The Angler's Tale

by Jack Benton

  ‘Is that near here?’ Slim said.

  The clerk looked momentarily surprised again. ‘Ah, yes, it’s the old railway bridge across the Wellwater Inlet. It’s a couple of miles up the Dart Estuary, near Greenway.’

  Slim nodded but didn’t answer. The clerk, feeling the need to continue the explanation to fill the vacuum of silence, stammered as he said, ‘My boss didn’t … didn’t think that … right now was an appropriate time to have it visibly on sale.’

  ‘Why not?’ Slim said, figuring that playing innocent might draw out more information than he would otherwise receive.

  ‘Well,’ the clerk said, ‘Wellwater is where that man was found. I mean, there’s only the remains of a bridge there now, and no trains ever ran on it because it wasn’t ever finished, but someone local would recognise it.’

  Slim decided it was only fair to put the suffering clerk out of his misery. ‘Oh, you mean the radio guy? I overheard some men talking about that in the pub. Suicide, wasn’t it? Is this where it was?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the clerk said, lowering his head.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Slim said. ‘It’s a decent picture regardless of its background. If you like, I’ll take it off your hands.’ With a clumsy wink he added, ‘Although a little bit of a discount would make the decision easier.’

  The clerk knocked off £55 but the painting still came in at a hefty £140. Even though it was a steal for original art of such quality, at one time Slim would have baulked at paying that for a new car. Nevertheless, he paid with the business credit card Kim had made him apply for, certain his clever secretary could fiddle the cost as expenses and save him a bit of tax. With the painting in a protective paper bag and tucked under his arm, he headed out of the shop.

  He was pausing to adjust the position of a package that was heavier than it looked when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, surprised to see Eloise appear out of a narrow alleyway leading up the hillside. She glanced up, saw him, and lifted a hand in greeting.

  ‘Shopping?’ she said.

  ‘Just a little souvenir.’

  Eloise raised an eyebrow. The way they were manicured into angular lines made her look robotic.

  ‘I never took you for much of an art lover. I have to say, I wasn’t convinced by the fishing, either.’

  Slim resisted the urge to ask when he had been placed on trial. ‘I must be a poor actor,’ he said.

  Eloise flashed a cold smile as she came closer, then suddenly grabbed Slim’s arm and leaned against him.

  ‘I know we’re not here to make friends,’ she said, ‘but if you want to share my table at dinner I wouldn’t mind at all. I’d like a chance to figure you out.’

  Unsure at what point he’d become Eloise’s pet project, he just shrugged. ‘I suppose I might see you around later.’

  ‘Good.’ Another cold smile, but this one came with a gaze peering off into the distance. Slim stared at her, convinced he was witnessing some kind of personality disorder in action. Then, without another word, Eloise was gone, backing away into a side street before ducking her head, turning, and scurrying off. Slim watched her until she was out of sight, wondering if he should have accepted Alex’s offer of a refund and taken an early departure after all.

  10

  He drank coffee in the lobby until the filter was empty, suffered the effects of it half an hour later in the toilet, then stumbled into the dining room thankful at least that he’d not stumbled farther down the road to the nearest pub.

  With their party reduced to the bare bones of four small tables, Slim headed for the closest empty chair until he saw Eloise, sitting on the table nearest the far wall, wave him over. An audience with the hollow-eyed girl was the last thing he felt like, but at least Irene Long was also present to dilute the younger girl’s intensity.

  ‘I hear you’re a bit of an art enthusiast,’ Irene said by way of greeting.

  ‘I prefer my souvenirs local,’ Slim said. ‘I only have a small flat.’

  Irene guffawed as though he had told the funniest joke in the world, but Eloise just stared at Slim with the intensity of a cat eyeing up a bird.

  ‘I like art too,’ she said. ‘I once wanted to be a painter. I just didn’t have the talent.’ With a cold smile, she added, ‘I might have to visit your room later and take a closer look.’

  It came across as a threat rather than an offer of something more. Irene looked away, and Slim smiled as though to pass it off as a joke.

  ‘I wonder what’s on tonight’s menu,’ he said, looking towards the kitchens as a way of breaking Eloise’s stare. ‘I’d settle for a steak. Of anything.’

  He didn’t remember anything in the brochure about the restaurant being vegan, but purity in all its forms seemed a gimmick of the tour company. They were free to head into the town as Carson had two nights ago, of course, but in the wake of the old radio DJ’s suicide a collective distrust of Dartmouth had settled over the group. With the offer of a full refund, only nine of the original twenty-five had chosen to stay, and those seemed, after dark at least, to take comfort in one another’s company.

  ‘Do you think he really topped himself?’ Irene said, as bowls of soya gratin arrived. ‘I mean, that’s what the police said, but they’re not going to share details, are they?’

  Eloise gave her a typical cold smile. ‘If there’s more, it’ll come out in the next few days,’ she said. ‘After all, that’s why we’re all still here, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s a very morbid thing to say.’

  Eloise shrugged, then looked pointedly at Slim. ‘I see no point in wrapping it up in cotton wool. Personally, I think someone here might have been involved.’

  ‘It’s not true, though, is it?’ Irene said. ‘I mean, the police interviewed everyone, and no one got—’

  Eloise lifted a hand, rather rudely cutting the older woman off. ‘Let’s eat. Supposed to be forgetting our troubles, aren’t we?’

  Slim glanced at Irene, wondering if he ought to speak up, but while Eloise was looking away the older woman just flashed him a pained smile and rolled her eyes. Slim didn’t know what had brought Irene here, but if even half of what Eloise had told him about herself was true, he didn’t want to get on the younger girl’s wrong side.

  A glass clinked as Alex stood up. He thanked everyone for staying and then talked through the revised itinerary for the following few days. Tomorrow included a boat trip up to Totnes for some sightseeing in the morning, followed by an introduction to fly fishing in the afternoon.

  After half an hour of awkward, stilted conversation, the dinner things were cleared away and the guests began to leave. Without a word, Eloise rose and headed out of the room. Slim glimpsed her taking the stairs up to the guest rooms, so instead followed some others out onto the terrace, where staff distributed soft drinks. A warm breeze drifted in off the Dart, and the view was pretty enough to relieve the stress of the last couple of days. Lights glittered off the river, pleasure boats or late-night fishermen. From down in the town came the distant hum of music out of the local pubs, mixed with the occasional bellow of raucous laughter.

  ‘I know you probably think she’s a psychopath, but she’s got it into her head that you came down here to knock Carson off,’ came a voice from behind him. Slim turned to find Irene standing behind him. She held out a paper cup. ‘I’m guessing you like it bitter and black?’

  Slim smiled. ‘People here seem to know me better than I know myself,’ he said. ‘Does Eloise really think I’m some kind of assassin?’

  ‘While I’ll admit I’m not discounting anything about you, Slim, she does take things to the extreme. Alex told me she’s schizophrenic. Delusional, that kind of thing. He said he woke up on the first morning to find her sitting on the edge of his bed, mumbling to herself. When questioned she claimed she had got the wrong room, but since then she’s been spreading rumours about them which could get Alex into some trouble. Apparently she had to get a doctor’s note to be allowed down here,
but that same doctor sent Alex a private message. She has a tendency to forget her medicine.’

  ‘That message didn’t stay private for long,’ Slim said.

  Irene smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t sleep with him to get it. It’s money that runs these people, not our health. If we stay in line they don’t care what we do.’

  Slim had already been planning to lock his door, but it might be better to just sleep with his bed pushed up against it. He was starting to realise that the demons haunting him were just ants compared to those on the backs of some of the others.

  ‘I’m an alcoholic,’ he said, since they appeared to be sharing secrets. ‘I have been for as long as can remember. I’m functioning, is how they describe it. I can go long periods without drinking at all, then something will trigger it. I’ve actually been twelve days sober, my longest in years.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ Irene’s smile seemed genuine. ‘Todd’s Syndrome.’

  ‘What’s that? I’ve not heard of it.’

  ‘I was in a car accident in my early twenties. I thought I had recovered, but ten years later I started to get bouts of strange oppressiveness. I ignored it for a while, but it got worse. I had days when I couldn’t open my eyes because everything looked wrong. Chairs were taller than me. Tables were ants at my feet.’

  I think I read something about that once.’

  ‘It’s more commonly known as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome.’ Irene gave a grim smile. ‘I think that romanticises it a bit, but there have been times when all I could do was lie curled up in a ball through fear of the world crushing me. I’ve attempted suicide twice, and my doctor wanted me institutionalised. I refused, and came here looking for a natural cure. As my body adjusts to it, the strength of my medication needs to be increased too often. Soon it’ll be at dangerous levels. This really is my last chance.’

  Slim could think of nothing to say. He sipped his coffee and watched Irene as she stared out at the glittering Dart Estuary. Eventually, feeling the need to continue the conversation, he said, ‘Since I’ve been here, I’ve begun to realise that my problems are slight compared to many people. If nothing else, that’s been a benefit to me.’

  ‘We can’t compare our problems,’ Irene said. ‘They’re all destructive in their own way. I used to lecture on physics at Sheffield University,’ she added, causing Slim to raise an eyebrow. She looked nothing like he had ever imagined a scientist would. ‘Now I’m mostly unemployable. I got a supermarket job for a while just to get out of the house, but I had to quit after I had a turn at work. I imagine drinking makes it hard to hold down a job, doesn’t it?’

  Slim nodded. ‘That’s why I work for myself.’

  ‘Oh? You’re self-employed?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  Irene chuckled. ‘Poor Eloise would have a field day over that. I thought you looked familiar. Have you ever been on television?’

  ‘Once. Not the most memorable experience I’ve had, and not one I’m keen to repeat.’

  ‘It must have been a thrill anyway. Out of interest, what’s your opinion on all this nasty business with Mr. Carson?’

  Slim shrugged. ‘I have no reason to disbelieve what the police told me.’

  ‘Is that what you really think? I didn’t say much to him, but he didn’t seem like the suicide-type. Too pretentious. Me, I think someone was after him.’

  Slim laughed it away, but as the words settled into his mind, they found a place to hide there, and took a hold from which he knew it would be difficult to break loose.

  11

  As usual he slept poorly, and woke with the feeling that Eloise was leaning over him, wearing that psychopathic smile and threatening to cut him open. When he climbed out of bed, however, the room was unchanged from when he went to bed, with no sign that anyone had been inside during the night.

  After breakfast, he headed out with the rest of their remaining group, down to the port and onto a pretty motorboat which whisked them up the river to Totnes, where they spent a couple of hours browsing the shops. Slim was mercifully left alone, with Irene and Eloise—who had pointedly ignored him all morning—heading off together. Bored with trinket shopping, Slim wandered around a couple of modern clothing stores, picking up a token pair of socks, before retiring to a café on the high street to sample the brews in this part of south Devon. With little going on outside the window, and only one other customer—an old woman sitting with a Yorkshire terrier nestled at her feet—he toyed with the idea of attempting one of the paperbacks on a rack inside the door. Then his eyes fell on the painting hanging above it, half obscured by a pile of dog-eared airport thrillers.

  The signature in the visible bottom right corner was familiar. Alan McDonald. The same painter responsible for the piece wrapped up in Slim’s room back at the hotel. This one showed another view of a river inlet. A little fishing boat was moored under a line of overhanging trees, a raft of ducks swimming nearby.

  Slim leaned forward, resting his hand on the tabletop below the painting. His fingers came away dusty, but on top of the stack of books to one side, there was none, as though the books had only been placed there in the last day or so.

  Carefully he lifted them down to reveal the hidden part of the painting. He frowned, feeling a peculiar chill as he recognised a tumbledown house tucked back among the trees by the water’s edge. Standing on a short jetty right outside was a woman, arms folded. It was impossible to make out any features from the painting, except that her legs were pale from the knees down as though she were walking barefoot, and that she was facing and most likely watching the painter as he worked.

  Slim put the stack of books back where it had been before. He turned to the café’s service counter and caught the server’s eye. With a nod, the young man came over.

  ‘You all right there, mate?’ the young man asked. ‘Anything I can get you? You know, you can borrow any book you like. We’re overloaded.’

  ‘I was just looking at that painting,’ Slim said. ‘I picked up a similar one. I wondered if you knew anything about it?’

  The server shrugged. ‘Art’s not my thing, I’m afraid, mate. You’d have to ask the boss. He’s on from three. Not sure if he would know much about it, though. We get local painters bringing stuff around from time to time. They’re supposed to be for sale but often they hang there so long the artists just donate them to the shop in the end. Got a couple of the high street out the back if you’re interested.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Slim said. ‘I might stop by again later on.’

  ‘Sure, as you like.’

  Slim wished the man a good day and headed out. He walked down to the pier where he found the rest of the group waiting to board the boat for the afternoon’s activities. Alex gave Slim a frustrated glance as though to suggest he had held them up, then introduced a bearded man in a green rain jacket.

  ‘Terrance Winters,’ the man said, holding a long, thin rod up into the air. ‘I run Winters’ Tackle Shop on Wheelwright Street. Come in any time this week and you’ll get a twenty percent discount.’

  A surprising number of people seemed delighted by this. Slim just gave a polite smile when Terrance’s eyes passed across his.

  Back on board, Alex took a back seat as Terrance stood in the boat’s bow and waxed lyrical about fly fishing history, techniques, a few famous exponents of it, and some anecdotes about life as a fly-fisherman, in particular the surprising rivalry between fly-fishermen and traditional anglers, both of whom, for one reason or other, considered their discipline to be the most effective. Much of what Terrance said was lost in the buffering wind or broken by the calls of gulls trailing the boat, but one thing Slim did pick up was that fly-fishing was considered the more energy intensive of the two, requiring constant repeated casting, compared to regular angling, which, in Terrance’s words, was a case of ‘throw your hook out there then sit back for an hour with the Racing Post.’

  After a half-hour ride back downriver, they chugged u
p a wide, slow-moving inlet and moored at a narrow jetty almost hidden by trees. Carrying gear handed to them by Alex as they climbed out of the boat, they followed Terrance Winters through the trees until they emerged on the shores of a diminutive reservoir which overflowed into one of the River Dart’s tributaries. Some of the group seemed unhappy that they were practicing in a ‘fishing pond’ rather than the main estuary, but Terrance shrugged it off.

  ‘As first-timers, you’re far more likely to get a bite in relatively standing water. Successful fly fishing in flowing water takes years to master.’

  No one seemed convinced, but few looked energetic enough to argue.

  After a brief tutorial which involved much awkward holding of the rods and more than a few tangled lines, the guests were instructed to make a ring around the artificial lake about thirty feet apart. From there they were given freedom to attempt their own fly-casting, while Terrance walked in a clockwise circle, giving tips and corrections, with Alex walking the other way, asking inane questions and offering bottles of water to anyone who might have forgotten.

  Slim, in a leafy spot out of sight of the guests to either side of him, quickly realised that this labour-intensive version was not his preference. After Terrance’s second appearance—by which time Slim had managed only one successful cast—he set his rod down and headed back into the undergrowth to where he had seen a sign pointing to a nearby viewing spot. Alex had also recently passed going the other way, and Slim estimated he had roughly thirty minutes before either man came by again.

  The trail led up through forest, emerging after a brisk ten-minute hike onto a bald hilltop with a picturesque view of the Dart Estuary. A photo signboard gave names to the villages and inlets visible, short descriptions of some of the bird and plant life, and even a brief history of the industry on the river.