larger than life. An entrepreneur, an obsessive collector, a writer of coded messages. It’s an odd mixture of traits when you think about it.”
“Wealth does strange things to people,” Dan muttered. “It rarely turns out well.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Alan replied with a smile. “I don’t expect to strike it rich any day soon, thank goodness. But what do you want to do now? Shall we keep looking for Cyril?” He paused, turning around. “He might be in here somewhere.”
“Worth a try,” Dan said. “We’ll split up again, but we need to move faster this time. No dawdling. Meet me back here in half an hour.”
“Are you accusing me of dawdling?”
“Yes,” Dan stated, “but don’t take it personally. Everyone in a hundred-mile radius is determined to move at a snail’s pace. It’s a wonder anything gets done at all.”
Alan grunted. “It’s a little thing we have around here called quality of life. You might be wise to give it a go. Rush around all you want, but sooner or later, we’re all going to end up like the residents of this place. You may as well enjoy the journey.”
“Thanks for that thought for the day, but I like to get things done and move on. What’s wrong with that? It’s the way my mind works, and I’m happy as I am.”
Alan looked him in the eye. “And yet, here you are. Why is that, Dan? You don’t seem to like it much in this part of the world, so what are you doing here? Are you avoiding something?”
“I…” Dan exhaled noisily. He didn’t have to tell Alan a
nything. Not one word. But there was something reassuring in the way Alan was looking at him, and suddenly, he found himself talking. “All right. If you really must know, I needed a break. I’d been working hard, dealing with a new client: Vortigern Finance. You won’t have heard of them—not many people have—but they’re a huge company, rolling out commercial software to some of the biggest businesses on the planet. I should never have taken the job on, but I thought I could handle it. Then things started to go awry. The CEO was accused of false reporting and kicked off the board, and it turned out that he’d been inflating the company’s profits for months. They were in trouble, and the shareholders were howling for blood. Some projects were cancelled and there were redundancies, but I was a contractor so I would’ve been all right, except…”
“Go on,” Alan prompted. “You may as well tell me.”
Dan let out a humourless laugh. “It seemed like I was one of the lucky ones. I was taken on to help with the task of corporate restructuring. I really thought I’d landed on my feet—permanent contract, company car—but I was walking into a minefield. There were too many managers and not enough jobs, so they all clambered over each other, desperate to grab a slice of the action, all hungry for power. You don’t know what these people are like. They’ll do anything to further their own ambitions. Anything. And there I was, stuck in the middle.” He held out his arms then let them flop to his sides. “I couldn’t hack it. I worked night and day, tried every trick in my arsenal, but in the end, I crashed and burned. I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I was a physical wreck, and mentally, I…well, I’d been used to calling the shots under pressure, with millions of pounds hanging on my decisions, but I woke up one day and I couldn’t even work out what to have for breakfast. I was a mess.”
Alan’s hand went to his mouth. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“When you’re working at that level, and in that kind of environment, you can’t call in sick during a major upheaval and hope to get away with it. I took a couple of days and tried to pull myself together, but when I went back to work, I couldn’t get past the front desk. They took my security pass and my laptop, then they marched me out of the building. And when I got home, there were a couple of goons waiting to take possession of my car. It was a BMW, a brand new X7, but it was a company car, and Vortigern wanted the situation made very clear. I was finished.”
A Study in Stone Page 7