by Jim Kelly
‘Did you see Kathryn again?’
‘No. But I went down to Neate’s Garage later – about eight.’
‘Why?’
‘Before the burial service Kathryn had asked a favour. She wanted to get into Peterborough the next morning and asked if we’d give her a lift. She didn’t say but I know her social worker was there and she’d been in before, when she was pregnant. As I say, I didn’t ask, but the fact that she didn’t explain suggests that was where she was going. I don’t think the family approved of the social worker, of any outsider really, getting involved in the family’s business. The Neates were going straight to the new garage the next morning, so she was stuck.’
‘So you gave her a lift?’
‘I said yes at the time but then we decided, later on, that we’d drive up that night and leave the removal men to load up in peace the following morning. So I went down to say that perhaps they would take her if I had a word – but she’d have to get up to the vicarage by nine or they’d probably be off – we’d packed all the crates, you see, and we didn’t have a lot of furniture of our own. A lot of the church’s stuff had been sold at an auction in the village the week before – that’s what a lot of people did.
‘Anyway, I had to let her know that the arrangements had changed and she’d have to try her luck.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. She wasn’t in. Jimmy answered the door and we went into the kitchen. George was still there and they’d been drinking, there was a half-drunk bottle of whisky on the table. Walter was upstairs, they said, sleeping it off. I just told them to give her the message, that I couldn’t help with the lift.’
‘What was the atmosphere like? You said they’d argued in the church.’
Lake shrugged. ‘Like I said, George was family really so I guess they’d cleared the air.’
‘And that was it?’
‘That was it. I thought about going into the village to try and find her but it was late by then and dusk was falling. I could see lights down on The Dring where the dance was on, people out in the street, music. The last thing young people want to see when they’re enjoying themselves is a dog collar.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Did you see anyone else that night, before you left?’
‘A few. As I said, we had this little party, well a few drinks, for the sidesmen, the organist, the women who helped with the old people’s club, and the ringers, of course – those that were left and still sober. And my wife went down to the almshouses to bring Joyce Crane up – she was ninety then. We would have brought the others up, the men, but they were already in the inn. Free beer, you see. Our invitation was not the first on the list of attractions.’
Dryden nodded.
Lake raised a finger to his lips. ‘And Magda.’
‘Magda Hollingsworth?’ Dryden could see her now, bent over her diary, setting down the story of the girl who’d threatened to kill her baby.
‘Yes. I remember because I told the police, when they got in contact later after they found she was missing. I said she’d had problems with depression and suchlike but that I never thought she’d harm herself. But I saw her that last night, yes, walking out along Church Street, out of the village, towards Telegraph Hill. That was later – just before eight, just before I went down to the garage.’
‘Was that unusual, to see her out there?’
‘No. Magda was a great walker, which caused a bit of a scandal – I mean talk about narrow-minded. They said it was gypsy blood, that she couldn’t bear to be inside a house for long. Rubbish! That woman loved her home. I think it was losing it that broke her. She’d often go up there and sit by the water tower with a book – another dangerous eccentricity in Fen eyes, I’m afraid. My wife liked her, said she really cared about the place, the village community. But she was a bit much for most people – ankle bracelets, that kind of thing. They thought of her as a gypsy. And you couldn’t say a lot worse than that in Jude’s Ferry.’
Lake held up a hand, aware he’d gone too far. ‘She had friends in the village, good friends. Not everyone tried to cast her out. Bob Steward – one of our churchwardens – used to work for the water board, it was his job to check the tower every week and the water quality. He’d often find her up there on the grass, enjoying the solitude. I told her once that if she really wanted peace and serenity she could always sit in the church.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t work.’
Suddenly there was a wave of screaming from the surf and they both stirred, as if wakened from a sleep. Dryden switched tack. ‘And Peter Tholy – he was a friend of George, wasn’t he? Did you help him with his immigration request?’
‘Yes. I was amazed he did that, a lot of people were.’
‘Why?’
‘Just so timid. He was eighteen then, perhaps nineteen, and I really don’t think he’d been out of the village but to go to school. But I guess he trusted George, and there was nothing for him here. I did warn him, you know. I said I was an immigrant too and it wasn’t all bold new horizons.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Nobody else in his life?’
Lake shook his head. ‘I knew the family actually, going back a couple of years – his mother went out first to Australia after she remarried. Callous woman, she wanted a new life and I don’t think she was particularly bothered if Peter followed her out or not. And there was Broderick, Colonel Broderick, he’d given Peter work and was genuinely concerned for his future I think. A glowing testimonial and references certainly – even if he was a bitter man.’
‘Bitter?’
‘I don’t know much – they were Methodists and worshipped in Whittlesea. But the marriage had failed and the son, the only child, had very much sided with the mother over the years. He visited, in fact he was often here in the holidays, but you could tell they didn’t hit it off. So I guess Peter helped fill the gap.’
‘So Peter’s father, then? Dead?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Many years before, long before I came to the Ferry in ’82. Farm labourer like his son. They were poor, genuinely poor. Those houses along the far side of The Dring were slums. The father had been married before and there were children from that marriage, I think. Anyway, complicated, if not by Fen standards. So plenty of mouths to feed and not much by way of a wage. Incredible, isn’t it? People used to stop and take pictures of those cottages, Americans mainly, come to see the church. That’s the problem with rural poverty, of course, it’s invisible. But it’s just as nasty as any ghetto. A little Soweto on Whittlesea Mere.’
‘Did you hear from him, from Peter?’
Lake leant back on his elbows. ‘Yup. I got cards from Peter and he made contact with the church in, er… now, where was it? Fremantle, I think. Yes, he was studious at keeping in touch, Christmas cards, that kind of thing. At least for the first few years.’
Dryden nodded.
‘But he never mentions George, which is odd now I think of it.’
‘Not so odd if George’s skeleton was hanging in Jude’s Ferry all the time,’ said Dryden.
A cloud crossed the coast, the temperature dropping suddenly, and as the rain began to fall the screams of little children filled the afternoon air.
27
They drove back south in silence, Humph lost in the vocabulary of a Faroese banquet, Dryden massaging his battered skull. As they reached Ely the sun finally broke through the mist and lit the cathedral’s lantern tower, the damp lead of the vast roof steaming in the sudden warmth. Dryden leant his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. Fred Lake had complicated the mystery of Jude’s Ferry to the point where Dryden found it hard to see any truth clearly. Where were the remains of Kathryn Neate’s child? Had she killed him in a bout of depression after the birth? Whose bones had been robbed from the Peyton tomb? And what of the empty grave in the cellar? Had George Tudor’s act of compassion in comforting his cousin cost him his life?
Dryden checked his watch: 5.20pm. The early editions of The Crow would be printed by now and sometimes
the delivery vans dropped some off in the Market Square, offering the paper’s loyal readers the chance to read tomorrow’s newspaper. The square was still crowded with market stalls, and a children’s roundabout played an annoying tune at the wrong speed. Skeg’s trestle table was on his pitch beside the Big Business tea bar, but there was no news paper seller and no Crow, just a pile of Cambridge Evening News’ and an honesty box, although his dog lay tethered to one of the tea-bar tables. Dryden walked briskly to The Crow’s offices but there was no sign of any papers there either, and Jean was placating a gaggle of keen customers who’d turned up to get first look at that week’s small ads.
Dryden jumped the stairs to the empty newsroom and logged on to check his e-mails. The US Peytons had been in touch.
Dear Mr Dryden,
Thank you for your e-mail – yes, we had been informed, but nevertheless what distressing news! As you may know, the society paid for the removal of the family remains in 1990 but we were unable to transfer the memorial and statuary due to the intervention of English Heritage. In retrospect we consider this decision was short sighted and ill advised. I thought you might like to know that we are reapplying to have the monument moved now – I attach the documentation – and have instigated legal proceedings against the Ministry of Defence for compensation. We hope to have the tomb fully restored in its new position at St John’s, Boston, Lincolnshire. Our own architect and restorer, who visited the original site in 1989, estimates the costs of removal and restoration at $360,000. We are reconstructing our website on St Swithun’s to accommodate an appeal form and this will be up and running by the end of the month. We hope your readers will be generous in their support.
Yours faithfully
John Peyton Speed
PS. I can’t resist a bit of personal history, if you’ll forgive me, Mr Dryden. My mother was a Peyton and was able to trace her lineage back to Sir Philip Peyton, one of the part owners of the Providence, the ship which made a landfall in Virginia in the third season after the arrival of the Mayflower. Sir Philip’s branch of the family had several manors in eastern England – including Nornea Hall at Jude’s Ferry – now lost of course but which stood on the site of Orchard House in the village. If you look carefully at the gardens you can still see the ditch which formed the moat. My wife and I had a most wonderful visit to the site in 1985. One of the truly memorable moments of our lives.
PPS. And if you do get the chance to visit the church ask for the key to the ossuary – an extraordinary room which gave us a real sense of all those past generations stretching back into history. Totally unique!
Dryden winced at the tautology in the last line, then sent himself an e-mail reminder to follow up the message on the legal action for compensation with the MoD.
Splash, the office cat, appeared and sat on his keyboard, a line of question marks appearing on screen. The touch of the fur brought back an image, the teenage Martyn Armstrong lobbing a petrol bomb through a pet-shop owner’s window.
He went online to find the archive for the Cambridge Evening News. Thankful for the slightly eccentric spelling of Martyn he quickly found eight articles stretching from January 1995 to November 2004. All were court cases involving animal rights demonstrations outside research companies in the Home Counties which experimented on live animals. The charges ranged from breach of the peace to assault, and most had resulted in short jail terms.
Armstrong’s address was different in each article, but all were in or around Ely, except the last, which was listed as no fixed abode.
‘Animal rights,’ said Dryden, shutting down the screen and running a finger along the still-tender wound round his eye.
Downstairs copies of The Crow had still not arrived so he cut down High Street Passage and into Butcher’s Row, stopping outside the display window of Foster & Co., Land Agents. There were fifty properties in the window, none of them matching the cottage next door to Paul Cobley’s he’d seen in the snapshot his mother had shown Dryden. He went in and a yob-in-a-suit, who was about to shut up shop, gave him an oily smile. Dryden liked estate agents, largely because they saved journalists from being listed as the country’s most despised professionals.
‘I was looking for a property someone said you had for sale – a cottage, one of a pair out on the fen. Victorian, I guess, red-brick, in need of work.’
The smile never faltered. ‘Right. You know, that’s so unlucky. I think we’ve just taken an offer on that and the vendor has accepted – so we’ve had to take it off the market.’
Dryden shrugged and headed for the door, wondering how long it would take for the prospect of a bigger commission to bend the rules.
‘But… you know. If you’re interested, I can ring the vendor now because nothing’s been signed.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Bit of gazumping eh? Can I see the details?’
He got the file from a pile by a cappuccino machine.
Albert Cottage was on Sedge Fen, a bleak farming district close to the edge of Thetford Forest, about ten miles from Ely. Dryden read the details and noticed the broadband internet link, the double garage and the access to the A12. Then he memorized the address and tossed the file back.
‘Actually I’ll give it a miss – a deal’s a deal after all, and if I offer more you’d probably stitch me up too, eh?’
He didn’t deny it, and Dryden left him fluttering around a new customer.
Back on Market Square Skeg was now at his pitch by the mobile tea stall, a fresh pile of papers on his trestle table. He pasted on a smile for Dryden but couldn’t hide the anxiety which made his narrow, childish body shake slightly as he handed Dryden a copy of The Crow.
Dryden looked into the wide brown eyes and guessed he was a few shillings short of a fix.
‘’Nother good week,’ said Skeg, dipping the waxed hair like a cap, forcing a smile beyond its natural life. He cradled a plastic cup of weak tea and a toasted cheese sandwich lay beside the papers, oozing grease. As well as the pile of first editions of The Crow there was also the Cambridge Evening News. Dryden read the banner headline and froze:
ARREST IN HUNT FOR VILLAGE KILLER
He grabbed a copy, threw some coins in Skeg’s tray, and read the first paragraphs, scanning the lines in a few seconds…
By Nikki Reynolds
Detectives have made an arrest in the hunt for the killer of the ‘Skeleton Man’ found hanged in a cellar in the abandoned Fen village of Jude’s Ferry.
The 37-year-old was taken to Midsummer Common police station, Cambridge in the early hours of this morning.
The man, who is understood to live in the Cambridgeshire area, had been interviewed on three occasions before being arrested at his home. It is understood no charges have as yet been made.
‘We are close to identifying the victim in this case, who we now believe may have been murdered by a lynch mob,’ said one detective close to the case.
Dryden scanned down the rest of the story and found nothing else that was new – and none of the details in his story.
But it was still a better story than the one he’d run. ‘Shit,’ he said, walking quickly away from the market-day crowd around to the back of the fish stall, where he stood amongst the discarded plastic crates still half full of crushed ice. He hit the automatic dial for the detective’s mobile.
Two rings. ‘Shaw,’ said the DI.
‘Dryden. Cambridge Evening News – front-page splash. They say you’ve made an arrest on the Skeleton Man case, which makes me look like a tosser. Anything you’d like to say?’
DI Shaw’s voice was low, and Dryden could hear the crackle of police radios in the background. He guessed he was still in the incident room at the New Ferry Inn.
Again, the maddening pause, time to work out exactly what he wanted to say.
‘It’s Mark Smith and he is under arrest for obstructing our inquiries, OK? That’s it. He has not been charged with murder and there is no intention to charge him with murder. His version of events on the last evenin
g, when the brothers fought, is full of holes. We’ve interviewed him three times and got a different story each time. I think the fight was about something else, something a lot more important than money, but he won’t give an inch. This might convince him we are serious about finding out the truth.’
But Dryden wasn’t giving up. ‘And what if it turns out it was his brother on the end of that rope in the cellar? What if the News has called it right? You don’t know for sure, do you – unless the DNA analysis is back?’
‘The lab has not got the results yet, that’s true. But I do know it wasn’t Matthew Smith in the cellar.’
‘You do? You going to share that information?’
‘Sure. But I don’t want it in the paper.’
A shower of rain had begun to fall and Dryden edged under a shop awning, watching the crowd run for cover. ‘OK,’ he said, realizing he had little choice.
‘Jennifer Smith, the sister, backs up her brother’s story for that night, as far as she can. She says they got home together before midnight and drank in the front room. I believe her about as much as I believe her brother, but there it is. I went to see her again this morning to run through it again and told her Mark was under arrest. This produced a remarkable return of memory. Apparently, a year after her mother’s death, she got a letter from Matthew. Nothing specific, just saying he was OK, and not to worry. She didn’t keep it. There was a snapshot inside of him kneeling by their mother’s grave. She kept that. She said she’d never shown it to Mark. She showed it to me. They’re not identical twins – so there’s no doubt.’
Dryden let it sink in. ‘You might have mentioned the arrest.’
‘I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want some idiot running a story like this. It leaked from Cambridge. The News read me the story and I told them not to print it – it’s misleading at best. We have absolutely no evidence he’s a killer, and pretty good evidence he didn’t kill his brother as he was alive and well several years after the evacuation. If Mark starts talking, and more to the point tells the truth, he’ll be out by teatime. If he gets himself a decent lawyer he’ll be out anyway. So the News will look pretty stupid tomorrow.’