by Jim Kelly
Set on either side of the pipes were two portraits in plain gold frames. To the right a man in a severe white wig, the face pinched, the cheeks slightly flushed. It was one of those rare images – Shaw guessed from the late eighteenth century – which actually looked like a human being, even if it was not a particularly attractive human being. The other portrait was of a black man: Caribbean black, with a fine red silk scarf at his throat. Shaw guessed he’d be in his twenties, perhaps thirty, the strong white teeth still intact, the skin tension taut, the eyes searching and intelligent. He couldn’t fail to see again the skull they’d found on Nora Tilden’s coffin. It too had once been clothed in a face like this.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Valentine, studying the picture, juggling a cigarette into his mouth.
‘He is Olaudah Equiano,’ said a voice behind them. Shaw jumped, despite himself, and Valentine coughed back an apology for the blasphemy, but the man was already laughing. ‘While you … ?’
Shaw stepped forward, holding the warrant card at eye level. ‘DI Peter Shaw – DS Valentine. Just some routine inquiries.’ Shaw wondered if anyone, anywhere, believed that cliché any more.
‘It is a bit of a surprise – isn’t it?’ said the man, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Pastor Abney, John Abney. Just “John”.’
Shaw shook it, thinking the pastor was dressed like a travelling salesman, in a cheap suit with shiny black shoes. He looked like the kind of man who’d own a trouser press.
Abney studied the pictures. ‘This man,’ he said, opening a hand out to the portrait of the white man, as if offering a sugar lump to a horse. ‘This man is our founder – Webster Barents. Barents was a follower of Wesley until he decided to set up the church here. That was in 1778. He was a patron of the arts – especially poetry and narratives written by slaves and ex-slaves. It was all part of the movement – the great movement against the slave trade.’ As he said the word ‘great’ he raised his hands for emphasis. ‘Equiano wrote an autobiography in which he told the story of the Zong massacre – do you know this story?’
Valentine, tiring of the lecture, walked off, examining a list of the church’s previous pastors written in white on black wood. Shaw leant against a pew end, folding his arms across his chest.
Abney ploughed on. ‘The Zong was a ship, carrying slaves to the Americas from West Africa. Halfway through her passage it was clear that virtually none of the slaves would survive long ashore due to disease on board. The captain faced a dilemma. Under the insurance contract for the cargo – that’s the slaves, of course – he would get nothing if he landed them alive and they died before sale. But if they died en route he would get his money – so he threw them overboard.’
Abney stopped for emphasis, and in the silence they heard a ship’s foghorn out on the Cut.
‘It was called the “jettison clause” – and was perfectly legal. He threw a hundred and ten live slaves overboard, and ten more threw themselves over – as an act of empathy, I would guess, or possibly just despair. Anyway, Equiano’s telling of this incident caused a sensation.’
Valentine coughed. He was pointing at the list of pastors.
‘George Gayton Melville,’ he said, ‘1807 to 1843.’
Shaw tried to work the generations out. It could be Nora’s grandfather. ‘The Melvilles,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re here, Pastor. A woman called Nora Tilden, née Melville, was buried in the cemetery at Flensing Meadow in 1982 – we’ve just recovered her remains. There are some issues we need to clear up. She was buried wearing a silver fish – a brooch.’
‘She was one of the Elect, then – those chosen to be saved by God.’ Abney released a fold in his tie from beneath the waistcoat. On it was a small silver fish. ‘George Gayton Melville was a wealthy merchant. A Cambridge man – Sidney Sussex. He bought and sold fish oil from the whaling trade. He paid for this building to be renovated and modernized out of his own pocket. And he bought the Flask.’
‘The pastor bought a pub?’ asked Valentine, smiling. ‘That’s my kind of religion.’
Abney studied his feet, but when he looked up the smile hadn’t slipped. ‘Well, all the pastors were – and are – part-timers like me. In civvy street I’m an insurance agent.’ He looked at them as if this should be a great surprise. ‘George was a merchant, as I said. When he bought the pub it was actually a kind of seaman’s mission. There was always a bar, but also rooms, a small library, a soup kitchen – you know, hearty food for a few pennies. Beer was just what people drank then – you wouldn’t have touched the water. But the bar was popular and it made him another fortune. Which provided the money to keep our church beautiful.’
Abney picked up an overcoat and started to shrug himself into it.
Behind him, in the east wall, a door Shaw hadn’t noticed opened and a man stepped through carrying a coal scuttle.
‘Ah,’ said Abney. ‘Just the man. I must go – but this is Sam Venn. Sam runs the London Road Shelter – you know, for the homeless. Great work. And, more importantly, he’s our boiler man. It’s all a bit antique, Victorian coal-fired. Only Sam knows how, like his father before him …’ Abney stopped, suddenly inarticulate, as if he’d said something shocking.
He fumbled with the buttons on his raincoat. ‘He’ll know about this woman if anyone does.’ He turned to Venn. ‘Nora Tilden, Sam? These gentlemen are from the police and they’re making inquiries about her burial.’ He looked at them all briefly, then said, ‘Goodbye. A mystery – you can let me know what it’s all about later.’ He broadcast a smile.
Venn stood awkwardly still, watching the pastor leave. He was slight, with very narrow shoulders and an unsettling face: it slumped on one side, as if it had been made in wax and left in front of a fire, the effects of what Shaw guessed to be cerebral palsy. The right eye was much lower than the left, lazy and, Shaw guessed, blind. And the mouth on that side turned down as well. He was middle aged, dressed well in a thermal jacket and moleskin trousers, and he said nothing, instead waiting confidently for a question.
Shaw showed him his warrant card.
‘Mr Venn,’ he said. ‘Nora Tilden. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Venn put the scuttle down and Shaw noticed for the first time that he held his right arm awkwardly, as if it was in an invisible sling.
‘Yes. Yes, I remember Nora. But what is it – nearly thirty years? It’s a very hazy memory, I’m afraid.’ He looked around, as if speaking to a delegation. Venn’s voice was strong, educated, with only a slight inflection of the Norfolk accent, and his manner was smooth. Shaw was ashamed to think he’d presumed his character would reflect in some way his damaged body.
‘Nora was a devout woman, so most of our church members would have been at the graveside. I was there – but, as I say, it’s a long time ago. All those who could have attended would have. Her grandfather had been pastor …’ Shaw nodded. ‘I’m sure her soul’s with the Elect. Her faith was her life in all things.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Shaw, failing to keep a note of animosity out of his voice. There was nothing like the hint of dogma to spark a flash of the Shaw family temper.
‘Calvin taught us, teaches us, that we should live according to the principles of our church in everything we do. And that we should be regulated in our worship. And we are. To step outside the Word invites his retribution.’
On the word ‘retribution’, Venn’s left hand crossed to touch the damaged right.
‘Does that include music and dancing?’ asked Shaw.
‘Yes, we allow both. Some of the churches which were once our sisters and brothers ban certain forms of music and dance. But they are not proscribed by the Scripture. And we follow the Word in all things. Without exception.’
‘Alcohol?’ asked Valentine, happy to indulge in his favourite subject.
‘Calvin made sure there was a copy of the Bible in every tavern in Geneva. Moderation was his teaching, not abstinence.’
Venn was struggling, under cross-e
xamination, to keep the smile going. ‘What is this about, may I ask?’
‘I can’t be specific,’ said Shaw. He could have told Venn the facts, as he’d told Fletcher, but something made him want to keep the man guessing. ‘Nora Tilden’s body has been disinterred as part of the ongoing work at the cemetery. There are some irregularities – we need to clear them up. She was murdered by her husband, I believe – is that right?’
Venn seemed to start at the sudden question. ‘Yes. Of course – terrible.’
‘We’re told that two black men attended her funeral. Do you know who they might have been?’
Venn shook his head. ‘Not by name, though I might be able to find out. There was a father and son, I know that much. The father worked for the corporation; at the bus depot, I think. They were with us a year – no more. After that I think they went to Peterborough. I’m sorry – the name really is gone. Shall I try to find it for you?’
‘Please,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s important. So you knew the Tildens well?’
Venn looked at his wristwatch. ‘A bit. Nora was an unhappy woman in many ways. I think the only joy in her life was experienced in this place. She didn’t really want to run the pub – any pub. But her father left it to her, so she didn’t have much choice. It was the family business, the family inheritance. Her father – Arthur Melville – made it pretty clear that’s what he expected of her. And there’d been a child at first, I think. Died in infancy. I seem to recall we always put her in our prayers …yes, a daughter. I always got the impression Nora spent the rest of her life grieving.’
Shaw checked his watch, frustrated by a sense that Venn was deliberately skirting direct answers to his questions.
‘But you’d have known Alby, when he came back from his travels?’
‘Yes. Some of his stuff used to clutter up the pub, I remember.’ Venn closed his eyes, as if trying to see into the past. ‘I recall a gong which stood in the billiard room. Vast thing. And some prints. And a gold Buddha he had up on a shelf – that always scandalized our church councillors. It’s still there.’
‘You used the pub?’ asked Valentine, surprised.
‘Yes. Still do. Two or three times a week for lunch. I was born here, Sergeant; went to the school. I see old friends. The Flask’s a special place, you see – it’s pretty much all that’s left of the community, except for our little church.’
He didn’t volunteer any more information, although Shaw felt certain he knew more than he’d said.
‘Thank you for your time, sir. Those names – the two black men who attended the Tilden funeral. We really do need to check them out. So, if you can …’
Venn looked at the coal scuttle he’d set at his feet. ‘I need to ring our archivist – she keeps the records. Every church member makes a tithe, so we should have something written down. Today, with luck?’
‘Please – soon as you can,’ said Shaw, turning towards the door. Under the twin portraits he stopped and turned. ‘Did Alby Tilden attend church?’
Venn laughed. ‘Er, no. Alby was one of those men who thinks that it doesn’t matter what they do, what rules they break, they should always be welcome in their own homes. I have no idea what he was like before he left …but we all knew the stories, the war hero. What’s that terrible euphemism: a man’s man?’ Venn looked up at the ceiling, the lightest of blues. ‘Some nights, if he’d had enough beer, he’d show you. Show anyone.’ He arched the brow over his good eye.
‘Show you what?’ prompted Valentine.
Venn glanced past them at the portrait of Equiano.
‘He had this tattoo, on his back, of a woman. A black woman. She was naked – a loose woman, I suppose. He could make her move with his muscles. Locals loved it. As party tricks went it was a winner every time. He’d do it in front of Nora …’ He shook his head, looking at the parquet floor. ‘I was there to witness this and I think it is one of the cruellest things I have ever seen. She was a hard woman, and she set her face against the world. But she didn’t deserve that. I thought it was …’ As he searched for the word he cradled his damaged arm. Then he looked with his good eye into Shaw’s. ‘Evil. Which is a rare thing, thanks be to God.’
9
The Flask stood on a slight rise by the river, a small clay cliff holding it clear of the tidal reach of the sea, four miles distant along the Cut. It was impossible to hide the building’s architectural heritage: the second floor jutting out above the first, the third above the second, the original beams exposed between the intricate brickwork. It stood at the end of Greenland Street, a stub of terraced houses petering out a hundred yards short of the river, leaving the pub to stand alone – the one property left behind when a line of slum tenements had been cleared. The demolition had left the Flask without vital support, hence the two steel buttresses which held up the end wall. Beyond the pub lay Flensing Meadow, and through the cemetery a riverside walk the council had cleared in the 1980s. Vandals had ripped up the wooden benches, and a plinth which told the story of Lynn’s whaling fleet was drenched in graffiti. Dog bins gave off a pungent scent, even in winter.
The pub sign hung from the first tier of the building and depicted a whaling ship. Over the beamed doorway a small plaque read ELIZABETH AND JOHN JOE MURRAY; LICENSED TO SELL BEERS, WINES AND SPIRITS.
In front of the door stood DC Fiona Campbell.
‘Sir – Tom wanted you to see something.’
Valentine put a hand on the pub door, pushing it open. ‘I’ll suss the place out.’
Shaw led Campbell round the building to a wooden deck which held six picnic tables, all dripping, snow melting from the slated tops. They stood looking out at the grey water. Just below them was an old stone wharf, a small clinker-built sailing boat moored by a frayed rope, the deck enclosed within a stretched tarpaulin. On the far side of the river they could hear the mechanical grinding of a conveyor belt in the cannery. Shaw thought about Freddie Fletcher’s ‘good British fare’ – local shellfish, cooked and canned. In midstream the trawler stood silently, while mist lingered on the water like steam drifting from a hot spa.
‘Fiona?’ He looked her in the eyes, which were brown and liquid and unflinching. Shaw had noticed that several people he knew well had developed a strategy when looking into his eyes. They focused only on the undamaged left, never the moon-like right. It gave him the impression she was looking over his shoulder.
Campbell flipped open her notebook to show Shaw a picture she’d drawn: a child’s image of a gibbet, a stickman hanging by the neck, but unfinished, with no legs and just one arm.
‘Tom found this drawing – well, one just like it – in the victim’s wallet. It’s my copy. The wallet had given it some protection from the water, but the paper’s virtually dust after the drying out. Tom could see some ink marks – used a box of tricks to get the image. There were other pieces of paper, all in a bundle, all the same size, but he couldn’t lift an image except for this one, which was halfway down. But there are ink traces on all the pages.’
Shaw tried to think straight, aware this might be important but irritated by the playfulness of the little drawing.
‘It’s from a game of hangman, isn’t it?’ asked Campbell.
‘It looks like it,’ said Shaw. He’d always found hangman macabre, a vicious echo of Victorian childhood, with its humourless grinning clowns and nightmare automata. ‘But it isn’t – is it? In the game you have to try to guess a word, and that’s usually spelt out on the same piece of paper. So it probably isn’t a game.’
Campbell looked at the sketch she’d drawn, baffled.
‘And our victim’s how old – twenty, twenty-five? A bit old for games, anyway.’
‘Keeping them in your wallet’s a bit weird, too,’ she said.
‘The paper?’
‘Tom says standard notebook – each sheet a torn-out page. The ink could have come from any high-street biro.’
Shaw looked up at the riverside façade of the pub. It hadn’t been a thought that
had even crossed his mind, the idea that the pub had been home to children – first the infant Mary, then Lizzie. He’d always thought of pubs as being aggressively adult, having spent many hours in his childhood sitting outside them.
‘Circulate a copy of this to the team, Fiona. For now I can’t think of anything else we can do with it.’ He put a finger to his left temple. ‘Just keep it here.’
He led the way back to the front of the pub, letting Campbell go in first. It had just turned twenty past eleven but the only customer was George Valentine. He pushed a half-empty pint glass away from himself as if it wasn’t his. Music played, filling up the empty room with something melodious from The Jam: ‘That’s Entertainment’.
The quarry-tiled floor had been mopped, though the disinfectant hadn’t quite erased the fug of the cellar, or the odours of a fried breakfast. But there was another smell – a scent – which drifted from a vase of white orchids on the bar. The room was panelled, wooden settles running round the walls, the windows glazed with coloured Victorian glass. Old prints crowded the walls – whaling ships, dockside scenes. Christmas decorations gilded the woodwork and ceiling beams. There was a large brass gong at the foot of the stairs, mounted on a dark wood frame, and Shaw recalled Sam Venn’s words: that when Alby Tilden had returned from his exotic travels he brought back a cargo of equally exotic memorabilia.
Two bay windows looked out on the wide river, the clear glass engraved with the name of Lynn’s Victorian brewers – Cutlack & Sons – now long defunct.
The barman did a little routine out of central casting: rearranging the beer cloths on the bar, touching one of the pumps, trying out a smile. He was in his late forties, early fifties, but clearly clung to the years of his youth – a vain shock of greying black hair swept back to flop over both ears, and he wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a bleached-out portrait of Ian Dury. The bones of his skull had once supported a handsome face: a narrow pointed chin, high cheekbones and a thin, fine nose. On his neck was a tattoo of an electric guitar in a vivid moss green. His eyes were green too, bright and youthful, but his skin had all the surface tension of a week-old party balloon.