by Jack Benton
‘So who is Charlotte? What is so incendiary about the name that caused you to attack me?’
Celia’s face turned dark. ‘How did you hear that name?’
‘Like I say, I got in a lot of people’s faces.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Am I?’
Celia glared at him then looked away. ‘Charlotte was my daughter.’
‘Was?’
Celia lifted her head and stared at Slim with teary eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to open this box? You won’t like what you find.’
‘It’s too late.’
Celia shook her head. ‘It’s never too late. You should walk away while you have the chance. This haunts me, Slim. It doesn’t need to haunt you, too.’
21
Much to Slim’s disappointment, Celia, who claimed to be a nurse, had only been heading home to prepare for a night shift. In the face of his own refusal to expand on where he had heard Charlotte’s name, she refused to give Slim any further details. She did, however, agree to meet him the following weekend.
To keep himself out of the nearest pub, he caught the evening bus back to Penleven, getting off in the dark at the stop half a mile out of the village.
Mrs. Greyson was waiting in the hall when he entered, but rather than berate him for his lateness as was usual, she held out a small package.
‘I do apologise … this arrived for you yesterday. I’m not used to getting post for guests. I’m afraid I opened it by mistake.’
She didn’t meet his eyes as he took it, but as soon as it was out of her hands she turned and retreated into the kitchen, busying herself with some washing up.
The package was from Kay. Slim took it up to his room, closing the door behind him. Enclosed was a color photocopy of the note, together with a typed letter from Kay explaining his friend’s thoughts of its contents.
As he turned it over, Slim noticed a crease on one side. It had nothing to do with the way the letter was folded, but was more of a depression in the surface. Frowning, he held the letter under the corner lamp, holding it close to the light and tilting it until the creases showed as faint shadows.
Fingermarks creased the paper a third of the way up on each side. Mrs. Greyson, clearly not adept at subterfuge, had read it carefully before putting it away.
Slim read the note again then returned it to the envelope. Perhaps Mrs. Greyson had understood the message’s cryptic meaning. It might have brought on her sudden drinking binge.
The TV was on in the living room when Slim reached the bottom of the stairs. He ran through variations of the coming conversation in his mind, then took a deep breath and rapped lightly on the door.
When he received no answer, he opened it a crack, wondering if Mrs. Greyson had undertaken a repeat of the previous day and got sloshed in her armchair.
The living room, however, was empty.
Feeling like a night prowler, Slim crept through the room and peered into a private dining area that linked up with the kitchen accessible from the guest’s dining room.
No sign of Mrs. Greyson. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the counter, and a home-life magazine lay open nearby, as though she had got up and left halfway through an article.
Slim retreated to the hall. He was turning to head back upstairs when the door bumped, startling him.
The latch was off, the loose-fitting bolt left to be troubled by the wind.
Mrs. Greyson’s boots were missing, but her handbag hung where it always did, on the umbrella stand inside the door.
If she had chosen to go out it was no business of Slim’s, but as he headed up the stairs he couldn’t help but find it unusual.
In the near month he had been staying at the guesthouse, he had never known Mrs. Greyson to go out at night.
Not ever.
22
‘Did you sleep well, Mr. Hardy?’
Slim forced a smile. At least his beat-up face would hide that he’d stayed up late waiting for Mrs. Greyson to return. He had fallen asleep just after two, but if she’d come back earlier she’d been quiet about it. Despite the presumed lack of sleep, she was no more irascible than usual.
‘There was something of a storm last night, I believe,’ he said, hoping to coax a confession out of her. ‘The wind was rattling the window. It kept me awake.’
She shook from the waist up, like a bird preening its feathers. ‘I’ll have someone come around promptly to fix it,’ she said.
‘It’s not a problem—’ Slim began, but Mrs. Greyson put up a hand to indicate the matter was closed.
‘Will you be going out today, Mr. Hardy?’
Slim smiled. ‘I thought I might take a walk on the moor.’
‘There’s rain forecast,’ Mrs. Greyson said.
‘Isn’t there always? I’ll be careful.’
Outside, he attempted to coax his limited detection skills into finding whatever trail she might have left, but aside from a single boot print in a patch of mud pooling in a hollow alongside the front step, there was nothing, and he quickly gave up. There was probably a simple explanation. He remembered her mentioning a bridge club, so perhaps she got together with all the other local gossips every month or so to review what news had come out of the village.
The rain Mrs. Greyson had predicted was pattering like fingers drumming on a windowsill by the time Slim reached the bus stop. When he alighted in Liskeard a couple of hours later, it had reverted to a more agreeable mist, just enough to keep his clothes sodden and his morale low, but not enough to make Slim miss the umbrella he hadn’t brought.
Liskeard Comprehensive Secondary School was easy to find, and the fake BBC3 Staff card hanging around his neck felt as familiar as the last time he’d used it to get information. He waited until lines of small heads through windows told him class was in session then headed for the main entrance.
Schools had changed since his school days, he discovered. A lock and buzzer on the gate meant he had to state his purpose into a microphone and hold up his ID before being buzzed inside.
A receptionist was waiting for him. ‘Mr. Lewis?’
‘Call me Dan,’ Slim said, giving his fake ID a nonchalant tap.
‘You wanted to talk to someone concerning a Mr. Amos Birch?’ she said, looking up from a handwritten note.
‘Yes … I apologise for the abruptness of my visit. I came here on something of a whim. I very much doubt anyone can help me anyway, so I truly appreciate a few minutes of your time.’
‘Not at all, not at all. So, you’re from the BBC?’
‘I’m a preliminary documentary researcher with BBC3,’ Slim said, hoping an overload of jargon would slip through her defenses. ‘I’m exploring the possibility of a film based on the disappearance of Amos Birch, the famous local clockmaker who lived over on Bodmin Moor. He attended this school. You’re aware of that, I assume?’
‘Well, yes, I do believe—’
‘Note that I’m not researching an actual green-lighted film, but putting out feelers to see if there is enough material to invest in a potential project.’
‘Excuse me while I make a quick inquiry.’
The receptionist leaned into a phone. Slim tried not to listen in, instead focusing his attention on the photographs framed on the walls around the reception desk. A couple of long-ago sports teams, an aerial shot of the school, a line of grey suits headlined by a Staff of 2018 label. A couple of younger faces wore smiles, unbroken yet by the high seas of teaching; but most wore grim, hardened expressions like soldiers in the midst of a long campaign.
The receptionist put down the phone and looked up. ‘The headmaster is out on business today, but our deputy head, Mr. Clair, will give you a few minutes.’
‘Thanks.’
She led Slim to a plain office where a squat, balding man with a close resemblance to a toad sat behind a desk. Chubby fingers made a steeple amid greasy finger marks on the glossy Formica surface.
Slim introduced himself as Dan Lewis from BBC3, then let his m
outh run for a few minutes with a half-cooked background story until finally Mr. Clair lifted a hand.
‘So you’d like to know about Mr. Birch’s school days, is that right?’ the deputy head said, sounding only mildly more interested than he might hearing about a playground scuffle.
‘I’m looking for old class photos, report cards, anything related to Amos Birch. My boss thinks his disappearance would make a good story, but we don’t have much to go on, I’ll admit.’
‘Records going back that far will have been archived,’ Mr. Clair said, his voice uncomfortably lilting for a man with such an intrusive presence. ‘I can have someone dig them out, but I doubt they’d reveal much about the man.’
‘That’s not all I’m after,’ Slim said. ‘To make a documentary compelling, it needs a deeper aspect of storytelling. It needs a sensationalist angle.’
‘I thought you came from the BBC, not The Sun.’
Slim wagged a theatrical finger, one slightly bent from a time long ago when a military boot had fallen on it in anger.
‘Ah, but the principal is the same. Amos Birch is one of this school’s most prestigious former pupils. It’s inconceivable that there wouldn’t be tall tales about him.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there are,’ Mr. Clair said, fixing Slim with a cold stare. ‘You’re talking about a man who’s been missing twenty-odd years, and was in his fifties then. It would have been way back in the sixties when he attended this school, so there won’t be anyone on the staff who taught him.’
‘You must know something about him, though.’
Mr. Clair shrugged. ‘Some. I’ve heard the name a few times. I’m not a native of these parts though, so I never met the man. I knew him by reputation only.’
‘It seems a lot of people did,’ Slim said. ‘But that’s all they knew. I’ve found little except rumours.’
‘Maybe that’s all there are.’ Mr. Clair abruptly stood up, the chair creaking its relief, but the desk shuddering as a monstrous body collided with it. ‘I’ll ask one of the office staff to take a look through the archives. If you leave a phone number, I’ll have someone contact you if we find anything.’
Slim told Mr. Clair it was easier if he got back in touch after a week or so. The deputy head looked distrusting of Slim’s explanation that he was staying somewhere with a poor signal, even if it was the only part of his charade that was true.
He left, uncertain whether he’d gained anything other than a few more suspicious glances. He wondered whether he had enough new information to justify a coffee stop, or even an hour in the pub. The school had proved a dead end, but there was a chance something might reveal itself in the archives, even if it was just the name of a retired teacher who might remember Amos as a boy.
It was still early. Beer would be calming, but coffee more productive. Slim remembered a little place not far from the bus station, but he was only halfway across the school’s front car park to the main road when someone hailed him from behind.
A boyish-faced man of about Slim’s age was walking briskly toward him, while simultaneously trying to tuck in a section of shirt which had come loose during his pursuit. The man had an eagerness Slim understood, his eyes hungrily eyeing a few minutes of TV fame.
‘Nick Jones,’ the man said, holding out a hand whose palm had the clammy softness of someone who considered manual labour to be straightening a shelf of books. ‘I’m the Year Eight form teacher?’
Slim nodded, unsure whether this was information he was supposed to know. He waited for the man to continue.
‘You’re from the BBC, right? Brenda mentioned in the staffroom there was someone from the TV here.’
Slim hid a smile. ‘That’s right.’
‘Look, I shouldn’t really be saying this, but I might have some info I can throw your way if you have time for a short conv?’
The man’s habit of speaking like an email message was grating Slim’s senses, but he feigned an enthusiastic nod and pulled a notebook from his pocket.
‘What can you tell me, Nick?’
‘I met Amos Birch a couple of times. That’s who you’re asking about, right? Back when I was just starting out.’ He grinned. ‘I’m older than I look.’
Slim resisted an urge to punch him. ‘Go on.’
‘I was Celia Birch’s form teacher during her GCSE year. You know, his daughter? Amos came down with his wife for parents’ evenings.’
Slim sensed a lead, but at the ring of a bell in the background, Nick Jones glanced over his shoulder, then whistled through his teeth and looked back at Slim with frustration etched on his face.
‘Are you okay to talk now?’ Slim asked.
‘Playground monitor duty, I’m afraid.’
‘Tonight?’
‘PTA meeting.’ Nick Jones whistled again. ‘The duties never end.’
Slim looked at the calendar in the front of his notebook. ‘How about Sunday?’
Nick Jones nodded. ‘Sure. Here’s my number. You know, there was always something wrong about that family,’ he said. ‘More than just not right, but fully wrong. You got me?’
‘Give me an example.’
‘Like Celia. Good girl, a little sharp-tongued but she handed her work in, looked set for decent GCSEs, then she stops showing up. She’s gone, quit.’
‘Why?’
‘She turned sixteen. She was allowed to leave. She gave that as her reason on her leavers’ form, so I was told.’
‘But?’
Nick Jones made a show of a grimace. Slim watched him, waiting for the inevitable confession.
‘Generally only the clowns and the wasters drop out, the ones who are losing valuable shelf-stacking income by staying for their exams. Celia wasn’t one of those kids. She was bright. But the kids used to talk, didn’t they? Said the worst things.’
‘Tell me the absolute worst.’
Nick Jones stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets even though it wasn’t so cold, then theatrically puffed out his cheeks.
‘They say she got knocked up. And he was the father.’
‘Who?’
Nick glanced back, as though expecting a crowd of teachers had appeared from nowhere to listen in on his revelation. When he turned back, his voice was low, conspiratorial:
‘Amos. Her dad.’
23
Celia was sitting on a rock, facing south across the moor toward Jamaica Inn, nestled in a cleft in the hill, its peace disturbed by the roar of traffic on the A38 to Bodmin. As Slim came up behind her, she lifted a flask to her lips and took a long swallow of a liquid which steamed around her face.
‘Do you think we’ll be overheard?’ Slim said, throwing down his pack as he sat beside her, rubbing a spot on his thigh where he had failed to see an outcropping of rock. ‘I saw a couple of suspicious-looking sheep during the hike up. I’m pretty sure one was wearing a wire.’
Celia smiled. Dressed in hiking gear that was either new or rarely used, she looked far different to the bitter-faced woman Slim had met on the Tavistock street. She had tied up her hair, and the attractiveness that had been a mere residue now showed through. She was older, wiser, wearier, but the face of a woman once capable of luring men from their wives was apparent in the soft lines of her face.
‘I wanted to make sure you were really keen. I’ve buried all this. I’m not digging it up for some timewaster. Drink?’ She held out the flask.
‘What is it?’
‘Mulled wine.’
Slim snatched it out of her hands, took a swig, then scowled. ‘It’s tea.’
‘How good’s your imagination?’
‘It gets better the more I drink.’
Celia nodded as she looked out across the moor. Slim glanced at her, then followed her gaze over the rocky hillside, the distant stands of trees, a small lake, the rocky banks of a moorland stream. Neither spoke for a long time.
‘It’s pretty, I suppose,’ Slim said at last. ‘I prefer the city, but it’s far too easy to wreck yourself. At least ou
t here you can get some fresh air.’
‘There’s not enough of you out here,’ Celia said, rather cryptically. ‘In the city people are too busy to care, but in the country we’re all just frameworks for other people to fill in the gaps. We’re all just a story constantly being rewritten and overwritten to a point where we’re no longer sure who we are.’
‘And who are you?’ Slim asked.
‘I’m not sure. All the things I was, I’m no longer. I was a daughter, and I was a mother, and I was almost a wife. Now I suppose I’m just me. Celia.’
‘It could be worse,’ Slim said. ‘You could be a pair of boots sitting on the sand, everything you were vanished in an instant.’
‘Empty boots?’
Slim shivered as he shook his head. ‘They’re not empty.’
Celia was quiet a moment. Then she said: ‘Tell me how you heard the name Charlotte. Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do. Only three people knew my daughter’s name. I buried one. The other I lost. And the third is me.’
‘I found something buried near the summit of Rough Tor, wrapped in a plastic bag. You know how the cliché goes? I literally tripped over it, almost broke my damn ankle. It was an old, damaged clock, and in the back of it I found a note. The paper was water-damaged, so I had a friend who works in translation and forensic linguistics open it. I brought with me what he found. Here.’
He handed Celia a plastic file taken from his rucksack. He watched her as she opened it and looked the sheets over one by one. Her hands visibly shook as she leaned closer. At one point a printed photograph slipped through her fingers, and only a quick dive by Slim prevented a gust of wind from taking it away downslope.
‘And those are photos of the clock I found the note inside,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘I have all the originals stashed at the guesthouse.’