Buried in the Past

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  At the earliest possible moment on Monday morning he rang the agent employed by the owner of the house, who was voluble in his disapproval of the student’s occupation, but regretfully informed him that nothing could be done about it.

  ‘All the advance notice we had was a letter from Mrs Tresillian which arrived after her departure on this world tour, Mr Lister, simply stating that she had given her nephew permission to occupy the premises in her absence as her guest. This is it, you see, Mr Lister: no money changing hands, so technically it’s not subletting. We—’

  ‘But the fact that she’s lent him the flat surely doesn’t mean that he’s entitled to pack out the place with his friends?’

  The agent embarked on a long statement about the right to exercise hospitality, always provided that no public nuisance was involved, and the obvious impracticability of taking legal action under the circumstances, unless there was damage to the property, for which Mrs Tresillian would, of course, be responsible to the owner.

  ‘Of course, if the disturbance does become a public nuisance, Mr Lister, you and Dr Halton would be in a position to make a complaint to the police. I can’t say how much we regret…’

  During the following days Bernard Lister was obliged to recognise that the students were doing nothing that could be held to constitute a public nuisance. At the same time the increased traffic on the stairs and overhead fretted his nerves, and the muted, but still audible, pop music drove him to frenzy. Intolerable though it was to be driven from his home, he decided to spend both Friday and Saturday nights in London. He came back in a mood of black depression, the hideous prospect of the months ahead looming grimly, and did not notice that there were lights in the windows of the ground floor flat. As he came in, its front door opened to reveal the towering bulk of Dr Halton, his red hair and beard even more dishevelled than usual.

  ‘That you, Lister?’ he said. ‘Come in, for God’s sake, and tell us what the hell’s happening in old Mother Tresillian’s flat.’

  Inside was chaos. Papers, cameras, film, tapes and miscellaneous packages littered the sitting room.

  ‘Afraid I’m in a bit of a mess,’ James Halton understated, sweeping the contents of a couple of chairs on to the floor. ‘Sit down, and I’ll get drinks. Peggy’s still in London. We only got back from the Bosporus on Friday. Storks,’ he added, by way of explanation, and headed for the kitchen.

  In a short space of time he reappeared carrying two glasses and a siphon of soda water, a bottle of whisky under one arm.

  ‘Say when,’ he invited. ‘Splash? Right. Cheers! Now, let’s have the gen.’

  Bernard Lister, who always felt at a disadvantage on account of the ornithologist’s formidable physique and abounding vitality, gave a slightly pedantic resume of the situation.

  ‘Apparently,’ he concluded, ‘there’s nothing to be done. We’re simply stuck with these yobs till Mrs T. elects to come back.’

  James Halton drained his glass with gusto, and set it down. He stared at Bernard Lister with good-humoured amusement.

  ‘Man,’ he said, ‘take courage, as the advert says. Can it be you didn’t notice the stink in the place when you came in from God’s fresh air just now?’

  ‘It was a bit frowsty, certainly,’ Bernard Lister replied defensively. ‘I expect the flat’s filthy already.’

  ‘Frowst and filth my foot! They threw a party on Friday night, and the whole house reeked of pot. It’s still hanging about. Never come across it before? Well, well! Better leave it to me to take the obvious steps, then.’

  At midweek a brief note pushed through his letterbox informed Bernard Lister that everything was going according to plan. Uneasiness descended upon him. Did this mean a raid by the police, and getting involved in undesirable publicity? If Halton was right about the pot, it explained the consternation the students had shown on discovering that they were living above a member of the University staff. He remembered running into David Tresillian as he left the house for the station before lunch on Friday, carrying his overnight case. This could explain the party. Halton’s return was something they couldn’t have foreseen.

  On Thursday evening he was summoned to James Halton’s flat for a police briefing. Inspector Worrall of the Warhampton CID was a spare man of few words, whom Bernard Lister found reassuring. He learnt that David Tresillian and his friends were associating with a man known to the police as a suspected pusher of hard drugs as well as cannabis.

  ‘Friday’s the popular night for these parties among students,’ the Inspector said. ‘As I’ve just been saying to Dr Halton, we’d like both of you to make yourselves scarce next Friday, giving the impression that you’re away for the weekend if you can. We shall keep the house under observation, and if this chap we’re interested in turns up, we’ll probably go in ourselves.’

  ‘Anything you like,’ James Halton told him, ‘and I’m sure that goes for you, too, Lister, doesn’t it? I’ve seen too much of where this sort of thing lands these young fools, if they once get hooked.’

  Relieved at the prospect of being able to contract out of a disturbance in the house, Bernard Lister replied that he would be glad to co-operate.

  ‘How about eating together at a pub on Friday night, then? You could let us have a ring when you’re either through, or have called it off, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s a good plan,’ Inspector Worrall approved. ‘Which pub would you gentlemen fancy?’

  ‘Grand Central suit you, Lister? We may as well have a decent meal while we’re about it. It’s bound to be a damned uncomfortable day.’

  Thankful at not being asked to patronise a noisy pub of the type he detested, Bernard Lister agreed willingly. The Grand Central was the best of the city’s rather limited selection of hotels. Inspector Worrall assured them that they would not be kept out of their homes a moment longer than was necessary, and departed after thanking them for their help.

  On the following morning Bernard Lister awoke with a sense of unreality. He set about playing the part assigned to him with his usual thoroughness, and at midday set off with a weekend case. Instead of going to the station for the London train, however, he took his car and drove some fifty miles to a small country town with an interesting church. After lunching he inspected the latter, and then spent the rest of the afternoon reading in the almost deserted lounge of the hotel, only returning to Warhampton in time to meet James Halton at the Grand Central. The evening with the ebullient ornithologist was less of an ordeal than he had anticipated. In fact, he enjoyed himself. The food and wine were good, and his companion intelligent, if highly individualistic.

  They had moved to the hotel lounge for coffee and liqueurs when James Halton was called to the telephone.

  ‘Operation successful,’ he reported on returning. ‘No details over the blower, of course, but we can go back when we like. Thank God we shan’t have to repeat this performance every Friday night until further notice. You said you’d got your car here, didn’t you?’

  They left together shortly afterwards, and when Bernard Lister had garaged his car, walked round to the house. A police car was just driving away with a full complement of passengers. As they watched, David Tresillian and some other young men were conducted to another car. Finally another group of young people emerged under escort. As they got into a third car the light from the street lamp fell on the frightened face of a girl which touched off an elusive memory in Bernard Lister’s mind. It was some hours later, just as he was dropping off to sleep, that he identified it with the reflection in the window of the estate agency at Corbury.

  Chapter 4

  All through the traumatic experience of being taken to a police station and charged with smoking cannabis, Belinda Plowman’s one thought was that her parents must never know. At all costs she must clamp down on her link with Corbury. When asked for information about herself, she stated with perfect truth that she was eighteen years old, legally of age, and that her private address was the flat in Warhampton which she
shared with two other girls. At last she was released on bail in her own recognisances of ten pounds, badly shaken, but confident that she had given nothing away.

  Although almost sick with exhaustion she could not sleep that night. At intervals she sweated in panic at the thought of her father’s distress if he found out what had happened. She repeatedly tried to reassure herself with what she had heard of the fate of other people on drugs charges. Would the Bench ever believe that she had never in her life experimented with drugs before, and had only gone to Dave Tresillian’s wretched party to take a trip out of sheer curiosity? Surely first offenders didn’t get sent to prison these days? Money to pay a fine could be raised somehow. Would they let you pay in instalments? She’d ask Dave. Of course, things would be worse for him, because he’d let his flat be used for the party. Worse still for that friend of his who’d brought the stuff along . . . not that she’d taken to him at all. Oh, God, what a fool she’d been....

  Belinda rolled over on to her back and stared into the darkness. If the police didn’t know where she came from, she argued, it couldn’t come out in court, and so the Press wouldn’t be able to get hold of it.

  This naive belief showed her inexperience of the techniques of newsmen. Once the names of the students who had been charged were made public, it took a reporter on the Warhampton Evening News very little time to uncover their various backgrounds through casual conversations with their acquaintances. The information so obtained began to circulate over the national Press network.

  In the middle of the following week Bob Risley, editor of the Corbury Courier, rang Gerald Stanton at his office.

  ‘Something a shade dicey’s come in,’ he told him. ‘I thought I’d just check with you before contacting Plowman. I take it you’re all in the picture over this drugs charge his girl’s facing?’

  In response to a curt request for information, Bob Risley replied that he had just taken the precaution of ringing the Warhampton police. Belinda Plowman and others were being hauled up before the Warhampton beaks on a cannabis smoking charge. The case was coming up in a week’s time.

  When he rang off, Gerald Stanton sat for a moment staring at his telephone. Whether Mark Plowman knew about it or not, the prospect of confronting him on the situation was daunting. Still, steps must be taken without delay to ensure that Belinda had a competent solicitor.

  ‘Get me Mrs Stanton,’ he said abruptly, pressing the buzzer on his desk.

  Shirley Stanton used all her intelligence, and the full weight of her personality and status to influence Corbury’s reaction to her niece’s escapade. She anticipated a small-town shocked reaction by discussing the situation openly and deploring the type of student being maintained at universities on the taxpayer’s money. She gave it as her private opinion that coming into contact with the law was not a bad thing to happen to a thoroughly decent girl like Belinda. The shock would make her choose her friends more critically in the future. Gerald Stanton put out similar sentiments in masculine terms. A sense of reacting in an enlightened way to an unfortunate occurrence began to permeate Corbury society.

  To a stunned Monica Plowman, the Stantons were sympathetic and cheerfully bracing. Mark, as Gerald had instantly foreseen, constituted a major hazard. It was only with great difficulty that he was deterred from plunging into catastrophic action on Belinda’s behalf. He was at last persuaded that a personal onslaught on the young men who had organised the party would make her the laughing stock of her contemporaries. Cutting off her allowance in an attempt to make her leave Warhampton for good might well lead to her walking out on the family: such reactions from the young were commonplace these days. As a trump card, Shirley quoted a local example. Reluctantly convinced that his proposed courses of action had better be abandoned, Mark remained adamant on one matter. He, and he only would represent the family when the case came up in court. A crowd of them there would only make it worse for the poor kid.

  ‘All the same,’ Shirley said to her husband in private, ‘I do wish you were going to be there. Suppose Mark suddenly blows his top in public?’

  ‘If he does, he does,’ Gerald replied irritably, exasperated by the whole business. ‘I can’t possibly go, with a client’s case on at Alchester on the same day. He’ll be all right. You’ve hammered it in hard enough that it’s in Belinda’s interest for him to keep his cool.’

  In this Gerald Stanton was to be proved right. Mark Plowman was slow to accept an idea which cut across his inclinations, but having done so, he held to it tenaciously. He greeted Belinda on the day of her ordeal with cheerful composure. During the hearing of the case he concealed his agonies of apprehension and impatience, and his fury at the remarks addressed to the three girls prior to their discharge. Outside the court he moderated his heartfelt relief.

  ‘How about tea at my hotel?’ he suggested, and, moved by an impulse of goodwill, he included the two other girls in the invitation. Belinda’s glance of approval was ample reward for the sacrifice of their téte-à-téte.

  In the hotel lounge, warm and brightly-lit, with its buzz of conversation against a background of canned popular music, tension rapidly evaporated. The trio tucked into crumpets and cakes with the resilience of youth. At first the events of the day were avoided, but before long they were being uninhibitedly discussed.

  One of the girls, an undergraduate at Warhampton University, remarked that the chap who had snooped and reported to the police had not shown up in court.

  ‘But do you know who it was?’ Mark Plowman asked her. ‘The police usually keep mum about their sources of information.’

  ‘Oh, everyone says it was one of our lecturers,’ she assured him. ‘He had the flat under Dave Tresillian’s. A dreary type from the history department, called Bernard Lister. I know him quite well by sight.’

  His teacup halfway to his lips, Mark Plowman was suddenly immobilised. An ugly brick red mounted swiftly to his temples. In a flash he saw alarm in Belinda’s eyes, and decided to attempt reassurance.

  ‘My God, it’s hot in here,’ he exclaimed. ‘I feel like a boiled lobster. I suppose there’d be a riot if anybody asked for a window to be opened?’

  As he spoke he beckoned to a passing waitress, and in the slight upheaval which followed the conversation took another turn, becoming progressively more light-hearted. Under its cover he felt the violent impulses so ruthlessly repressed for Belinda’s sake turning to blind fury against Bernard Lister. A plan, nebulous at first, then alluringly explicit, took shape in his mind. But he must play for safety: she was uncommonly penetrating. When the tea party ended he contrived, rather clumsily but doggedly, to be seen off in his car by all three girls.

  The repercussions of David Tresillian’s party had not extended far beyond Corbury. Simultaneously, there had been an exchange of radiograms between the agent for the flats and Mrs Tresillian on her cruise ship in the mid-Pacific. Its outcome was the precipitate departure of her nephew and his friends from her flat. Peace descended on the house once more.

  To Bernard Lister this development was like an awakening from a nightmare. No longer tensed up in continual anticipation of the next disturbance, he found his flat more delectable than ever. He positively revelled in it, getting particular pleasure both from contemplating Sir Miles LeWarne’s desk, and working at it. At the back of his mind the untidy stacks of books in his spare room began to irk him. His university work was keeping him fully occupied, but late one night he suddenly decided to make a start on reorganising his bookshelves.

  He began with his novels, and cleared a space for the editions of George Eliot and Trollope which he had bought at the sale. While he was carrying a pile of these into the sitting room, several volumes slipped to the ground. He hastily set down the others and retrieved them, inspecting the bindings for any signs of damage. One book had fallen open at a place marked by a folded sheet of paper. It was Framley Parsonage, and on unfolding the paper Bernard Lister saw that it was a sheet of Edgehill Court stationery, covered with nea
t old-fashioned handwriting. He had exceptional visual memory, and at once recognised Sir Miles LeWarne’s hand from the never-to-be-forgotten cheque of many years ago. Interested, he sat down at the desk, and pulled an angle-poise lamp forward. The next moment his attention was riveted.

  The paper was headed ‘Gerald Stanton. Final Notes for New Will. 5.12.1971.’ There were two sub-headings.

  Under the first, ‘Alterations to Legacies, etc.’ were annuities to Margaret Marsh and Thomas Bryce. There were bequests to various charities, and also to a few individuals, among them Shirley Stanton who received £5,000. Puzzled by this, as she had apparently inherited the bulk of the estate, Bernard Lister read the second section, which was headed ‘Residuary Estate’.

  Here several false starts had been made and crossed out, all of them containing the word ‘Corbury’. The final version was a series of notes ... ‘long association of my family with Corbury...’ ‘to be perpetuated by town’s ownership of E. Court and grounds in perpetuity...’ ‘adequate endowment for upkeep….’

  Bernard Lister read the document a second time before putting it down and sitting very still for some moments. Then his right hand felt for a drawer in the desk, opened it, and extracted some folders. He selected one of these, and pushed the others aside, immediately becoming absorbed in the Corbury Courier’s coverage of the deaths of the two young LeWarnes, and of Sir Miles. He had been sufficiently moved at the time to take cuttings, and in his usual methodical way had clipped them together in chronological order. His hand reached for a pen, and he began to jot down notes, as if assembling data in a piece of historical research.

  Roger and Celia LeWarne had been killed on 20 November. Their ashes had been interred in Corbury churchyard on 27 November. On the following Sunday fortnight, 12 December, Sir Miles had had a stroke, dying the next day, 13 December.