“Has any of the father’s family kept in touch with him?”
“I wouldn’t want them to, thanks. And so far, so good. He was an only child, like me.”
“I’m getting the picture,” I said. “But tell me this. Does her brother know that Piotr’s really her son?”
“Don’t be daft.” Stephen got up to refill the kettle. “Put yourself in our shoes. And Piotr knows that if he reveals who he is, he’ll be out on his ear.”
I stared after him, realising not only how I’d been friends with a man of boundless ambition, but also a woman whom I didn’t know at all. As he continued his diatribe, only pausing to choose the most derogatory words to describe both mother and son, I learnt how Nicholas Beecham, to raise his Christian profile, had offered the jobless young man a roof over his head in exchange for fetching and carrying. “You see,” Stephen turned to face the darkening clouds outside, “if I help expose what his criminally perverse grandfather did just after World War I, then it’s not only his career that’s over.”
“A rock and a hard place?”
“You can say that again.” He shrugged those bony shoulders. “So, what now?”
“We can’t assume Piotr’s still with his mother. He may have had other reasons for picking her up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You might if you give me a chance.”
*
While Stephen was shaving and changing out of his pyjamas, I phoned Eden &Bowker, one of London’s busiest translation agencies based in Clerkenwell and was promptly passed to a youthful-sounding editor, Jane Calder-Brown. She soon told me - as a family friend and ex-cop - that Catherine Vickers hadn’t been in contact for two weeks. This wasn’t unusual if a translator was busy with a manuscript, but as she was between projects with new proposals coming into their offices all the time, they were concerned. Most of their translating team checked in daily to keep in the loop, or perhaps to act as a temporary replacement for illness or a maternity leave.
When I asked if Catherine had ever visited her with anyone, the reply had been swift.
“Yes, once. About a month ago. A beautiful, young man it was. Just gorgeous. My new sub-editor wondered if he might be a hot date, until I told her Catherine was married, and besides…”
“Can you recall his name?” I butted in, aware of minutes ticking by.
“Not English, that’s for sure. Let me think…”
“Piotr?”
“That’s it. And the surname?”
“Vickers, surely?”
I was’t sure.
The editor then made me promise to pass on any further news of Catherine, the moment it came in.
“Of course. You likewise.”
“She’s alright, isn’t she?”
“We all hope so.”
Her editor paused, during which Stephen re-appeared. His socks muffling his progress down the stairs. His combed head cocked, listening.
“Look, we’ll speak again,” I said hurriedly. “And I’d appreciate it if this call could be kept confidential. D’you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Who was that?” Asked Stephen predictably.
“My neighbour. I was just checking Lea Villa was OK.” I dug in my pocket for small change.
“You’re lying. I don’t speak to any of our neighbours like that. In fact, I don’t speak to them. End of story.”
I left some coins by the phone, and not rising to the angry bait, opened up my somewhat battered notebook with a photo of Nottingham Cathedral on its cover. In it were train times to and from Tidswell. “If we go by rail, we could be in Norwich by twelve-thirty. Their Police HQ’s only a short hike from the station.”
Stephen bristled.
“I need to get to work…”
“I’ve already explained, I can’t do this on my own. We’ve got no choice. I was a cop for too long to ignore my hunches. And this one’s losing me sleep. Best get it over with.”
“What exactly?”
“Catherine was seen at about 9.30 a.m. on Sunday morning, being picked up by a young, blond guy in a small, red car. And guess where she’d been?”
“No idea.”
“Myrtle Villa.”
*
“What was she doing there?” he said, his profile set like granite. “She’s never mentioned the place before. And it’s got to be with him. Her kid. Dammit. Two against one.”
“I could ask the Reverend Beecham.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Silence as I drove in the now familiar drizzle through Hecklers Green and yet more underpopulated acres of brown mud where only the hardiest of dwellings exposed to that disproportionately huge, capricious sky, had survived. I noticed that Stephen had glanced up Bakery Lane then looked away. His fists clenched inside his brown leather gloves.
I was tensing up too, and heeled the throttle along the flat, empty road, until the sign for Tidswell Station appeared. The next Norwich train just ten minutes away.
The car park was empty save for a Hillman Imp in need of a wash and a white van proclaiming quick-fit double glazing. Both were locked, and habit made me memorise their plate numbers.
“This is such a waste of bloody time,” Stephen muttered, hanging back. “Christ, I could be doing something useful, not trotting around trying to find her and that bastard cling-on.”
His tone made me spin round. My pulse was suddenly way too fast. A nerve spasmed down my spine, making me too slow to duck as his raised arm and a brown, leather fist connected with my skull.
Suddenly, those clouds overhead seemed darker, closer together, descending until their clammy moisture seemed to smother me. Take my breath from my lungs. Everything.
33. SARAH.
Wednesday 28th July 1920. 12.30 p.m.
The rest of the hot morning passed in relative peace after the chaos of Stanley Bulling’s escape in which Lord Helvin had twice fired his rifle after the suspect’s scrambling form had disappeared further away down the river. Will had offered to give chase, but both sweating policemen assured everyone the runaway would be caught before the day was out. I prayed they were right, for despite that stocky son’s curly red hair, his every move, every look from those mean, staring eyes, spelt danger.
Ann and Walter Bulling seemed badly shaken and supported each other back into the farmhouse, saying little except that a man is innocent until proved guilty. This made Mollie speak out in agreement, but Buck, having said there was no smoke without a fire, was firmly told by Will to mind his own business. To remember he was merely ten, not twenty and a guest in someone else’s house.
*
We’d signed the contract for three months and there’d be no going back until the end of October. God willing, we would just have to take things day by day until our future became clearer. And part of that future would involve the children attending elementary school before Christmas.
After a glass of warm, slightly brown water apiece, Ann Bulling showed us all ‘the stank,’ housed in a brick shed behind the farm. The smell had led us to a primitive wooden bench with a ragged gap in the middle and torn sections of the Diss Mercury in a pile to one side. All this made our lavatory in Oak Leaf Cottage seem luxurious, and I restrained the children from making unhelpful remarks.
“One piece of paper only,” snapped our escort. “Whoever blocks it up, unblocks it.”
Will laughed, saying it was better than what he’d known at his camp in Gallipoli, but I knew it wouldn’t be him following instructions. After that, we were all allowed to see upstairs, but with each step along the worn landing carpet to each hot, mean room that buzzed with flies, my heartbeats slowed so much I had to pause to draw breath. To compose myself, for the children’s sakes. For Will who seemed unstoppable, full of ideas as to how the pigs could be better accommodated and reared. How the re-introduction of sheep with high meat yields would help put Wombwell Farm back on its feet. He’d even show Lord Helvin how well-trained the necessary dogs would be. But what
he’d not thought of when he’d shaken Walter Bulling’s dirty hand, was the son.
*
So, there we were, holding our noses again. This time, amid the stench oozing from the nearby Dutch barn. A draw it seemed, for all the flying insects in the area, particularly the biggest bluebottles I’d ever seen. Even though we’d washed and changed our clothes at Wombwell Lodge, we still managed to look dishevelled. Just under four hours here had seen to that. I wanted to plunge Buck and his sister into a cooling bath and wash their hair clean, but that possiblity seemed remote, and then wasn’t the time to ask.
“Can we go in that field again?” asked Mollie, pulling on Will’s arm. “Me and Buck? Please.”
I looked at him thinking Stanley Bulling could be anywhere.
“Why not? Have a look at that pit while you’re at it.” He pointed towards the middle of that yellow-brown expanse, where a a ridge of dried soil protruded. “See what you think. That’s mostly where I’ll be working.”
“Never go near that river,” I warned them both. “And you know why.”
But too late. They were already on their way, young legs taking them too far away, too quickly. I began to follow, but Will held me back. “Let them be, woman. They’re curious.” He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. “They’ll do some growing up here, that’s for sure.”
“And school?”
“Don’t you worry your head about that,” came Ann Bulling’s sharp little voice
from under her moth-eaten brown hat, most likely her husband’s. “The school of life is here.” She let out a sly cackle, nudging Will as she did so. “If you’re still thinking about our Stanley, he’s not a bad bor. Just headstrong. Always done a hand’s turn. “Thing is,” she added, “the police keep picking on him ‘cos he didn’t go off with a rifle on his back. Like he was a yellowbelly.”
“Had the dead man been with you long?” I enquired, aware of Walter Bulling joining us wearing an even larger hat than either his wife or Will.
“Six months,” he said.
“One,” contradicted his wife. “Off a boat from Mauritius, we think.”
“Does it matter how long, or where from? Nor whether ‘e was black, white or brown. He was a good worker, like Mr. Parminter’s going to be.”
Will half-smiled, still staring at the pigs who’d begun pushing their dirt-caked snouts against the barrier for food.
“But we think Lord Helvin got rid. ‘England for whites only,’ he’d said. Heard it with my own ears. But will he be nabbed for such talk?” Her thin mouth almost disappeared. “Not likely. ‘Blacks bring diseases. Monkeys, every single one.’ Now to me, that doesn’t befit a member of Parliament.”
“What happened to Stanley?” Will asked while unbuttoning his shirt and rolling up his sleeves as far as they’d go. “He should be in bed.”
“Bed?” snorted Walter Bulling. “Try keepin’ ‘im there. Fell off the main beam in this very barn, stupid bugger. Puttin’ up a light. Least that’s what ‘e said.”
Will frowned, as if thinking the same as me. That there was no electricity connected. For a moment, our eyes met, like worlds colliding. All I knew was that something here was very wrong. That the unfortunate foreigner’s murder lay much closer to home than anyone living here had made out. Who was protecting who?
But we’d signed that piece of paper. All that dust and heat and stink was to be ours for what then seemed a lifetime.
*
One o’clock, and with the children returned and sweat sliding down my forehead, I helped Ann Bulling fill six unmatching, chipped bowls with what looked like potato soup containing pink lumps of meat. On the old wooden dresser, lay a cold leg of pork studded with cloves and several portions removed, while in the centre of the wobbling kitchen table I’d set a plate filled with thick slices of bread matching the colour of the land outside.
Buck and Mollie sat together at the far end, already attacking a slice each. Their skin a mix of red and brown. Their hair stuck to their heads. I’d have to make them some kind of hat, or else find a way to get to Hecklers Green where according to Rita Myers, a new General Stores had just opened.
“No sign of Stanley,” said Mollie. “And we saw that same police car again, just along the road.”
Ann Bulling placed a withered finger over her own mouth. “We’ve had enough comings and goings here,” she said, stroking a large knife blade with a sharpener. Back and fore to the rhythm of my heart. “Time for some peace and prosperity at Wombwell Farm, and when our son comes back, that’ll make us complete again. Now, eat up.”
“But what about our room?” whined Mollie. “I’ve just put my doll in on the bed.”
“He can go somewhere else. Meanwhile you’ll all be put to good use, make no mistake. Meanwhile, we all pray for rain.”
“Pray for rain,” echoed Walter Bulling and set his hands together. All ten fingernails black as ever.
Make no mistake…
*
But rain didn’t seem to belong in this strange place. It was as if the farmhouse’s dusty windows, and sweating stone floors would remain for ever. Coffin-like, sealing in its ageing incumbents, day by day. Night by night.
All at once, came a knock on the back door before it was pushed open. In surprise, Ann Bulling dropped her knife sharpener and backed away while her husband struggled from his chair. Will and I moved over to the children, listening, watching.
Constable Lambert was short of breath but clearly triumphant.
“Sorry to interrupt your meal, but we’ve just located a human leg buried in the river bank near the bridge under Longstanton Road. It definitely belongs to the late Mr. Menelos.”
With some difficulty, Walter Bulling picked up the sharpener and kept it in his hand. His hat askew on his narrow head. “And our Stanley?”
“In the police car with Constable Toft. I’m afraid you won’t be seeing him for quite some…”
“Just take him!” interrupted his mother. “And good riddance. He’s been a curse on us since the day he pushed his way out of me, and always will be, mark my words.” She glanced back at Will, then me. “He’ll dance on our graves when we’re gone. Till we hear our own bones rattle.”
Silence.
Then, without a word, the four of us followed the constable outside and round to the front of the farm where that black car was parked, its engine still running. Two people sat in the back. Constable Toft handcuffed to Stanley Bulling whose other fist appeared through the partly-open window.
“Traitors!” he yelled. “Call yersen me fecking parents? Ye just wait…”
Seconds later, he was gone in a spray of grit and dust, his fading protests soon lost amongst the sounds of crows heading towards the river and the multitude of hungry pigs behind us. It was only then I realised that Mollie, who, with Buck had just reached us, was waving after him, and Constable Lambert had been wearing green, rubber gloves.
*
By the time I’d reached the back of the farm on our way to the kitchen. I heard raspy breaths immediately behind me. Felt the weight of a hand on my shoulder.
Walter Bulling seemed to have aged another few years. “Take no notice o’ what our Stanley’s just said. “Where ‘e’s goin’ he’ll have time to think on ‘is sins and maybe repent.”
“Where is he going?” Mollie alongside me, looking up at the old man.
A pause in which I spotted Will and Buck standing near the barn, pointing at the pigs.
“’To get ‘is leg mended first…”
“So, there’s a hospital near here, then?” I ventured. “Is that why the constable was wearing protective gloves, although that did seem odd.”
Another pause as if the old man was somewhere far away. “Kind of. It belongs to the Church. Vesper House it’s called. Just out of Hecklers Green, in its own grounds and with good reason.”
Even in that clammy warmth, I shivered.
“Why say that?”
A stooped shrug. Almost whispering. “Aft
er the war, some lads came home bringin’ infectious diseases. Malaria and such like. Don’t ask me to name ‘em all. I’m no doctor. Terrible times as you know. Thank the Lord we were spared the Spanish ‘flu, but whole villages further east were wiped out.”
Another shiver, but It wouldn’t be wise to probe further. Unless I could get Will interested, I’d have to do some research of my own. Meanwhile, Buck and Mollie were to be using Stanley’s bedroom. Whatever his illness might be, everything would have to be properly cleaned. And soon.
“That means he’ll still be close by?” I said out loud.
Instead of replying, the farmer made his way back into the kitchen where his wife promptly took the knife sharpener from his hand and began carving the leg of pork. Its glistening slices fell away like petals off a rose.
“Bessie,” she announced. “Our best sow. Forty strong piglets we’ve had off her. But there we go.” She indicated the door. “Best get your family in before me and Walter eat her all up.”
*
However, my ‘family’ were too busy counting the living pigs to notice what I was doing. Staring up at that massive main beam, checking it from end to end, sure as I could be that no kind of light fitting to either it or the roof itself had been installed.
“Lunch.” I reminded them. “And it’ll seem rude to our hosts not to come and eat it.”
34. NICHOLAS.
Tuesday 15th November 1988. 10.55 a.m.
It was then I decided never to pray to the ‘Cosmic Sadist’ again, except of course in public. This was one shambles too many. Catherine, my sly, two-faced sister, had vanished, and with her the dangerous knowledge of what our grandfather had done back in his hey-day. To think that Piotr was a key witness to my moment of madness with her, and might in turn tell Stephen and George Chisholm, made my stomach heave. And time, ever the enemy, wasn’t on my side. Aldeburgh almost too far away.
*
Vomit slipped from my mouth down my chin and like a lumpy, yellow snail trail, on to my new, best coat. But before I could forage for my handkerchief, I heard the the pitter-patter of footsteps near the barely-open lock-up door. At first, I thought they belonged to some dog about to lift its leg, but no.
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