That was when I tripped. Polly goes down with a thump, not hurting the Sprog, thank goodness, but grazing her knees. I scrabbled to grab the puppet case, which teetered on the edge of the riverbank. There was a jingle of change as the contents of my pocket spilled out on the ground. I scooped up earth and coins and shoved it all back in again. It would have been rotten to lose Earlie’s lucky ha’penny at that point—I needed all the luck I could get. And of course it was right then that I had a flash of Alma’s body, crumpled at the foot of Becket’s tomb, oozing blood, and I started to waffle about my certainty that she had been attacked by the Right-to-Lifers.
I walked as boldly as I could up to the entranceway of the Greyfriars building. Still seeing no sign of movement in the shadows, I found a low stone wall and sat upon it. Then I waited. I suspected that the thug was probably waiting, too. Maybe hiding out there somewhere and watching me, although I didn’t feel watched. The place was profoundly empty. I listened with all my concentration, could hear a car pass by on the street beyond the line of houses on the other side of the field, listened for footsteps on the dry grass, or a rustling in the hedge on the other side of the trenches, but there was nothing. The moonlight was quite strong enough for me to see the face of my watch, a clunky thing that I’d had for years, and both hands pointed straight up. Exactly midnight.
According to the guidebook, the Greyfriars monastery had stood long ago on the grounds in front of me. Four or five feet below the surface, they had found a floor of black and white clay tiles, beautifully preserved, and the traces of a colonnade, what must have been a cloister-walk. Seven hundred years ago, little monks in dark habits had paced about among the arches, praying perhaps, or scurrying off on some important errand, humans going about their business. Again, as when I’d been underground in the subterranean Roman museum, I was struck by the peculiarity of the earth, the way it built up, seemingly all by itself, and buried what had originally been at the surface. Further below, there was the Roman stuff, then the medieval layer on top of that, then the Renaissance layer, each subsequent era sandwiched together like a cake, with chocolate loam and chalky clay in between. In another few hundred years, the twentieth century layer would be covered over, too. And our precious linoleum floors and discarded washing machines would be discovered with whoops of delight by future diggers, lifted out carefully (“it fell apart in our hands, but I think it was an early device for sending messages, what they called a typewriter”) and displayed in museums. Costumed interpreters, dressed in ancient bell-bottoms and quaint tank-tops, would explain to schoolchildren how the people in the olden days used to sit in front of this box, made of a material they called plastic, and watch the pictures that flickered across its screen.
There was a disturbance in the quiet. I felt it more than heard it. Beyond the hedge, the setting-down of feet, heavy steps, steps that weren’t trying to be silent. He was coming. I gripped the handle of the puppet case tighter and stood up so he would see me. A chilly sweat broke out on my forehead and I found I was panting. The Sprog, Bess, did a little loop-deloop and drummed at my bladder.
“There’s no sign of him,” D.C. Potts said and switched on a powerful flashlight, pointing it straight into my face and blinding me. “We’ve had the area secure for more than two hours. You’ve been stood up, Ms. Deacon.”
Richard appeared then, along with another two police officers, and then a few more. One popped out from behind a bush, another from an alcove in the stone wall, and two from the trenches. The place was alive with cops. The only thing that prevented me from having a huge hissy fit was the fact that I hadn’t sensed them at all. I’d been convinced the place was empty, deserted. Unless the thug had been psychic, he wouldn’t have known either, I was sure of it. Unless he’d seen them getting into position two hours beforehand.
“I’m really sorry, Polly,” Richard said. “I couldn’t let you risk it, eh? And I’m no good in a fight.”
“When did you call them?” I said through clenched teeth. He was about to find out how well he could manage a fight, because he was about to have one.
“At the pub, when I went for a whizz. I had to—you do get that, don’t you?”
“What I get is that you’re someone I shouldn’t have trusted,” I said and turned my back on him. He’d been wonderful in bed—tender and considerate and remarkably sensitive. Too bad it didn’t extend to the upright position.
“We’ll leave the case here, Ms. Deacon,” Potts said, taking it from me and placing it carefully on the stone wall. “You never know, he may still attempt to pick it up, and we’ll leave a couple of men to watch it. And if you’ll come with me, we’ll get a statement from you about this little incident this afternoon at Eastbridge. We’ve already talked to the priest.”
“I should think he’s probably miles away at this point—not the priest—the thug,” I said. “He’ll wait until this dies down, and then come looking for me again. Thanks a lot.”
“You didn’t really think you could just give him your suitcase and he’d toddle off all happy, did you?”
“Well, actually, yes, I did. Now he knows that the police are involved, which will probably piss him off and make him think that whatever-it-was is still in my possession,” I said.
“And what do you think that whatever-it-was might be?” Potts said.
“I don’t know. The whole thing is a mistake—a misunderstanding.”
“Well, come along. Let’s get a hot cup of tea into you. You’re shivering.”
Richard came too, but I was not speaking to him.
I was in bed by two. I’d answered Potts’s questions, signed a statement and given yet another description of the thug. They had a police artist work up a sketch of him, which was reasonably accurate, I thought, until the artist herself muttered that it looked like every single white van man she’d ever seen wreaking havoc on England’s motorways.
“I’d arrest the lot,” she said to Potts. “It would make everybody very happy.” Maybe she was annoyed because she had been dragged out of bed, I don’t know.
I eventually accepted Richard’s apology. Maybe the midnight tryst had been a stupid idea, but I was still privately very pissed off.
“Will you let me take you to lunch tomorrow?” he said. “There’s a seminar on glove puppetry at two we could check out.”
“I’m going to be busy with something,” I said. “But we can go to the banquet together, if you want.” The wrap-up of the conference was planned for Saturday night, with a gala show presented by the Muppetworks contingent (I adore Muppets) and no doubt a bunch of interminable speeches from the organizers. By Saturday night, I figured I’d be over my snit. But I didn’t want to see Richard until then. Besides, I was planning a little side trip, and I didn’t want him along.
I was feeling guilty (predictably) about getting romantically (or at least carnally) involved with a non-Becker person, and I’d promised my wayward Canadian policeman a favour. I had some ashes to scatter, and I decided I’d take the train over to Eastbourne to do the thing on Saturday. I also wanted to look up Becker’s great aunt, whose address was stashed away in my bag. If she wasn’t too frail, perhaps she would like to come with me. That task completed, I’d be able to attend the final puppetry banquet with a clear conscience. Sort of clear, anyway, because I admit I did think that Richard might possibly be interested in another, you know, catnap, after the public festivities were over. I was mad at him, but not that mad. That probably means I’m a bad person, or at least an immoral one.
In spite of what the child-Catholic in me would have called a state of sin, I had it in mind to attend the service at the Cathedral in the morning on Sunday. Then I had a flight back to Canada that night. That’s provided the thug, the one who stood me up, didn’t interfere with my plans. I was thoroughly disgusted with the whole business, to tell you the truth, and grumpy as hell. At the same time, I was still buzzing from having enjoyed some extremely satisfying sex with Richard. This was a weird combination o
f emotions, which may very well be the reason for my clouded judgement, at least in retrospect.
Richard seemed pathetically pleased that I was willing to join him at the banquet. “We’ll sit with the Mermaid people,” he said. “It’ll be the Canadian table, eh?” It suddenly struck me how young he was, and I squirmed a little. He was like a Labrador retriever puppy, all bouncy and eager. There were times when Becker’s remoteness and involvement in his own affairs were exactly what I wanted. Conflicted? You bet. I bade Richard goodnight at the door of the B&B and did not invite him in. Then I tiptoed upstairs and crawled into bed, so wiped I didn’t even bother to move the puppets, just shoved them to one side. Then I fell asleep with my hand on the policeman puppet, cuddling him to me like a teddy bear.
Twenty-Four
In Elizabethan times, records of the area around the Borough of London estimated that approximately 38% of women accused of felony during the early modern era claimed to be pregnant in order to escape the gallows.
-From the history section of Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide
Edward Millbank Becker weighed about four pounds, in his cremated and pulverized state. The blue velvet drawstring bag he came in would have served as a very nice purse or shoe bag for somebody, once he no longer needed it. I had gone out to the shops early on Saturday morning and purchased a small day pack, put Mr. Becker Senior at the bottom of it, and a few sundries on top, including my toothbrush, wallet (the new one that was wide enough to carry those enormous English banknotes), the Pez-phone (because I was taking the trine) and an extra pair of socks, in case my feet got wet. My aunt Susan had taught me that. While the writer Douglas Adams maintained that the most essential item in the traveller’s arsenal was a towel, Aunt Susan knew better. You’ll always be glad of a dry pair of socks, and you can’t wear a towel on your feet.
The railway person behind the ticket counter was extremely helpful when I asked about the most direct route to Eastbourne. Although the trip as the crow flies was only about eighty kilometers (about the distance from Laingford to Barrie, in Ontario terms, an afternoon’s shopping trip), I was told I would have to change trains twice, and it would take two hours. Still, I didn’t have a car, and while Cedric had offered to drive me there in his Reliant Robin, I declined, shuddering at the notion of sitting in the three-wheeler on a major motorway, just asking to be squashed by a white van man. I bought a ticket at the Canterbury West station, hopped aboard the 9:44 (which was so empty, I didn’t have to use my Pez-phone at all) and settled back into my seat with a sigh. In a way, it felt good to get away from things for a bit, to escape the sensation of oppression I’d had since the visit to the Eastbridge Hospital. My delight in things ancient had been replaced in the ensuing hours with a closing-in feeling, exacerbated by the dark, narrow streets of Canterbury. I wanted some open spaces, and according to Richard’s guidebook, which I’d borrowed the night before, Eastbourne was just the place.
Eastbourne is situated at the foot of the South Downs in East Sussex. The South Downs run from Winchester in Hampshire to Eastbourne and are designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
Beachy Head is the most famous part of the Eastbourne Downland. Beachy Head rises 162 metres (530 feet) above the sea below and is the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain. The main reason for Beachy Head’s popularity is the wonderful panoramic view that can be seen from the cliff top. If you look east you see the beaches and town of Eastbourne, the Pier and the Harbour, and then on to Pevensey Bay and Hastings and, on an exceptionally clear day, Dungeness in Kent, nearly 40 miles away.
What the guidebook didn’t mention, but Cedric did, was that Beachy Head was England’s most notorious suicide spot. Apparently, throwing yourself from the top of a 530 foot cliff was a pretty foolproof method of dispatching yourself, and people did it all the time. Luckily, Mr. Becker Senior would suffer no ill effects from his own encounter with the cliff, although it occurred to me that I’d better be damned careful where I put my feet while I was in mid-scatter.
Cedric had packed me some sandwiches, which I munched reflectively as the train rattled through the Kent countryside. The region was, even in February, a place that lived up to its guidebook billing as an area of “outstanding natural beauty”. Kent was known as the garden of England. There were lots and lots of farms, hop-kilns like pointy hats rising out of the landscape, vineyards and orchards. As the train moved towards the downs, beautiful soft hills rose and fell, pastel-coloured in the cool winter sunshine, gentle browns and weary greens and the occasional golden patch. The trees in England are so very different from Canadian ones. They were tamed, somehow, as if they’d had to put up with the proximity to humans for so long that they’d knuckled under and agreed to behave themselves. They were bare of leaves, of course, but uniform and rounded, creating vistas and views that were straight out of pictures by Constable. I set the picture I saw out of the train window against my mind’s eye view of Northern Ontario, as seen from a VIA rail car on the way to Thunder Bay, a trip I’d once taken to work at Magnus Theatre. Then, I’d been staggered by the sheer expanse of uninhabited forest, hectares and hectares of tall pines and dense, muskeggy thickets. I suppose that England, once, had been like that. Back in pre-Roman times. Back when the English forest was alive with boars and stags and, if legend was correct, lions. (Probably not true about the lions. Dragons, maybe, though.)
It would be another seven hundred years or more before my Canadian landscape looked so thoroughly managed. By which time, the layers of history, as they were in Canterbury, would be striated and layered, each layer telling something about the people who had cut down the trees, tamed the wilderness and struggled to survive. A railway person came down the aisle at that point, offering drinks and snacks from a cart. I had a hankering for a bag of chips [packet of crisps—ref. Brent] and reached into my trousers pocket to find a handful of change, mixed with the earth I’d inadvertently scooped up the night before, on the grounds of Greyfriars.
I fished out a pound coin for my crisps, and before putting the whole mess back in my pocket, made sure Earlie’s lucky ha’penny was still there. It was, and in addition, there was something else. Another coin—an unfamiliar one.
It was small and dirty. I spat on it and scrubbed it clean with my sleeve, revealing a picture of a person in profile, wearing a crown and a ruffle around her neck. The lettering said Regina Elizabeth and some other Latin that I couldn’t make out. On the other side was a shield and some more Latin stuff. My hand shook a little. This was not something from a Cracker Jack box. It was an Elizabethan coin. Elizabeth reigned in the 1500s, I knew, more or less. Which meant that the scrap of metal in my hand had been pocket change to somebody, five hundred years ago. And how had it come to be sitting on the path at Greyfriars? And what remarkable circumstance had made me, in the dark, pick it up? Had it lain there in the grass beside the River Stour for hundreds of years, missed and ignored by centuries of visitors, centuries of passersby? Had some poor Elizabethan soul dropped it out of his or her pocket? Had it made a difference to lose it? Maybe it had been coughed up from below—heaved up from its Elizabethan layer of earth by the frost. I would never know. Before I’d cleaned it, it had just looked like a lump of earth, a thin pebble, or a bottle cap. It staggered me. It also made me feel incredibly lucky. I had found a treasure, although it was probably only worth a few dollars on the numismatic market—if that. But I had found it, or it had found me, in the dark. Now I would have a lucky coin to give the Sprog. Bess, I mean—named after Good Queen Bess herself—a splendid omen.
I changed trains at Ashford, and again at Hastings, by which point I could watch the sea from my window, the great, pewter-grey expanse that was whipped up into stiff waves by the February winds. It was clouding over a bit, and it looked like there might be rain or even snow on its way. It was going to be nippy atop the cliff, and I had a sudden image of trying to scatter Becker Senior and having all his ashy bits blown back in my face. Comical, but not very pleasant.
But before I scattered Becker Senior, I had to go and visit Becker’s great aunt Edith. I had her full name and address in the zippered pocket of my purse, where I’d put Earlie’s and Mr. Fogbow’s business cards. I took it out now and peered at it.
Edith Taylor, it said, the sister of the deceased man’s mom. She must be at least a hundred, I thought, but Becker had said she might still be alive, although she hadn’t responded to his message about his father’s death. She and Becker’s dad had exchanged Christmas cards, that was all. Becker had said she was pen pals with his mom, but not with Becker Senior, and obviously, she and her great-nephew had not done any major bonding in the short time they’d had together in Canada, when she’d come to attend Becker’s Mom’s funeral in ’97. Becker had told me that she stayed overnight in a hotel in Calgary and had flown home the next day. They’d shared a word or two at the reception, and then Becker’s dad had helped her into a taxi, and off she’d gone. Still, he figured he would have heard if she had died.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 96