Thicker Than Water

by Anthea Fraser

  My mission had begun.

  I left the pub on a high, in search of the Willow Pattern café, but there my luck ran out. The owner was not at home.

  ‘Gone to her daughter’s for t’weekend,’ the waitress told me laconically.

  I hesitated, uncertain what to do next. It was after three, and though I’d just finished lunch, the tables were filled with people enjoying cream teas. Since I was here, I decided to have a cuppa myself, and sat down to go over what I’d learned. Which, basically, was very little I’d not known already. What it did prove, though, was that the crime was still remembered locally, and hopefully the absent Eileen might be really useful.

  The unexpected meeting had caught me on the hop, and though I’d brought a recorder to save having to write notes, I hadn’t thought to use it. This evening, back at the B and B, I’d make good the omission, and from now on keep my wits about me.

  Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the café and paused on the pavement, the freshening breeze cool on my face. A group of girls went by, giggling, and I caught fragments of their conversation. Their homely accents, like those of Stan and Fred, were a reminder of how much I’d lost of mine, the rough corners being painlessly smoothed during my time at college. A schoolteacher, even a PE one, ought to ‘talk proper’, I thought with a wry grin.

  Nonetheless, this was where I’d sprung from, where my roots still were, and I found it mind-blowing to think that the last time I’d been here, stood by this lake, walked these streets, I’d been eight years old and my dad had just died.

  I started to walk, wondering what to do next, and paused to rotate a stand of postcards outside a newsagent’s. On impulse, I selected two local views for Hayley and Patty, and a couple to keep as souvenirs. Whether I’d post them was a moot point, but at least they’d be to hand if I decided to.

  Without conscious intent, I headed in the direction of our old home, a cottage behind the High Street. My heart was thundering as I turned the corner, suddenly afraid it might have been demolished and another built in its place; but there it was, number seven, looking much as it had always done, with its wooden gate and short path, and even a stone pot by the door, like the one Mum left the key under.

  And there, just visible round the back, was the twisted apple tree me and Pete used to climb, and which he’d fallen from and broken his arm. A right to-do there’d been about that, and all.

  Having set the tone, I spent the rest of the afternoon revisiting old haunts, awash with memories, and that evening treated myself to dinner at the Swan, the hotel that, in the old days, had seemed on a par with Buckingham Palace. What would my parents have thought?

  It was just on ten o’clock when I returned to White Gables. A middle-aged couple were sitting in the lounge watching the News – the Crossleys, presumably – and they nodded and smiled at me as I passed. Back in my room, I dictated the pub conversation into the recorder, then summarized the rest of the day’s activities. It could double as a diary, I thought, a reminder for checking things later. (And it’s proving its worth as I write this.)

  There were muted voices on the landing, a floor board creaked, a door closed quietly. The Crossleys had retired.

  I stretched, deciding I, too, would call it a day. Having sluiced my face and brushed my teeth at the corner basin, I undressed and, with some trepidation, tested the bed. Fortunately, it proved comfortable. I settled into it with a sigh of satisfaction, and despite my teeming thoughts, soon slid into a dreamless sleep.

  Sunday was, by and large, a frustrating day. The newspaper offices were closed, and the vicar – who might, just possibly, have conducted the Sheridans’ funeral service – would be too busy to speak to me. I took a boat out on the lake, climbed one of the neighbouring hills, and finally took refuge in a voluminous bundle of Sunday newspapers.

  That night, I ate in a pub restaurant – not the Pig and Whistle – and on returning to the B and B, again went straight upstairs, having no wish to make small talk with my fellow guests. In my room, I took out the notes I’d made before leaving home, and sketched out a plan of campaign for the next day.

  During a carefully casual chat, Hayley and I had agreed the car crash must have occurred at the end of June ’85, and since the local paper, the Cumberland and Westmorland Post, was a weekly, it should be easy enough to track down the story. Their office would therefore be my first port of call, and having located contemporary reports in their archives, and hopefully managed to obtain copies, I’d have lunch at the Willow Pattern, and attempt to waylay the proprietor.

  Life, however, is seldom straightforward. I discovered the next morning that the newspaper office didn’t keep archives, and I’d have to visit the library in Kendal. Which meant retrieving my car from the long-stay, and a twenty-mile round trip.

  Still, it proved more than worthwhile. Having been informed that the paper came out on Wednesdays, I requested the copy dated 26th June ’85, and all five July editions. The films were loaded for me by the helpful staff, but after scouring the June issue from cover to cover, I concluded the crash must have occurred after publication.

  Sure enough, the next week’s edition devoted its front page to the tragic death of ‘two well-known Scarthorpe residents’, together with slightly grainy photographs which, to my surprise, I recognized. Inside, there was a rehashed account of the crash and obituaries of both the Sheridans.

  A week later, a detailed account of the funeral was given, with references to the packed church, the presiding vicar’s poignant eulogy, and sympathetic references to the couple’s three children, who were being ‘comforted by relatives’.

  By the following week, it had been established the crash was no accident, and a murder investigation had begun. There were appeals from the police for any information that might be useful.

  The next issue had little of interest and, with no further development, the story had been banished to the inside pages. But the final paper I’d selected, dated 31st July, bore a single relevant sentence in the Stop Press: ‘Man arrested in connection with Sheridan murders.’

  I sat staring at it for long minutes. I could, of course, have requested the August papers, but my heart was no longer in it. Basically, I couldn’t bring myself to read in black and white of the death of my innocent father.

  I ran a hand over my face, returning with some difficulty to the present. I needed at least some of this material to study at my leisure, searching for elusive clues, but after painstakingly going through it again, decided the only report of real value was the first, which included photos and obits.

  I pushed back my chair and went to order a copy.

  It was after twelve when I left the library, and I’d given up all thought of lunch at the Willow Pattern; by the time I got back to Scarthorpe, re-parked the car and walked down to the lake, they might well have stopped serving it.

  Instead, I went to a nearby pizzeria, where I took out my photocopy and read through the report again. It seemed Mrs Sheridan’s death, at least, had been unintentional; an interview with the housekeeper, Miss Liza Jenkins, revealed that she’d asked her husband for a lift because her own car had a flat battery. The wrong place at the wrong time, with a vengeance.

  Which brought us firmly back to Mr S being the sole target, and the vital question of who had wanted him dead. That, in a nutshell, was what I had to find out, because, despite all talk to the contrary, it sure as hell hadn’t been my dad.

  The same waitress was on duty when I reached the Willow Pattern, and, since Fred hadn’t furnished me with a surname, I again asked for the proprietor. This time, she nodded me in the direction of a small, spry woman talking to the cashier.

  I went over to her, and she broke off her conversation to smile at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired.

  ‘I hope so,’ I replied, ‘though perhaps not in the way you mean.’ She raised her eyebrows, and I added, ‘Your name was given to me by Fred Barnes.’

  My implied exaggeration of our ac
quaintance secured her attention.

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ I asked, and after a quick nod, she led me to a door that opened on to a flight of stairs.

  At the top was a pleasant sitting room overlooking the lake. It seemed that ‘Eileen’ lived above the shop.

  She motioned me towards a chair, sat down herself, and began brightly, ‘Now, tell me how I can help you, Mr—?’

  ‘Gary Payne,’ I supplied, beginning, by this time, almost to believe it. I smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid Fred referred to you simply as “Eileen” . . .’

  ‘Morgan,’ she said. ‘Mrs Eileen Morgan.’

  I nodded. ‘Well, the point is I’m doing research for a book on the aftermath of crime – the effect it has on those left behind.’

  ‘Oh yes? Very interesting, I’m sure, but I don’t quite see—’

  ‘And what brings me to Scarthorpe is the Sheridan case, back in the eighties.’

  She shook her head. ‘I really can’t help you. We heard of it, of course, but we hadn’t been here long at the time; I never met the victims or their family.’

  I drew a deep breath. ‘But you did, I think, know their housekeeper, Miss Jenkins?’

  Enlightenment flooded her face. ‘Oh, that’s why you . . . but I didn’t know her well, only through Cora – the lady I bought this café from.’

  Not what I wanted to hear. ‘But did she speak of the tragedy? What happened to the children, and so on?’

  Eileen Morgan thought for a few moments. ‘She was desperately upset, of course. She’d been very fond of Mrs Sheridan and her first husband.’

  The obituary had mentioned a second marriage.

  ‘He was drowned in a boating accident,’ she added.

  ‘And the second husband, the one in the crash?’

  Eileen Morgan pursed her lips. ‘Miss Jenkins was always discreet, but I don’t think she cared for him. Said he was very strict with the children.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ I asked again, still hoping they might remember something vital.

  ‘Their aunt and uncle took them away. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Do you by any chance remember their name – the uncle and aunt’s?’

  Eileen Morgan shook her head. ‘Liza would know, mind,’ she said suddenly. ‘She could tell you far more than I can.’

  Just what I’d been angling for! ‘That would be most helpful. Do you happen to have her address?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I have. She still lives with Cora and her son, in France.’

  ‘In France?’ I repeated blankly. I’d been intending to go straight on to see her.

  ‘That’s right; that’s why Cora sold the café. Her son’s a chef, and he was opening a restaurant over there. They went out to join him.’

  She’d opened a small desk and taken out an address book. ‘In Normandy, it is,’ she said, leafing through the pages. ‘Here we are. Le Bon Gout, if that’s how you pronounce it.’

  It wasn’t, but I didn’t correct her. My own French was nothing to write home about. She passed me the book and I took down the address, though France might be a step too far on what was after all a slender off-chance.

  ‘Have you got a phone number?’ I asked, thinking that might be the easier option, but she shook her head, surprised anyone should think of phoning France.

  I slipped my diary into my pocket and stood up. ‘Well, thanks very much, Mrs Morgan, you’ve been a great help.’ I paused. ‘One last question, if you don’t mind: do you know who’s living up at the Big House now?’

  ‘The Lodge, you mean? It’s a family called Harrison. Two grown-up sons. He’s a dentist in the town.’

  We walked together down the stairs and through the café to the entrance.

  ‘Thanks again for your help,’ I said.

  She nodded, and, as I went through the door, called after me, ‘Good luck with the book!’

  Out on the pavement, I looked round for a public call box, but in this age of mobiles they were few and far between, and I reached the High Street without spotting any. In the post office, though, I struck lucky; they had a public phone complete with directory, and I ran my finger down the list of Harrisons, coming to rest on one JB, whose address was given as The Lodge. I added his number to my mobile and went outside to phone. At three thirty on a Monday afternoon, Mr Harrison would be at his surgery, but his wife—

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Harrison?’

  ‘Yes?’ She sounded in a hurry.

  ‘My name is Payne, but you don’t know me. I wondered if I might have a word with you about the Sheridans, who used to live at your house?’

  There was a pause. Then she said, ‘I never met them.’

  ‘Even so, I’m writing a book—’

  ‘My Payne, I’m sorry, but I have an appointment—’

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ I said quickly, unwilling to postpone my visit. ‘I can be with you in five minutes.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Please. I’ll only take ten minutes of your time.’

  ‘Very well, then. Ten minutes.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  The gods had been with me; anxious to speak to Eileen, I’d parked in the town centre, only yards from where I now stood. I ran to the car, and within minutes was driving along Lake Road, conscious of the lake itself on my left, dull and brooding under a cloudy sky.

  Then I was turning off the road into The Lodge driveway, following it uphill to the house, as I had so many times with Dad. There was a car parked outside, proof, I guessed, of Mrs Harrison’s anxiety to be off.

  She opened the door immediately I rang, a tall, thin woman in her fifties, formally dressed in navy suit and white blouse.

  ‘Gary Payne,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘It’s good of you to see me.’

  ‘I really don’t see how I can help.’

  It was becoming a familiar refrain. However, she led me into a drawing room – no other word would do it justice – and as she didn’t invite me to sit, we stood facing each other.

  ‘I’ve already told you I never met the Sheridans.’

  ‘I was wondering, though, if there was talk of them when you bought the house – gossip, if you like. Whether people talked about the crash, and what might have happened?’

  ‘What happened was clear enough,’ she answered crisply. ‘They were murdered by their gardener, in retaliation for sacking him.’

  I held myself in check, saying merely, ‘An extreme reaction, surely?’

  She shrugged. ‘He must have been unbalanced.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with the relatives?’

  ‘No, they weren’t from round here. Lived in Surrey, I believe.’

  Clue number one.

  ‘Could you tell me their name?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I ever heard it.’

  I tried another tack. ‘Was any of the Sheridans’ property left in the house or garden? Any old books or furniture, children’s toys?’

  ‘Actually, we’d come from abroad, so we bought it fully furnished. There were no books or toys, though, unless you count the swing and slide in the garden.’ She paused. ‘I did tell you I couldn’t help, and I’m sorry, but I really—’

  Might as well cut my losses, I thought resignedly. ‘All right, Mrs Harrison, I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you for seeing me.’

  She walked quickly ahead of me out of the house, locked the door behind us, and hurried to her car. I glanced to my left, to the lawn leading down to the shrubbery in the corner.

  ‘Would you mind if I had a quick look at the garden?’ I asked on impulse, and, as she turned in surprise, added, ‘I used to play here as a boy.’

  ‘I really have to go,’ she said.

  ‘I could look by myself, if that’s OK? Just a quick one, for old times’ sake?’

  If she’d not been in a rush, I doubt if she’d have left a strange man in her grounds, but she’d clearly no time to argue. With a vague wave o
f her hand, she started the ignition and drove quickly down the drive.

  I stood looking after her, letting the flood of memories engulf me. The sun on my back as I helped Dad polish the car; the kids, down there in the shrubbery. The kids.

  I started to walk slowly down the grass, accompanied by the ghost of my younger self, but almost immediately came to a halt. On my right, freshly creosoted but otherwise as I remembered it, stood the fatal shed. I reached out and tried the door. Locked. Still. Probably, now, to protect garden implements from theft, rather than dangerous substances from the reach of children. I wondered if there was still a sack on the floor, full of the particular kind of shale that, according to the Post, had been required for the rockery, and later been positively identified in the wrecked car.

  I peered through the small window, but it was too dark to make anything out. For that matter, it was growing darker outside as clouds banked, threatening rain. I examined the fastening of the window, but there’d been no report of its being forced, and I doubted anyway if anyone could have fitted through the small aperture. I walked round it until the thickness of the bushes blocked my way, then inspected the other side. There was no other means of access, that was clear. Whoever had taken the shale must have used the door. But how, when it was locked, and Dad had the key?

  I resumed my walk, seeming to see him everywhere – pruning the roses, planting dahlias, tilling the rich soil – happy to be out in the open. Oh, Dad, how could they do that to you?

  As I approached the shrubbery in the bottom corner, memories came thicker and faster. It enclosed the old playground, containing the swing and slide Mrs Harrison had mentioned. The kids, all older than I was, had abandoned it long since, and I used to play there for hours, constructing space ships, dens and forts. Then, unaccountably, that last week or two, they’d reclaimed it, chasing me off with a flea in my ear.

  I’d reached the entrance, now overgrown with brambles, but the way in was still passable, and I pushed my way through. With a catch in my throat, I saw that the slide and swing were still there. Perhaps the Harrison boys, in their youth, had also made use of them.

  I stared at the slide – Health and Safety would do their nut if they could see it! – and remembered my alarm when I’d been caught underneath it. Remembered, too, complaining bitterly to Pete in the playground. Why not spy on them? he’d suggested. Get your own back.