by Roy Lewis
‘I’m grateful.’ Ward rose, walked through to the kitchen to thank Jenny Denby, and then Michael Denby walked down the track to the bridge with him. They shook hands there, and Ward turned to go when Denby suddenly raised his hand to his eyes, shading them as he stared past Ward to the trees on the hillside. Eric Ward looked back, and saw the horse and rider picking their way through the trees and down the track towards them.
The horse was a magnificent animal, sheer black, with muscles that rippled under its glossy coat. It held its head high, spiritedly, and there was a nervous energy in its pacing that suggested tremendous power and urgency The rider was a young woman, in her early twenties, dressed in riding habit. She rode with an elegant, practised ease and she raised one hand to wave to Michael Denby. As she drew nearer Denby led Ward across the bridge. He smiled; the girl drew near and dismounted, caressing the black’s nose, and then she grinned up at Michael Denby. ‘Thought I’d call in as I was going past. See you and Jenny — haven’t been around for a while. David prefers the ride over Stagshaw Fell, but he had to cry off today so I took my favourite old ride.’
‘I’m pleased you did so,’ Denby replied. ‘And Jenny’ll be delighted to see you. Er . . . you won’t have met Eric Ward.’
‘No.’ She turned to look up at him and he realized she was quite small. She held out her hand; it was lightboned, but strong, and the grip was firm and friendly. Her face was regular in features, her mouth smiling, her eyes wide-spaced. She was not beautiful in a formal way, but there was a liveliness in her manner that appealed to him. ‘I’m Anne Morcomb,’ she announced.
The surprise must have shown in his eyes, for her smile widened. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that I have just come from Lord Morcomb’s home -’
‘Ahh.’ She flicked an interested glance over him. ‘You’ll be one of the people Daddy was seeing this morning about the estate. A solicitor?’
‘Almost.’
‘How do you be an almost solicitor?’
Eric Ward explained about articled clerks, but very much aware she was looking at him and noting his age, in an uncritical way, however. ‘So don’t tell me you came down to Michael’s to investigate his title, or something.’
Denby grinned. ‘ I thought he’d come down about Carlton Engineering.’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘I’ll never let Daddy open up Vixen Hill for that company.’ She caught the puzzlement in Ward’s eyes, and went on. ‘Carlton Engineering are a company in some kind of consortium which wants to develop open-cast mining in the area. I’m completely against it — and so is Michael. It would simply ruin the area, which is mainly agricultural, and the scheme would make it necessary to construct several roadways which would change the’ whole character of the estates. One of the roads would have to cut behind Vixen Hill, you see, effectively splitting Michael’ s farm in two. They’ve made several offers to Daddy, and officers from the Department of the Environment keep ringing him up. It’s all very unpleasant. There’s a much simpler answer, and that is to release no land if Daddy has to pay this estate duty thing, but raise the money by selling shares instead. Still, all this is beside the point. If it’s not Michael’s title, and not Carlton Engineering, what legal matter does bring you down here? I’m the original curious cat, you know,’ she added, smiling.
Eric Ward told her, briefly. Her glance slipped to Michael, still not understanding.
‘Arthur Egan was the man who killed my father,’ he explained.
She said nothing for a moment, but just looked at him sympathetically, and Ward realized that she was aware of the conflicts that had lain inside Michael Denby over the years. She turned back to Ward. ‘But what did you expect to find on Vixen Hill, as far as this man Egan’s estate is concerned?’
‘Nothing really. It was . . . curiosity that drew me here. And, well, as it, happens I’ve also now found out where Egan worked. It was at Seddon Burn—’
‘I know it. It’s my old ride — it takes me past it. I came that way this afternoon. Creepy place now, really. Burned out shell.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘It’s spoiled the ride in one sense; in another, I suppose it hasn’t. From the hill it looks kind of romantic. But I’d rather have had the ride the way it was when Mother used to take it. However . . .’
‘Mr Ward essentially wants to know whether Egan had an affair with one of the local girls,’ Denby interrupted. ‘He’s having some trouble tracing Egan’s relatives.’
‘Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that,’ Anne Morcomb said, laughing. ‘Anyway, I’ll go in to see Jenny. Nice to meet you, Mr Ward. Perhaps we’ll see each other again, sometime.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, meaning it, and was then slightly disturbed to realize she had caught the nuance. Her eyes held his for a moment and she smiled faintly, then turned away, leading the black through the ford. They watched her as she went; as she reached the far bank she looked back, raised her hand. ‘Just occurred to me,’ she called. ‘The local girls thing. If anyone knows about it, it’ll be old Sarah Boden. Remember her, Michael? She worked for Daddy for a while, I believe, but her last years of service were as housekeeper at Seddon Burn. A local woman, with a fund of local knowledge. I should try her, Mr Ward. I believe she lives up at Warkworth, now. Anyway, good luck in your search.’
Michael Denby watched her affectionately as she led her horse up the track towards the farmhouse. When she was out of sight, Ward asked, ‘Have you known her long?’
‘Forever, seems to me,’ Denby said, smiling again. ‘She was a frequent visitor when she was a child. You see, her mother — she was Lord Morcomb’s second wife — died when Anne was about five or six, and somehow or other my aunt used to contrive to bring her over from the big house to spend time here. I don’t think I enjoyed her company too much then — I was at an age when girls were not my scene at all! — but she still comes over to visit from time to time; I’m very fond of her. I’m glad she . . .’ He hesitated, glanced at Ward, then shrugged. ‘Her mother, Elizabeth Morcomb, died of a thrombosis. Very sudden. She gave her looks to Anne but not, thank the Lord, her general manner.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Difficult to explain, really. She never seemed happy. You had the feeling there was a sort of intensity with her, a pent-up frustration of some kind. And she seemed perennially unhappy . . . sort of moody. I didn’t see much of her, of course, and when she was with Anne she was lively and happy enough. But there was something, something odd about her. I sensed it. Still . . .’ He frowned. ‘What was the name of the woman Anne mentioned, again?’
‘Sarah Boden.’
‘Mmmm. And you’ll try to see her?’
‘I’ll try. But it won’t be for a few days, I’m afraid. The firm can’t revolve around the affairs of Arthur Egan!’
‘I don’t suppose it can,’ Denby said softly and made a gesture of goodbye as Eric Ward turned and began the climb back to the top of the hill and the car awaiting him beside the hedge above.
Chapter Three
During the next few days Eric Ward found his thoughts constantly returning to the girl he had met at Vixen Hill. At first he made no attempt to analyse the impression she had made upon him; later, as he found her image presenting itself again and again to his mind he tried to consider what it was that he found attractive about her. It still gave no explanation why he should be thinking of her so often.
And he was almost twice her age.
He saw nothing of Joseph Francis during this time, and on the two occasions Paul met him on the stairs he was brusque and surly. Ward guessed that Joseph had given his son a lecture concerning his performance at Sedleigh Hall. Paul made no attempt, nevertheless, to recover the Morcomb file, which still lay on Eric’s desk, and after he had dealt with the work outstanding on his desk Eric opened the file and extracted a map of the estates owned by Lord Morcomb, and provided for the devious purposes of the Inl
and Revenue Commissioners.
As he inspected the map he wondered precisely where Carlton Engineering wanted to establish their open-cast mining operations: by following the contours delineated on the map, he could make an educated guess about the roadway which Anne Morcomb had mentioned at Vixen Hill, and it would certainly carve away a huge slice of the farmland presently leased by Michael Denby. He returned to the file and began to read sections of the evidence presented to the Inland Revenue Commissioners, recalling something Anne Morcomb had said. He soon discovered the necessary schedules: it seemed that when the previous Lord Morcomb had died, the trust he had established by his will in favour of his successor and his heirs had included not only the land comprising the Morcomb estates, but also a considerable shareholding. Surprisingly, the portfolio did not include many different shares — there were only half-a-dozen separate companies nominated. The holdings, nevertheless, were large.
His thoughts drifted back to Carlton Engineering. He presumed it was a limited company, but he wondered at its name — he would have expected a company interested in open-cast mining to have a name more closely connected with the mining industry. A half hour’s diligent searching gave him the answer. Carlton Engineering Ltd was a subsidiary, specializing in earth-moving equipment, of another company called Western Consolidated Mining Ltd, who were in turn merely a member company of a holding operation called Western Enterprises Ltd. Eric Ward guessed that the Carlton Engineering offers to Lord Morcomb would therefore be in the nature of a wideranging deal at the end of the day between the subsidiary companies, each of whom might have a stake in the final mining and reconstruction undertakings.
And they could very well get what they wanted, he considered, as he looked back again at the details specified in Lord Morcomb’s struggle with the Inland Revenue. Either way, his lordship would be forced to pay heavy death duties; when he was called upon to do so, that extra half million or so he was disputing with the Commissioners could force him to raise ready cash — by the sale of land or shares.
He had some sympathy with Anne Morcomb’s views — he hoped that his lordship would dispense with his shares rather than his land.
As he was closing the file the telephone rang.
‘A gentleman called Mr Parton to speak to you,’ the switchboard girl told him.
‘Put him on, please.’
A buzz and then he heard Jackie Parton’s voice. ‘Eric? You going to be busy this evening?’
‘Not particularly. Why?’
‘Got someone you ought to have a chat with.’
‘Have you picked up some information on the Egan administration ?’
‘Tell you this evening. Six-thirty, at the Hydraulic Engine, down on Scotswood. Okay? See you then.’
* * *
Mud flats lay exposed at the bend of the river, which glinted greyly under a dark evening sky. The boats that lay stranded on the mud had a depressing, bedraggled look, as though, beached by the tide, they despaired of ever seeing the sea again. A scrap-iron yard abutting on the shore gave exit to a late, snarling lorry as Eric Ward pulled in to one side and parked his car. Across the roadway, almost opposite the yard and the mud flats of the Tyne, was the Hydraulic Engine.
It was a large, square, cream-painted building with red-bricked windows and a green slate roof. On one side of the public house was a decaying sailor’s mission; on the other, the Tyneside Irish Club, with a faded shamrock painted on its door. It meant, Ward knew, that the Hydraulic Engine did a roaring trade of a certain kind particularly on a Saturday night.
He had visited the pub several times as a policeman, but never since he left the Force. He found now a certain pleasure in avoiding the thinly veiled hostility that had previously greeted his entrance: even out of uniform, he had still been recognized as a jack. Now, not a head turned as he entered.
Jackie Parton was sitting with two or three tables to his left, at which a group of men, with pints in front of them, carried on a jocular conversation with him. As Ward came forward Parton rose and walked towards him, drew him to one side behind a glass partition screen beside the bar. He ordered Ward a half pint of lager, obtained another beer for himself, then sat down.
‘Thought it was better meeting here than elsewhere. Some hot-house orchids don’t flourish away from their reg’lar environment.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jackie Parton exposed his teeth in a grimace that masqueraded as a smile. ‘Got someone you should meet, and talk to. Suspect he wouldn’t say much elsewhere — if he’d even turn up. You might say he’s a very suspicious individual. He’ll be along shortly.’
‘And till then?’
‘We’ll have a little drink, and I’ll make my report to you — along with a claim for some expenses.’
Ward sipped his lager. He’d thought, when warned off by George Knox, the police surgeon, that he would really miss drink of an alcoholic nature. He hadn’t. No smoking; no drinking; no tension. But life wasn’t bad — except for the pain. He looked around the bar at the ill-clad, loudmouthed inhabitants of the Hydraulic Engine and knew things could be worse. ‘All right, Jackie, what have you got?’
The little man screwed up his eyes and took another drink. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, not a lot. This chap Arthur Egan, he’s not an easy feller to get information on. I’ve talked to a lot of people around Scotswood and Byker way now, and the ones who knew him, or of him, they’re not so numerous. His going off to Northumberland—’
‘Seddon Burn.’
‘Oh yeah? You been working yourself, then? Anyway, him going off there, then prison, then this quiet life in Westerhope, it’s left him a pretty colourless character, with not many leads. He’s still remembered by a few, and they all say the same two things about him: he was a handsome lad, and he was a quiet feller. Not one I’ve spoken to says he had a wild temper.’
‘And?’
‘And ,not one of them says he had a thing for the women.
‘So he wasn’t a high liver. That still doesn’t mean he didn’t have anyone: Ward said, slightly exasperated.
‘But that’s the talk.’ Jackie Parton insisted. ‘He didn’t have anyone. He was a loner. In Scotswood; in Byker; in Westerhope; it’s always the same tale. He just didn’t seem interested in women. Polite; courteous; but not interested.’
Ward sighed. ‘So what do you conclude from that?’ Jackie Parton put one foot on the stool in front of him and lit himself a cigarette. ‘My conclusions are pretty simple. It’s all a fantasy. There isn’t any kid. There aren’t any grandkids. There may be relatives — but only may be. But you’re asking me to find a child is moonshine, a waste of money. I think Egan was drifting, pain — drugged, lonely: I think he manufactured a family out of his head.’
Eric Ward had already suspected as much. Everything was pointing to it; the man’s life style underpinned it. You said there may be other relatives.’
Parton drew on his cigarette. ‘Could be. This brother of his . . . well, half-brother really. Andrews, Tommy Andrews. Now he was a bit younger than Egan and though he went to sea just about when Egan was working at those stables, and though nothing’s seemed to have been heard of him since, there’s a chance he’s still alive. If not him, maybe his kids. I presume if he had kids, they could come into Egan’s money?’
‘If there were no closer relatives.’
‘Well, I’m still asking around, then. But it’s not going to be easy. These two lads . . . they were chalk and cheese, you know.’
‘How do you mean?’ Ward asked.
Parton waved his cigarette in a vague gesture, encompassing most of the men in the bar. ‘Takes all sorts, don’t it? And in one family alone you can get very different brothers. These two were only half-brothers, of course, but they had little in common, so I’m told. That doesn’t mean they weren’t close, you understand — but Tommy was a spoiled kid, it seems. He got into a lot of scrapes as a youngster, and it was usually left to Egan to drag him out of them. And he cert
ainly squired it around a bit when he was older — if Arthur Egan didn’t go much on the birds, young Tommy certainly did. So, chances are he’ll have left some part of himself lying around in Newcastle, even if Arthur didn’t. For that matter, maybe it was one of Tommy’s kids Egan had in mind.’
‘You’ll keep asking around?’
‘I’ve a few more contacts . . . This Andrews character, though, I wonder about him. He was quite a tearaway, I think — they don’t talk that way among the terraces about someone unless he really was wild. And I’ve got a kind of feeling about him, you know, Eric? I feel he’s going to turn up, one of these days.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And maybe I won’t like it when he does. Some people don’t like having questions asked about them!’
Ward grunted, knowing what he meant. He glanced at his watch. ‘When’s this man you want me to meet turning up?’
‘He already did, about five minutes ago. He’s over there, at the corner of the bar.’
The man was of medium height, square-set, but stooping arthritically. He wore a large Army greatcoat, several sizes too big for him and at the throat a thick pullover, greasy and stained, with a ragged neck, was gaping. His hair was long, his beard spiky and it was several moments before Eric Ward remembered where he had seen him before. It was all of ten years or more, in a small pawnshop near the Quayside. A dark room, a querulous but frightened man, stolen goods and an eagerness to cooperate when pressure was applied. ‘Tiggy Williams,’ Eric Ward said quietly.
‘The very same,’ Parton agreed, and one corner of his scarred mouth lifted. ‘I think you ought to buy him a drink.’
Tiggy Williams was in no hurry to join them; indeed, it required some persuasion from Jackie Parton, and it was only the promise of several drinks, Ward suspected, that brought the man across to their table. Parton pushed him down into a chair, and said, ‘You remember Mr Ward, don’t you Tiggy?’
Suspicious eyes flickered a nervous glance in Ward’s direction; they could not hold Ward’s glance and flickered away again. ‘Don’t like drinkin’ with coppers,’ he said.
