Читать книгу The Fifth Identity - Ray CW Scott - Страница 8

“So we’ve still got nowhere?” grunted Fillery as he perused the report that Seymour had prepared that morning. “The church registers tell us nothing, you say the register containing the year in question isn’t in the church.”

“No, it’s in the Council Offices at Buckingham.” Seymour referred to his notes. “Apparently that’s now standard procedure, though it seems the local incumbent slipped up, he was still holding one register he should have forwarded on.”

“Why do they have to do that?”

“Safety reasons,” said Seymour. “It’s to guard against fire, though I gather the main reason nowadays is fear of vandalism.”

“A reflection of the times we live in,” grunted Fillery. “Did you go to Buckingham?”

“No, I thought I’d report to you first, in any case, I wasn’t quite sure how to attack it from that point, genealogical research in a genealogical establishment is new to me.”

“Well, it should be much the same as anything else, similar to delving into police records and the like,” said Fillery. “When will you do that?”

“Well I thought I’d try and waylay these two old timers in the village, they may remember something about the two families. According to the landlord they were living in the village at that time, albeit as youngsters, but they may remember something that will assist us.”

“A few drinks may refresh their memories,” Fillery said with a smile. “OK. Best of luck with it. I’ll give Norman Ruddock a call and tell him what we’ve done so far.”

Seymour decided to make a full weekend of it, he booked a room at the hotel for the Saturday night and took his wife down with him. They arrived early on the Saturday morning and were shown to the room by the landlord.

“This looks good,” commented Andrea Seymour as she surveyed the gleaming white painted decor and the old style furniture. She went to the window and looked at the view of the main road and the car park below.

“Even better when the company is paying for it,” remarked Seymour, coming up behind her. “You look pretty good yourself.”

“Clearly you’re after something,” she sniffed, but showed no inclination to move away. “So it wasn’t me you were thinking of when you suggested I came as well.”

“Don’t you kid yourself!”

They had a good lunch at the hotel and then spent most of the afternoon and early evening touring around the local neighbourhood, visiting nearby villages and all the old buildings and churches. Seymour was astonished at how much history there was in the local area, the church at Sedrup was apparently built around 1273, and Bishopstone, as Bissopeston, was mentioned in manorial rolls in 1227. The day was good, there was a brief flurry of rain in mid afternoon, but it soon cleared and the sunshine was hot for the rest of their excursion. They returned to the hotel, and decided to have dinner there.

“How do you want to arrange it?” asked Andrea.

“Not too sure, according to my conversation with the landlord last week these two usually arrive round about 7.00 pm and spend the rest of the night here reminiscing, or playing dominoes or whatever. It’s a question of whether we have dinner first, or after, I don’t want to leave you sitting at the table on your own while I try and extract information from them.”

“I’d say try and find them first, and don’t rush it,” said Andrea. “I’ve had a good day, and I’ve probably over eaten anyway. Do what you have to do, and when you’ve finished come back up here and we can sort out whether or not we need a meal later.”

Seymour thought about it, and realised she was talking sense. If he had to rush the interview with the two old villagers he could miss something of importance. He knew Andrea was perfectly happy to be on this trip with him. She wasn’t demanding his total attention throughout the trip, as a professional herself she knew he had to get his job done.

So it was about 7 o’clock when Seymour presented himself down below in the bar, the landlord indicated an old man sitting in the corner near the fire.

“That’s Josh Wilkins,” he said. “Sam Cuddeston isn’t with us tonight, he only came out of hospital this morning, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t know myself until a few minutes ago.”

“Hospital?” Seymour was alarmed. “What’s been the trouble?”

“Trouble he’s had for years, his son finally persuaded him to do something about his knee, he was tired of him groaning with pain every step he took and wandering around with a crutch and complaining all the time. Sam had a knee reconstruction, or whatever they do down there these days, something to do with his cartilage. I knew he was intending to have the job done, apparently it was put forward to this week.”

“Well, if they’ve done the job properly he’ll never regret it,” commented Seymour. “I crocked mine playing Rugby, it gave me hell for some years. After I had the operation I’ve never felt better.”

“I’ll give his son a ring later, ” said the landlord. “As far as Josh is concerned, he knows you want a word with him. I haven’t said exactly what it’s about, he knows it’s about the 1920’s but I haven’t told him too much, I’ve left that to you.”

Josh Wilkins was aware that Seymour was heading for him across the bar-room. His eyes slanted across in Seymour’s direction but otherwise he made no sign. He looked up slowly and quizzically as Seymour stood before him on the other side of the small table.

“The old bastard!” thought Seymour. “He’s playing innocent, I reckon this is going to cost me!”

“Good evening! Josh Wilkins?”

“That’s me,” the old man looked up and then his eyes strayed down to his half empty glass. Seymour was tempted to offer a full glass straight away, but then decided against it. He didn’t want to surrender too easily, if he plied him with drinks right away he could find himself buying all night.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Free country,” said the other.

Seymour sat down and perceived this was not going to be easy. He had the feeling that any information would have to be dragged out on the sharp end of a filled pint pot! Josh Wilkins could be anything over 80 years of age, he would have to be if he possessed an intimate knowledge of the denizens of the village in the 1920’s. What hair he had was white, he was bald but had a tuft of hair in the front and middle of his head which he had allowed to grow and then combed back across his bald pate. His face was wizened and had many brown patches on it, his eyes were pale blue and rheumy. He was wearing a very old coat, buttoned up despite sitting close to the fire, the top button had been replaced by a large safety pin. He smelt of peppermints.

“You’ve been living here for many years, I understand,” hazarded Seymour.

“Quite a few.”

“You’d have known many people who lived here way back, even just after the Great War?”

“Maybe.”

Seymour decided against beating about the bush and tried to come straight to the point.

“Some members of my family used to live around here, about 1920 onwards.”

The old man raised one eyebrow as he looked at Seymour, then his hand reached out to his beer glass and he drained what was left. Seymour sighed, he had been intending to leave the plying of drinks until the conversation was more advanced, but his hand was being forced.

“What’s your poison?” he asked.

“Beechwood Bitter.”

Seymour half turned to rise to his feet, but the landlord evidently had guessed the course the conversation would take and was keeping a watchful eye. He nodded to Seymour and jerked his finger at the nearest pump, on which was written “Beechwood Bitter”. Seymour nodded, the landlord smiled and seized hold of a glass which he began to fill.

“You knew most of the people living here then?” he asked.

“Most of ‘em,” rejoined Wilkins. “Not many of ‘em ‘ere now, ‘cept me!”

“Did you ever come across anyone named Accrington, or Havering?”

“May have done, may have done,” answered the old man and Seymour cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long job that would take all bloody night. This was frustrating as he was anxious to get back upstairs; firstly so they could go out to dinner, and secondly because he was not only feeling peckish but in anticipation of a pleasant weekend in the country. Andrea had dressed to kill and he was experiencing strong desires in other directions as well. He wondered if it was the country air.

The fresh drink appeared before Wilkins, who eyed it approvingly. The young barmaid looked enquiringly at Seymour as he handed over the cash but he shook his head. He didn’t want to be sloshed to the eyeballs when he went back to Andrea.

“What were the names again?”

“Accrington and Havering,” Seymour repeated patiently.

The old man reached for the glass and slowly sampled it, he appeared to approve and began to drink it down. He downed half of it and wiped his mouth.

“Well, do you remember them at all?”

“Jus’ thinkin’,” said the old man bitingly. “The names do mean somethin’ … . . Accrington you said?”

“Yes, I did.”

More contents of the glass were despatched and Seymour ground his teeth as he realised that another pint of Beechwood Bitter was required, if not now then pretty soon. The money didn’t worry him, the old bugger could quaff double Scotches as far as he was concerned, but he didn’t want to sit here all night. The heat from the fire was another factor, Josh Wilkins might find the heat acceptable, maybe his blood was very thin, but Seymour was beginning to perspire freely and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.

He nodded to the landlord and another Beechwood bitter materialised at Wilkins’ elbow. He sampled the new glass, appeared to approve, and took a large swallow.

“Good stuff, this!” he announced.

“Really?” Seymour began to wonder how he could extract any information at all from this old man who was clearly milking it for all it was worth.

“Can you remember any families of those names?” Seymour asked.

The old man considered.

“I do remember a young chap named Accrington, had a carpentry business if I remember rightly.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” thought Seymour. He forbore to comment, not wanting to interrupt the flow.

“Not living here for long though, dunno where ‘e went.”

“Shit!” thought Seymour, realising he’d got nowhere at all, he could have told Wilkins that himself.

“What about Havering?” he asked.

“Farming family, they were from Haddenham way. They sold up in the 1930’s and moved west. Dunno where they went.”

He finished the glass and placed it down on the table, picked it up again and looked meaningly at the bottom of it.

“No!” thought Seymour. “I’m not falling for that one again.” He made to rise to his feet.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Wilkins,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.” This was the overstatement of the year as far as he was concerned.

“Jus’ a minute, I think I can remember . . let me think now …!” and Seymour realised that his exasperation had provided him with a weapon as the old man saw the prospect of more Beechwood bitters disappearing into the blue.

“Are any members of the same family still around here?”

“Nope!” Wilkins shook his head, and his hand clutched his beer glass. “Accrington and his missus were a one off, they lived here for a few years and that was it. They weren’t from around these parts, not that I knows of.”

“Still no further,” thought Seymour ruefully, but one point did appear to be clarified. There was no history of anybody named Accrington in the area apart from the one family.

“A mate of mine might know more,” Wilkins went on. “I’ll ask him - will you be in tomorrow?”

Seymour ruminated that it would hardly be worth it, the bloody pub would probably be out of beer by then if Wilkins stayed here until closing time. And his mate, which would most likely be that other bloodsucker Cuddeston, would probably be here as well demanding his cut of the products of the Chiltern Brewery. But it was clear the old man wasn’t going to concede any more information, not tonight anyway.

“I may be, maybe not,” he answered shortly, giving an answer in Wilkins’ own vein. He wondered whether to pursue it any further, but he was now sweating even more profusely from the fire, and he was beginning to experience a sensation of claustrophobia. He just had to get away from the fire and this old man and the odour of peppermints and stale beer.

“Thanks anyway,” he said, nodded, rose to his feet and left. The old man looked as if he was going to have another inspiration of memory, but Seymour had had enough.

He stamped angrily up the stairs and knocked at their bedroom door. Andrea opened it and he stumped in and flung himself on the bed.

“Fuck!” he said feelingly

“That’s a good idea.” Andrea said, and he became aware she was in her dressing gown, and that there was a tray of sandwiches, a coffee pot and some unopened beer bottles on it as well. “What do you want to do, eat first or . . what?”

“What?” he replied. “Oh! What for sure!”

Half an hour later they attacked the beer and sandwiches, Andrea asked what he had found out.

“Bugger all!” he said angrily. “The old bastard, if he knew anything at all, just wasn’t forthcoming unless I kept plying him with beer. I’d just about had enough, and he stank like hell as well, I never ever want to see or taste another peppermint!”

“No worries about the beer, the company will pay for it.”

“That wasn’t the point, he was just playing me for all he could get and he was getting it, up to a point. I just didn’t like being strung along. Then I rebelled and got out.”

“So you’ve had a wasted journey?”

“Looks like it.”

A still disillusioned Seymour and Andrea were sitting having their breakfast downstairs in the dining room the next morning when the landlord came over.

“There’s a phone call for you, Mr Seymour.”

“For me?” Seymour was startled. It must be Fillery, nobody else knew he was there.

“I’ve put it through to the telephone box over there,” mine host pointed to the corner of the room. “It’s Jim Cuddeston, you wanted to speak to his father.”

“Oh Christ!!” thought Seymour, another sodding bloodsucker! This would be another bloody beer buying session for absolutely nothing. He stood up and said “Thanks!” and headed for the telephone booth.

“What is it?’ asked Andrea when he returned.

“His father says he can see me this morning,” said Seymour thoughtfully. “Not in the pub here, but in his own home, he can’t get out of the house right now. I’m not so sure about it, it could be another waste of time.”

“But you said you’d go?”

“Well, I guess I don’t have any option. I see no point in seeing him and was tempted to tell them to get stuffed, but I could hardly justify it to Rod when we get back, could I?”

“When do we have to go?”

“11 o’clock. You said ‘we’. Do you want to come as well?”

“There’s nothing else to do here, we’ve got to vacate the room at 10 o’clock and I can’t go anywhere else,” said Andrea. “I could always sit in the bar with your friend Josh Wilkins and ply him with drinks.”

“Ah! I see your point. Alright, we’ll see our next scrounger at 11 o’clock.”

“You’d best take a bottle of something.”

“Waste of good liquor, but I guess a bottle of Scotch will always go down well.”

Seymour walked up the garden path to the cottage carrying his brief case, in which reposed a bottle of Teachers Scotch. He didn’t want to enter the house carrying it in full view, he felt if he did that his bargaining counter would have been prejudiced immediately.

The door opened as they reached it, and a blonde haired young woman stood there, dressed in jeans and a gleaming white blouse. She looked to be in her early twenties, and greeted them both with a friendly smile.

“Mr Seymour?”

“Yes.”

“Please come in, I’m Alison Cuddeston, you’ve come to see my grandfather haven’t you?”

Seymour signified that he had, he felt slightly mollified as the house looked to be well maintained, the young woman was well dressed and certainly worth a second look, while the dark-haired, bespectacled middle aged man who greeted him at the end of the hallway was casually but smartly dressed, and shook his hand warmly.

“Jim Cuddeston!” he introduced himself. “Can we offer you both a coffee?’ he asked, whereupon Andrea leapt in and accepted the offer before Seymour could refuse.

“That would be very nice,” she said, and cast a meaningful glance at Seymour as if to say: ‘don’t be churlish!’

“Alec Cavendish mentioned you wanted to speak to my father about someone who lived here in the early 1920’s, is that correct?”

“Alec Cavendish?” for a moment he was thrown by the name then realisation dawned, that must be the landlord at the hotel. “Oh…yes…that’s right!”

“Good, my daughter Alison will deal with the coffee,” said Jim Cuddeston. “If you’d both like to come through to the sun room at the back, Dad’s waiting for you. He won’t be able to get out of his chair, the op only took place a few days ago, but he’s interested to see you, he likes talking about old times.”

“That’s an improvement on the other old bastard!” Seymour thought darkly as he recalled Josh Wilkins. Then he felt a momentary shame as he realised he was pre-judging Sam Cuddeston. Damn it! He hadn’t even seen the old man yet!

The sun was shining brilliantly through the side window and the transparent roof of the sun lounge at the rear of the house. The transparent roof had a greenhouse effect and there was a marked rise in temperature as Seymour and Andrea walked through the door. Most of the seating was facing the rear window, the garden fell away from the rear of the house and there was a panoramic view across the fields at the back of the house.

An elderly man was sitting in one of the chairs, he was wearing a track suit and there was a pair of crutches by the side of the chair. He turned as they entered and gave them a welcoming smile.

“Sorry I can’t get up,” he said. “Take a seat.”

He extended his hand and as Seymour advanced to take it in a firm grasp he noted that the other had a pair of twinkling eyes, a full head of white hairs while his face was marked by laughter lines. He had time to reflect that Cuddeston was an improvement on Josh Wilkins.

“Good view from here,” observed Seymour.

“One of the best,” smiled Jim Cuddeston, and pointed to a tractor moving across the field in the distance. “Sitting here, Dad can see Jack Robertson driving his tractor across that pasture and ploughing it. Jack’s the son of one of his old mates. Dad says he never could plough a straight furrow!”

Seymour grinned at that.

“You’re an old ploughman yourself, eh?’ he asked.

“I got by,” said the old man. “Jack’s improved with the passing of the years.”

He caught hold of one of the crutches that was trying to respond to the force of gravity and propped it more securely.

“You’re making enquiries about families living here in the 1920’s I understand?” he said.

“Yes, two families, Accrington and Havering,” replied Seymour.

“Hmmm! Yes, the two names do ring a bell, the Havering family came from over Stoke Mandeville way, they used to run a small-holding and sell vegetables. Then in the 1940’s, late 1940’s that is, after the war, they had to sell up because of the suburban spread as the land was wanted for building. Damned shame, it was good land, but after that they disappeared, don’t know for sure where they went afterwards. Probably London somewhere, though I did hear they could have gone south of here, maybe Quadford.”

Seymour had his notepad out and jotted down those details.

“Who are you enquiring about, specifically?”

“John Accrington,” Seymour replied. “He was born about 1924, the son of Janet Accrington neé Havering and Arthur Accrington, he was said to have been born in this area.”

“John Accrington eh? What was he to you.”

“Oh, a relative of the family I’m researching, they all were.”

“Are you saying you’re descended from him?”

Seymour suddenly had a suspicion that the old man was ahead of him somehow, he was about to take the easy way and confirm his descent from them, then he had second thoughts. He had the feeling that the old man was testing him out. This elderly gentleman seemed to have more about him than Josh Wilkins and Seymour had already taken a liking to him.

“No!” he shook his head. “Not descended from them. They are what you might call collateral lines.”

“Yes, they would have to be,” the old man looked at Seymour, and his eyes indicated that he seemed to be aware there was more to it than mere family research. Seymour raised one eyebrow and then the old man’s face broke out into a smile.

“By collateral, you mean …what?’ he asked.

“Well,” Seymour paused as he thought about it. He had heard his cousin Mark use the expression frequently when he had been showing Seymour his research files on the Seymour family. “It means other lines from which you are not directly descended, like from cousins or siblings of your grandparents, that sort of thing.”

“Are you related to this family?”

Again Seymour felt the old man was way ahead of him. He decided to come clean, and shook his head.

“No, I’m researching on behalf of someone else,” he said, and was thankful that in an earlier comment he had mentioned that John Accrington was a relative of the family he was researching. A question of semantics, but the old man seemed to know something.

He was also aware that Jim Cuddeston was still in the room. He had said nothing, leaving all the talking to his father.

“Who are you?” Sam Cuddeston finally asked.

“I’m Rex Seymour.”

“No. What are you?” said Sam Cuddeston. “I’ll tell you one thing, you’re ex-army.”

“How did you … … ? Ah! The tie.” Seymour looked down at his own shirtfront.

“Maybe; but it sticks out a mile. Did a bit of time myself in the last lot, Middle East and Italy, Eighth Army under Montgomery,” the old man smiled. “But I know the name Accrington, not only from here. Are you involved with the man who died recently, the industrialist?”

Seymour found he was smiling, and nodded. He had already cast his eye around the room and had noted that there were copies of recent newspapers. They were of the ‘heavy’ broadsheet type, the Daily Telegraph and the Independent, newspapers that would have probably reported the activities of the computer market quite frequently in their scientific and computer pages.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t answered my first question.”

“Which was?”

“What are you? You’re ex-Army, but what are you now?”

“I’m working for John Accrington’s solicitors, I work for a security firm in London.”

“What’s the problem?”

“We’re trying to find family members.”

“Why are you …? Oh I see. Beneficiaries.”

“Something like that,” Seymour felt uneasy, this old boy seemed to be all about and very aware of what was going on.

“And you’re saying that this was the same John Accrington who came from here?”

Seymour pursed his lips and shrugged.

“No, not necessarily, but we have a birth certificate that does indicate that.”

“Can I see it?”

Seymour rummaged in his brief case and produced the folder containing a photocopy of the birth certificate and handed it over. Sam Cuddeston reached for his spectacles and perused it, then nodded.

“That’s the John Accrington I knew,” he said finally. “He and I used to play together around here, with a few others who aren’t with us any longer. We went to primary school together, got into a few scrapes - scrumping apples and suchlike.”

He smiled at the memories, and then shook his head sadly. He then looked afresh at the certificate.

“But there’s something very strange here,” he said finally. “Very strange indeed.”

“Strange?” Seymour was curious. “What’s strange about it?”

“The Accrington family moved away from here when John was about …what? Maybe he was aged 9 or 10. Went to a village not far away, not sure exactly where, but within the county, somewhere north of Aylesbury. Arthur, his father, was a carpenter, ran his own business, nothing elaborate, more of what used to be called a journeyman, he travelled around doing odd jobs.”

“So they did live in this village?”

“Yes, they did. Arthur Accrington had a small workshop in his back garden and worked from there. But it was a cottage tied to the main estate around here, Arthur Accrington got it when he was doing a lot of work under contract for the estate. But then the estate took on a carpenter as an employee so Arthur didn’t have enough work, not from the estate anyway, and the cottage was up for grabs as well. So he moved away to where they were building housing estates, quite a few were being built after the war in the 1920’s, and the trend accelerated in the 1930’s, houses went up everywhere.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“No, not exactly, I did have the occasional contact with John through the mails, I think it was Kimpton way. I met him once in Aylesbury in the market square, we were both about 10 then.” He looked at the birth certificate and shook his head in puzzlement. “But this seems to be the John I knew. How did you come by this?”

“We found it in his personal effects.”

“Definitely the industry man?” the old man probed. “That’s the one who’s just died?”

“Yes,” Seymour was becoming intrigued. When he walked in he thought he would be the one asking the questions.

“Well, I repeat, there’s something screwy here…just a minute, this certificate was produced in the late 1940’s.”

“Well, apparently that’s not unusual if someone mislays a certificate, it happens.”

“Yes, but how often does someone ask for a certificate of a dead person?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that…a dead…what? What was that?”

“This certificate is the John Accrington I knew, and liked. For a few years we were good mates. But the Accrington family was involved in a motor car accident somewhere near Aylesbury about 1936, I think it was in Kimpton. As far as I knew they were all killed in the crash!”