Inheritance

by Ellen Kefferty

  Edith’s body jolted awake. She had fallen back into sleep without realizing.

  With a sigh she craned her long body out of bed. Much too tall, her body reflected in the full–length mirror. Too thin, no curves. A fifteen–year–old–boy could have done a better impression of a grown woman.

  In the shower she admitted to herself yesterday had happened. She would have to do something with it. Sam had told her the bare outline, enough to get started. The internet filled in the detail of the accident. Tragic stuff, a life cut short. Thomas Faircote had driven his car over the cliff of a disused quarry. It was late, dark. Maybe he had been drinking.

  Sam was devastated by his cousin’s death. He wanted closure. That was natural enough. Maybe that was all there was to it. Whatever value she provided wouldn’t be in the truth, it would in his contentment.

  There was no way to fail. No way that Sunny’s warning would come true. Dad would be happy, Sunny would be happy. Well, Sunny would be relieved.

  “Here’s your breakfast.” Edith slid a tray of fried eggs on toast along the carpet. There was less chance of an accident in the darkness if she let him pick it up rather than try to guide it into his hands.

  “Ta.” The sound of cutlery on plate was followed by openmouthed chewing. “So, tell me about the case.”

  “Right,” Edith sat, cross–legged, gesticulating into the dark with her hands, “Samuel Faircote, he’s the guy who called. Owns a business, Faircote Paints. Well–spoken guy.”

  “Good, good.” Ben’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Lots of money there, surely?”

  “Yes,” she thought to Sam promising that money was no issue, “I mean, I guess.”

  “I hope you quoted him a big fat fee.”

  Edith wanted to ignore him. Had he meant to shock her? She hadn’t known what the proper fees were but her way was fairer. It was better to avoid the discussion now. He would never find out what she had said. He wouldn’t like it if he did.

  “Anyway,” Edith continued, “his cousin Thomas Faircote was killed in a car accident three months ago...”

  “Car crash,” Ben chipped in, “nothing’s ever really an accident. Even when it’s innocent.”

  “Well, Sam thinks it’s dodgy. He doesn’t believe it was an accident. Or innocent. Police reported at the time that Thomas was terribly drunk. An autopsy backed that up. Sam says he was a teetotaller.”

  Ben shrugged. “Tricky that. People like to think the best of their family. You know, ignore that somebody’s gone off the rails and become an alcoholic. They won’t even admit it to themselves, and go to great lengths to deny it.” He shifted in his chair. “But then again, it’s the best way to kill somebody, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Run ‘em off the road or run ‘em over.” Ben clinked his cutlery down. “Hundreds, no, thousands die in car crashes every year. All ages. Everywhere. People cry when it’s somebody they know. Not when it’s a stranger. Most folk just accept that it happens.”

  Edith couldn’t object. Her father’s words were true. Humans were capable of accepting awful things. In her first year at university she had seen it for herself.

  On Oxford Road, a crunching thud and scattering of glass in the distance. It could have been anything, were it not the obvious. Within a few minutes she was alongside. A car half–flattened beneath the 142 bus.

  The police had arrived in seconds. Well–practiced in cordoning off the scene, redirecting traffic, dispersing crowds. Edith stopped, morbidly hoping for a forbidden glimpse. Guilt her own feelings soon became anger at others. They simply walked by. They saw what she saw, and they could figure out what she had. Somebody lay dead in that heap of metal. They didn’t consider it necessary to register the fact with even a casual concern. It didn’t matter.

  “The best thing is,” Ben broke into her thoughts, “if you get caught you just say it was unavoidable. They swerved into you. They were driving erratically. Even if the police reckon you caused it you won’t get as long in prison as outright murder.” Ben sniffed. “Anyway. Go on.”

  Edith gather herself, still half lost in her memory. “Well, that’s it, really. Sam just wants me to look into it. See if I can’t find something the police got wrong.”

  “Easy money! And finding something the police got wrong?” Ben sobbed with laughter. “It would be hard to find something those incompetents get right! Oh my days!”

  Edith drew the breakfast tray toward her and checked it contents by feel. She opened the inner door and slid it out for later. She stood, ready to leave, hoping that her Dad would hear and stop laughing.

  “Well, sweetheart, I should think you’ll need my guidance.” Ben countered Edith’s cue with a command. “Sit down.”

  “I thought you said it would be easy.”

  “It is. But maybe not for you,” his words bit, “so sit down.”

  Edith crouched.

  “I want you to collect more information. More than what this Samuel Faircote knows. More than what the newspapers print. There’s always more, usually a lot. It should take you a few days. Maybe a week. Bring it back to me as you get it, understand? And tell me everything you hear. Don’t leave anything out. I’ll be the one to decide what’s important.”

  “Right.” Edith blinked. This was beyond his usual condescension.

  “I’ll take over once you’re done. Remember you’re just speaking to people, okay? That’s all you need to do. People love to talk, especially about themselves. They’ll let you know most things once you get them talking. You’ll be surprised.

  “Let people know you’re listening. Pretend you find their words interesting. Flattery usually work. If not, use some kind of persuasion, maybe just...no, wait,” Ben’s fingers rasped over his stubble, “flirt with them. Yeah, that’s the best thing for you. You’ve got to use your resources, like.”

  “Dad!” Edith stood and grabbed the handle of the inner door. “I’m going to the scene of the crash. I’m going to take a look round. The news articles quoted witnesses. I’ll track them down and see where it takes me.

  “I have given this some thought, you know.”

  “Hmm, you’re not so stupid, are you? But,” Ben wagged his finger, “don’t just look at the crash. Find out more about the man. Speak to his friends. Could well be Sam’s wrong about his cousin. Find one person who says he’s shared a drink with this Thomas Faircote and we’re done. Payday.”

  “Okay.” Edith opened the inner door and stooped to pick up the tray. ‘Stupid’ lodged in her mind.

  “Oh, and Edith, leave me something to eat, won’t you? I don’t fancy starving while you’re out.”

  Edith tucked the white Punto into a lane end, the car stopping with a jerk. The lane ahead faded into ruts as it reached upward to where the brow met the sky. The slope lay partitioned by dry stone walls, riven by cloughs as deep as the fugitive trees they sheltered. Sheep drifted lazily over the fields grazing, sheltering with the trees.

  Edith exited the car and surveyed behind her. The broad pillow of moors rose in the distance, patched with browned heather and revealing seams of golden grass. A motorway crammed with cars skirted the moor’s lower edge. The M62 tore through this near–desert, a stripe of grey guiding city–dwellers to somewhere they were meant to be. It was nearer than it seemed, the coursing rumble of vehicles masked by the wind.

  Between her and the motorway the land dipped, filled with water. A thin reservoir threaded through the landscape. Its bright surface reflected more light than the cloud–prisoned sky possessed. The wind straked ripples across its surface.

  Nearer yet, between the water’s edge and the main road where she stood, the geography of this place unfolded a final surprise.

  Edith crossed the main road. Orange plastic fencing staked over a hole torn through the dry stone wall testified that this was the right place. She peered over the wall’s remains and down the sheer drop of a cliff. A small quarry scattered with forsaken stone and brown time–serve
d weeds lay below. The far side opened straight out onto the water of the reservoir, a rime of bushes and grass the only barrier.

  There, in the middle of the quarry, streaks of red paint and pools of broken glass were the only relics of Thomas Faircote’s end. Reports said the car had turned over two and half times to rest on its roof. Thomas was trapped in a scrunch of metal, deathly injured by the force of impact.

  It didn’t matter how the car came to rest. She turned round once more to examine the road. It had been easy enough to drive along with a little care. It was narrow enough that mistakes would be unforgiving. On one side the land sloped up, on the other down. The verge between the road and the quarry wall almost non–existent. Whenever a car approached Edith hugged the wall instinctively.

  Thomas Faircote, a few drinks in his blood, could have made the fatal error. Darkness, tiredness, maybe distraction, many things would help on the way over the quarry side. The police were right. The police had every reason to be right. Alcohol would have been enough to make the difference between a careful driver and a dead one on this road. There were no witnesses to the crash. None were needed. Place and circumstance were witness enough.

  Ben’s theory ran through Edith’s mind. It wasn’t relevant. A person could be run off the road anywhere. This place was better than most only because it was easier to kill yourself accidentally too.

  She peered once more over the wall. Unwanted lightness rose inside her at the conceit of using a quarry as a murder weapon. It was ridiculous.

  She scolded herself for laughing at a man’s death. The bare remains of the crash, the scrapes of paint on rock, the puddles of glass, couldn’t convey the full horror of his final moments.

  “Excuse me!”

  Edith span round to see a woman leaning out of a Land Rover, blocked by the Punto.

  “Is this your car?”

  “Oh, gosh, sorry. Yes it is.” Edith ran across the road and rummaged in her handbag for the keys. “I’m so sorry.”

  The keys took longer to find than expected. There was too much junk. “Sorry, just a moment.”

  “Were you a friend, then?” The Land Rover woman nodded her head toward the broken quarry wall. “I saw you looking.”

  “Sorry?” Edith glanced up from the newfound keys.

  “Of the dead man? Horrible thing to happen, but he only has himself to blame.”

  Why say such an unkind thing? The contempt in her voice was open and obvious. The coroner had blamed alcohol and so, now, did everybody else. It wasn’t worth responding. There was nothing to gain from an argument.

  The woman grimaced. “I have work to do. The sheep don’t look after themselves.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” Edith fumbled with the keys in the lock. Her father’s command crept into her mind: ‘talk to people’. He body turned to face the Land Rover before a question had formed. For want of anything better she ventured the first thing to mind. “Were you here, on that night?”

  “No, no, I wasn’t. Our farmhouse is round the hill.”

  “Oh. I just thought with your fields being here.”

  “Our house is the nearest to the quarry but there’s no way we could have heard it. We heard a siren late at night, nothing more. The first thing we knew about the crash was when a friend called us the following morning with the news.” The driver sniffed. “Anyway, I work to do.”

  “Okay, well, thanks.” It had been worth a try. There was nothing to gain in pursuing things with her.

  Edith turned back to the car with keys. After a single stab at the lock they she dropped them. For fuck’s sake. A deep breath before she stooped to collect them from the mud.

  “Are you all right?” The Land Rover woman was still waiting.

  “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” Edith didn’t look at her as she spoke.

  “You don’t sound it.” The Land Rover’s engine was turned off. The driver’s voice softened with unwonted sympathy. “You said you didn’t know the man?”

  “I, well...the truth is,” the woman’s sudden tenderness felt like a trap. Maybe a cover for prurience, fishing for something interesting about the dead drunk driver. It wasn’t real, but it was an opportunity.

  The truth would make the woman suspicious, shut down the conversation for a second time. A good story would force her to offer something in return. Was it worth a lie? Edith weighed up the moral objections, quickly deciding that she owed the woman nothing.

  “I’m,” a flush of unexpected had to be restrained before she could resume, “I’m Thomas’s cousin. We were quite close.” It was a neat lie. Could there be any objection to it? Thomas’s cousin had sent her there.

  “Oh, I am sorry!” The woman stepped out of her Land Rover. She demonstrated newfound sympathy with a nod and tilt of the head. “I’m sorry that I disturbed you. I appreciate that it can’t be easy. Did your family take it hard?”

  There it was, the prying question.

  Edith swallowed and looked to the ground, cursing herself for exploiting this woman, even if she deserved it. She raised her face after a moment, complete with a fake tear.

  “Do you know who was the first to find him? I read that a man out walking his dog came upon Thomas sometime after the crash.” Edith nodded gently. “I wanted to give him my thanks.”

  The woman stepped forward, and experimentally stroked Edith’s upper arm. “That’s so sweet of you. I’m sure he would love to meet you. He has such a kind heart.”

  “Do you know him? How I can find him?”

  “You’ll be wanting to speak to Trugger.”

  “Trugger?”

  “Hmm, Bill, Bill Blacknell. He’s always walking his dog hereabouts, giving the sheep no end of grief. Just go up into Booth Wood and you’ll find him. He’s about seventy with a black dog. Molly. He’s always around. You’ll spot him easily.”

  The road curved gently along the reservoir on the short drive to Booth Wood. The slope to the left scattered with houses set among fields. On the right a small dam held back the water’s head yielding a wooded dale dropping far below. The tops of pines sprang up at eye level as the road turned sharply.

  Now on the left more houses, sat shoulder to shoulder, squeezed upon the road’s edge. Their doors let out almost into the path of cars. Their backs cut sharply into the slope’s rock, the same stone from which they had been built.

  The road dipped into a dale and trees loomed steep on either side. There was no more village. A sign ahead read ‘Rishworth’. She had driven too far. Booth Wood had gone by without sight of Trugger and Molly.

  A quick turn in another lane end. Back the same way to Booth Wood. Driving at a crawl, careful to note the few people she saw. Still had no luck.

  Another turn back at the reservoir. A third pass of the village. The fuel gauge was healthy. Plenty left, unlike her bank account. Better not to waste it profligately.

  Edith pulled into the forecourt of a pub. It was nearly half eleven. Trugger was bound to walk by, assuming the woman was right. Wait for half an hour, or an hour. Maybe ask somebody else now she had a name.

  Edith’s eyes wandered up and down the long curving road, roaming for a sight of Trugger. The village was tiny. She could see it all from her windscreen. Nobody stirred, with or without a black dog. Cars passed by regularly, but few went out for a walk on a weekday morning in November. She played with her phone for distraction, keeping half an eye on the footpath for any movement.

  Twenty minutes passed. A young woman strolled into view, dressed for jogging, idling to catch her breath. The jogger definitely wasn’t Trugger. Edith could leap out and interrogate her anyway. If she thought it might be useful.

  A second’s consideration was too much. The women set off again on her run. The chance was lost.

  Damn. Edith pressed her head into the steering wheel in frustration. The horn pipped. She drew back sharply. With a sheepish grin she surveyed the road once again, hoping that nobody had stopped to look at the awkward woman in the Fiat Punto.

 
There he was, settling down onto a stone wall a little further along the road. He must have come up a path from the valley below. Now he stared straight at the car. He had heard her.

  Trugger was a welcome vision, though not a particularly beautiful one. Wrapped up in an old jacket and well–rounded with fat. A face that could have been anybody’s grandad. Grey hair peeked from under his cap. A black collie padded in a the leaves nearby him.

  Edith left the car and strode toward them, hazarding the road without looking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Uh–oh, here comes trouble, Molly.” Trugger smiled at Edith while pretending to speak to his dog.

  “Are you Trugger?” Before her question could be answered it was interrupted by Molly’s curiosity. Edith crouched to welcome her new friend. The way to a man’s heart was through his dog. “And you must be Molly?”

  “Are we famous now then, lass? It looks like we have a fan.” Trugger still spoke to his dog, awkwardly refusing to concede a human conversation.

  Edith smiled and sat nearby on the hard stone wall. Their dog–mediated conversation was at an end. “I’ve been told that you were the first on the scene of the car crash. The one at the quarry in August.”

  “Ah, yes.” Trugger’s voice tightened and he looked away. “Are you from the paper? I don’t much like being famous.”

  Edith swallowed, ready to lie again. This time to exploit somebody who had only done good. “I’m the man’s cousin. I just wanted to thank you.”

  Trugger bent his face toward her. A nervous smile. “Oh, lass, I’m sorry to hear it. I did what I could, but then so would anybody. You don’t have to thank me. No, not at all.”

  Edith forced a tear. It was her one trick. “It’s reassuring to know that somebody was with him in his last moments.” She lay her hand on Trugger’s shoulder. “To know that he wasn’t alone.”

  “Well, if it made a difference then that’s all that matters. There wasn’t much I could do though, naturally.”

  “Would you tell me what happened? I’ve read the news articles but I know they leave out so much. The don’t tell you the details, and it’s the little things which matter to me. It would be nice to hear it from you.”