‘You think this is him?’
‘It would explain how he got hold of the letter – Catherine’s letter to Maria. I think he must be a grandson of the old Lord Somerden. I’ll check it out, it’ll be easy to find out his daughters’ names. Or I could get Pierson’s parents’ marriage certificate. That would give Patricia’s father’s name.’
With his job at Ashleigh, the drive to and fro each day, and the hours he put in at his own house, Chris did not have much time to spare to track down Jason. Sometimes he drove around the estate when he got back there at the end of the day, checking out the street corners where Jason and his crowd usually hung around. There were not many kids about; they had probably found somewhere undercover to hide out now the evenings were darker and colder.
At Ashleigh, Chris found he was kept busy working for the company in charge of the restoration work. Despite himself, he was learning a lot about old buildings. Frank seemed to have adopted Chris as a personal protégé, often pausing to explain a feature of the building or aspect of the work. Chris did not tell him he was not that interested in old buildings and restoration techniques; he did want to keep his job.
‘There’s your doors,’ said Frank one day, indicating where they were carefully stacked and wrapped in a corner. ‘Just back from being cleaned and restored. Fire regulations won’t let us put them all back where they came from, unfortunately. We have to have fire doors in the main public areas. But we’ll use as many as we can, and they’ll all be displayed somehow.’
The discovery that Pierson was the old Lord Somerden’s grandson gave Chris an idea for another way to investigate him. On his way home one evening, he stopped off to eat at the pub he and Rob had visited on their first visit to Ashleigh. Most places did not like men walking in straight off a building site. Sitting in the van in the pub car park, Chris changed his workboots for trainers, brushed the dust off his jeans and put on a clean sweatshirt. That would have to do.
It was still early; the bar and restaurant were not yet busy with the evening trade. Chris ordered cottage pie and settled himself at the bar with his drink. He stuck to soft drinks. Much as he would have liked a beer, he could not afford to risk his licence.
‘This your first visit?’ said the landlord, resting his arm on the pumphandles. ‘I don’t remember seeing you in here before.’
‘I’ve been once, on a Sunday, with a mate. You were busy, not surprised you don’t remember.’
‘With a mate? Wait a minute. Now I remember you. You were interested in Ashleigh, weren’t you?’ The man looked pleased with himself for having remembered.
‘That’s right. And I’m working there now, on the restoration job.’
‘Really? I often wonder what the old lord would think, seeing all that money spent on it, when he could hardly afford to keep the rain from coming in. Still, he had no sons to inherit, so the new lord got landed with it. I suppose he had to do something with it.’
‘He had grandsons though, didn’t he?’ said Chris.
‘Just the one. Of course, he couldn’t inherit the title.’
The landlord’s wife appeared from the kitchen, with Chris’s cottage pie.
‘Shall I take it to a table for you, love?’
‘I’ll have it here, if that’s OK. No point in messing up a table just for me.’ He would not be able to continue the conversation if he was banished to a table on the far side of the room.
She put the dish down in front of him.
‘Mind, it’s hot. Here’s your cutlery. Were you talking about Nigel? I remember him staying with the old lord at Ashleigh, must be, oh, more than twenty years ago now. He was such a good looking boy, and lovely manners.’
Chris heard a timer ping in the kitchen.
‘Oh, that’s the apple pie done. I’d better go and see to it. Enjoy your meal, love. The desserts are up there on the board, if you want anything else.’ She indicated the chalk board on the wall beside the bar, then hurried back to the kitchen. The landlord watched her go, then turned back to Chris.
‘Lovely manners all right when he thought it’d get him what he wanted. He had a real nasty temper when he didn’t get his own way. I remember him trying to buy some cigarettes once – that was when there was still a shop down the road here. Stupid, because everyone knew him, and knew he wasn’t old enough. He kicked up a real stink when old Ernie wouldn’t let him have them. I was in the shop, and I heard it all. Did we know who he was, and Ernie would be sorry, and all the rest of it. Don’t know where he got those sort of ideas from, his grandparents weren’t like that at all, and neither was his mother. Anyway, old Ernie wasn’t having any of it, he came round the counter, took him by the arm and marched him out of the shop and told him not to come back. Well, he didn’t. But next morning Ernie’s missus found their cat dead. Poisoned, the vet said. Well, that cat was always out at night, in and out of other people’s gardens. It might just have picked up something that was meant for rats. But Ernie didn’t think so, and neither did I.’
Neither did Chris.
‘Is that why the old lord didn’t leave the house to him?’ he asked.
‘No, I think – just my opinion, mind, I never heard for sure – it was because he was never any good at sticking at things. Dropped out of university, never managed to hold down a job for very long.
All that showed two things, Chris thought. That Pierson had always been scum, and it wasn’t just kids on the Greenway who turned out bad. But it wasn’t exactly something they could use to make Pierson back off.
The cottage pie was good. So was the apple pie. Chris felt distinctly full as he drove home. It was Friday. Rob would be out, and he had all weekend to work on his house. He decided to go straight home. He left the van in the lockup he had rented – not where he had found Wayne’s body, but one of another set of garages on the other side of the estate – and started to walk back to the flat he shared with his mother, sister and nephew. He turned a corner and found himself face to face with Jason. Before Chris could react, Jason gave a yelp, turned and ran. Chris ran after him.
Jason might be a skinny runt, but he could move pretty quickly when he wanted to. And unlike Chris, he had not eaten cottage pie, apple pie and custard less than an hour ago. The distance between them widened, until Chris lost him completely in a dark corner of the estate. He gave up the chase and turned to continue his walk home.
He had not taken much notice of where he was. Now he realised he was approaching Conway House, where Wayne Simpson had lived. And there, a few yards away, coming from the opposite direction, was Deana Simpson, Wayne’s mum. Chris had been avoiding her since Wayne’s death. He did not want to talk about Wayne’s dead body, and he did not want to talk about Wayne alive, either. But there was no escaping now. Deana had seen him.
It would have been heartless to refuse when she asked him to come up to the flat. Close to, Chris could see she was not doing well. Her hair, sandy like Wayne’s, was dragged back from her face in a pony tail. Her skin looked sallow and unhealthy and there were dark circles under her eyes. Chris refused a drink, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. Deana poured herself a glass from a bottle on the sideboard. She downed it quickly and refilled the glass.
‘Tell me about Wayne,’ she said, her voice harsh.
‘Deana, you really don’t want to hear about it,’ Chris said.
‘Yeah, I do. ’Cos then I’ll know, see?’
‘The police must have told you about it.’
‘Them.’ She was contemptuous. ‘They didn’t care about my Wayne. Always down on him when he was alive, they were. Now they can’t even find out why he’s dead.’ She took a cigarette out of the packet on the table. Her hands were shaking and she fumbled with the lighter. When she finally had it lit, she took a deep pull. ‘People said he was a bad boy, but he wasn’t, not really.’
Chris must have looked disbelieving. She said,
‘I know he got into trouble sometimes, but boys do, don’t they? I mean, you know that
, don’t you?’
Chris did know. But he had sorted himself out before he got to Wayne’s age, and he had never got to the stage of breaking into old ladies’ houses.
‘He wasn’t a bad boy,’ Deana insisted. ‘This summer just gone, you know, he was down the community centre with some of his old teachers, helping to sort out the kids’ playground. And they’ve got a scheme to help out some of the old people with their shopping and stuff, he was on that too.’
‘He was probably keeping an eye out to see if there was anything worth nicking,’ Chris said to Rob when he was describing the conversation to him the next day. ‘Wayne Simpson never did nothing just out of the goodness of his heart. I’m sorry for his mum, though.’
‘Did you tell her what she wanted to hear?’ Rob asked. They were in his kitchen, making coffee to take next door to Chris’s house.
‘Yeah. Exactly what she wanted to hear. How Wayne looked all peaceful, you know, and he couldn’t have known nothing about it, and all the rest.’
He picked up his mug, leading the way out into the hall. The post had come while they were in the kitchen; a few envelopes lay on the mat. Rob picked them up and took them with him. While Chris sorted out his tools, he quickly opened them. The offer of discounted car insurance went straight into Chris’s bag of rubbish. He grimaced at the electricity bill, then put it in his back pocket. He looked at the last envelope. It was square and white, with a printed address label. The postmark was too faint to read and there was nothing to indicate where or who it was from. He ripped it open. There was a single page with a few lines of handwriting in black ink. Rob scanned it quickly, then looked at Chris.
‘It’s from Pierson.’
There was no salutation at the head of the letter.
Regarding the research project upon which we are both engaged, I believe a meeting to discuss our findings would be beneficial to both of us. Telephone me on this number to arrange a time and place.
A telephone number followed. The note was signed simply ‘NP’.
‘He wants to meet us,’ Rob said. He handed the letter to Chris.
‘He wants to meet you, you mean,’ said Chris, when he had read it.
‘Well, I’m not going alone.’
‘You’re not thinking of going at all? I always thought you had a few screws loose, now I know you’re completely nuts. What if he brings his goons and grabs you again?’
‘That’s why I won’t go alone. And I’ll insist on a meeting in daylight, in a public place. Anyway, if he’d wanted to grab me again, he could have done it any time this last couple of weeks.’
‘So why go at all? Like you said, he hasn’t tried anything.’
‘Just because he hasn’t, doesn’t mean he won’t. We don’t know what he might do if we don’t agree to meet him. I don’t want to be forever looking over my shoulder.’
‘Yeah. I didn’t tell you – ’ Chris repeated what the landlord had told him about the shopkeeper’s cat.
‘Nice,’ Rob commented. ‘All the more reason to resolve this. I think it might be dangerous not to. If that’s what he was capable of at fourteen or fifteen, what might he do now?’
‘Yeah, we’re in so deep already. I s’pose Claire’d say we ought to take it to the police, though,’ Chris added, poking at the letter.
‘What would be the point? It’s not evidence of anything. There’s nothing to show that the letter was even meant for me.’
‘There’s the envelope.’
‘That’s printed. I’d be willing to bet he didn’t do it on his own computer and it won’t have his prints on. I think he’s laughing at us. His handwriting, his phone number – at least, I suppose it is – but it’s useless as evidence.’
‘And I reckon he’s got more on us that we have on him, too.’
Chapter Nineteen
Rob made the phone call. The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused and unsurprised, as if he had been in no doubt that Rob would call. They arranged the meeting for the following day, Sunday. It had to be at a time when Chris could be there, and Rob did not want to wait until the following weekend and have to deal with a week of anticipation. They met at a coffee shop in the town centre. It was busy enough with Sunday shoppers and visitors to be anonymous, and for their conversation to be unheard beyond their own table. Chris was able to point out Pierson. He was a slim, fair haired man, well dressed. When they were all seated with coffee, Pierson looked across the table at them and smiled.
‘Well, this is all very civilised,’ he said. He spoke with a cool, cultured voice that had Chris bristling. ‘I must congratulate both of you on your pragmatism. I wondered if you would both cling to some idea of schoolboy honour. Although,’ he looked at Chris, ‘given where you come from, the idea of honour is perhaps an unfamiliar concept to you.’
Sensing Chris drawing breath to interrupt, Rob kicked him sharply on the ankle.
‘And you,’ Pierson looked at Rob, ‘You’ve already shown what you’re prepared to do in pursuit of research. How much further will you go, I wonder.’
It was Rob’s turn to tense with anger at the sneer with which Pierson said ‘research’.
‘Get to the point,’ he said.
‘Of course, Rob. May I call you that? Not Dr Tyler yet, is it? How many more years will it take, do you think? Two? Three? Such a nuisance having to earn a living, isn’t it, when there are so many things you’d rather be doing. And you,’ he looked at Chris, ‘spending all your time slaving away on that miserable little house, in the hope of making a few paltry thousands.’
‘Yeah, so work is beneath you posh old school tie types, never done a day’s decent work in your life, we get it,’ said Chris, leaning back and folding his arms.
‘I think you owe me a new Range Rover, don’t you? That will come out of your share of any profit we make.’
‘Is there a point to all this?’ Rob asked again.
‘The point is that if we work together, each of you could come out of this with enough money that you wouldn’t have any financial worries for some time. You could pay off a large part of the mortgage on that sorry pile of bricks, and you could work full time on your thesis, and, incidentally, if things can be arranged satisfactorily, make your reputation as a historian.’
‘You expect us to believe there’s that much money in whatever scam you’ve got on? Or that you’d hand it over to us? Chris said disbelievingly.
‘Or that I could make my reputation on work based on stolen documents?’ Rob said.
‘You needn’t concern yourselves about that,’ Pierson said.
‘And why exactly should we work with you?’ Rob asked. ‘We’ve got the document. It’s somewhere secure, and I’m the only one who knows where it is, or can get access to it, so you won’t get your hands on it again.’
‘Oh my dear Rob, that document is only half the story. Pierson reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it up so that Rob could see the top. It was a photocopy of what appeared to be a document in sixteenth century handwriting, but he was holding it too far away for Rob to be able to read it. As Rob leaned closer, trying to see more, Pierson refolded it and slipped it back into his pocket.
‘Like you, I have placed the original somewhere that only I can retrieve it from.’
‘So your idea is that we swap? You give us your bit of paper – sorry, parchment – and we give you ours?’ said Chris.
Rob shook his head.
‘Not a chance. D’you think we’re stupid? How do we know that piece of paper has anything to do with this affair, or will tell us anything we don’t already know? You can’t read it, after all. It could be anything.’
‘What a nasty, suspicious mind you have. I paid someone to transcribe this one,’ Pierson said. ‘Not a local man. I picked someone at random off the internet, and I used an alternate name, so you needn’t waste your time trying to find him and asking for a copy of what he did for me. I showed him a
photocopy; he had no way of knowing I’d come by it in – shall we say an unorthodox manner? I was slightly worried that the content might reveal more than I wanted anyone to know, but one has to take a chance somewhere, don’t you agree? Just to allay your suspicions, I’ll give you a hint. Does the name Amory mean anything to you?’
‘So you’re suggesting what, exactly?’ Rob asked.
‘You give me your transcript of the document you have. I’ll see the two of you get a share of the profits – and the glory. He nodded at Rob. ‘Television appearances, newspaper interviews – you might even get a book out of it.’
Rob had been thinking furiously.
‘I haven’t finished the transcript yet,’ he said slowly. He was aware of Chris turning his head to look at him sharply, but kept his attention fixed on Pierson.
‘How long will it take you?’ Pierson asked. He could not conceal his satisfaction at having so easily ensnared them. Rob felt a spurt of anger at Pierson’s assumption that they were as venal as he was.
‘The writing’s difficult. I’m used to secretary hand, this is a more archaic style. The writer uses a yogh instead of – ’
‘All right, all right,’ Pierson said dismissively. ‘I get the point. You aren’t quite so expert as you pretended to be and you’re struggling.’
‘If you want our co-operation, you’re not exactly going the right way about getting it,’ Rob observed.
‘Oh, please. You’re not going to walk away now. You’re desperate to hear what it’s all about.’ He drained his coffee cup and set it down. ‘I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you’ve completed the transcript.’ He stood and walked away.
They watched until he was out of sight. Then Chris turned to Rob.
‘What are you playing at? You’re not thinking of – ’
‘Not here,’ Rob cut him off. ‘Let’s get back to my house. I need to look something up.’
He refused to say any more as they walked back to Gladstone Street. Once there, he went straight through to the back room of his house and began to turn over the piles of paper there.
The Plantagenet Mystery Page 17