by Gill Mather
He was tall and well-spoken; no broad Suffolk accent as Harry/William had according to Roz. By his own account he was another tractor driver amongst other things. For some unaccountable reason, Guy found this funny and giggled to himself. Henry turned round and smiled faintly at Guy in the dim light cast by their lamps
Guy wasn't especially alarmed. In fact this singular method and route to a man’s accommodation was entertaining. It was the sort of thing you’d hope to find in a place like this and could dine out on for years to come.
Henry had been beating Guy in the final when the marshals declared that the game should be suspended until the morning. Jack, with whom Guy would have liked to have had a relaxing nightcap, had stomped off some time previously and most of the contestants and audience had drifted away. Not for the first time did Guy wonder whether they laced the beverages in this establishment with something. But Guy, intent on winning, had stuck to water.
Therefore when Henry suggested a drink together, Guy had agreed. He’d wanted to tell Roz or leave her a message where he was going but Henry had been discouraging, saying that his place was very nearby, that he had some nice malt and was only suggesting a quick dram or two. They’d picked up a couple of the oil lamps placed around the tournament room, put on their jackets and embarked on this somewhat convoluted as it turned out trek through the building.
What time it was now Guy couldn't be sure having several years ago ditched his wristwatch in favour of the smartphone which had been next to useless during this winter sojourn. He plodded on behind Henry.
“Er, sorry to ask, but will it be much further because….”
“No. Not much. Though as a diversion, perhaps you’d tell me what you meant exactly by asking me how long I’d lived here, how long Jack’s been here. What’s it to you where the dead body’s been stored for the time being?”
“I dunno. Just trying to make conversation. Actually I’m pretty tired. Could we go back? I’m feeling rather groggy.”
Guy had tried to find something to eat when the match was temporarily abandoned. But all the food in the bower next door had either been consumed or taken away. The effort of playing non-stop for over five hours made him ravenously hungry and now he was uncomfortably light-headed and he found he was swaying a little as he walked. He assumed it was the lack of food and low blood-sugar level.
“No need. We’re here now.”
Guy looked around. They had emerged into some sort of timber building. An outhouse maybe? But they were supposed to be going to Henry’s residential accommodation where Guy hoped he might be offered a snack as well as a drink. There were oars and hooks on the wall, skeins of rope, a shelf loaded with tubs. Of grease possibly? The oars were quite small. Objects hung from some of the hooks; gin traps, snares, big and small mousetraps, nets, knives.
On the back wall hung two large things made of basket weave. Large for baskets anyway. Another lay on the dirt floor, the same shape and size but with some kind of material stretched over the weave. It wasn't in a good condition; the material was worn and tattered. Guy held his lamp aloft to examine it but lost his balance and had to lower it.
He wondered why he wasn't cold. On the contrary he was burning up, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. He didn't feel well. The lack of food, the late hour, the longer than expected trudge through narrow passages.
Henry stood regarding Guy seriously, actually coldly. “We know quite well that Roz used to be a police inspector.”
“Oh yeah?” said Guy, not really caring by now.
“Yes. We do do a little background research you know on our guests. Her details are all over the internet. And yours. I’m not prepared to have my mother’s latter years disrupted by an ex-cop and her boyfriend come poking their noses around here. It was Roz who suggested cleaning up the orangerie wasn't it.”
“Hmm.” Guy tried to focus. What had the man just said? Something about a mother? Roz had mentioned a son. It was in connection with the corpse in some way or other.
“Well,” Guy tried not to gag on his words, “it was decades ago. I doubt anything’s going to be raked up after all this time.” The effort of making this small speech left him breathless and immensely tired.
“Old sins cast long shadows,” said Henry.
“Really,” said Guy. He felt like throwing up. He raised a hand up to rub his eyes but this small gesture caused him to lose his balance again and he staggered a few paces. Henry took the lamp from him and carried on watching him.
Guy could see movement at ground level suddenly, whatever it was reflecting light from somewhere above outside. Guy realised fuzzily that it was moonlight and that there was a gap between the floor and the far wall of the shed. His head swam. The reflected moonlight wouldn't keep still. The blood thumped through his head like a base drum. A lapping sound intruded at the periphery of his hearing.
Other objects stood about; a cow trough, a wheelie bin of the sort given out in Suffolk, the old worn vessel, a coracle perhaps. As all sensation and lucidity fell slowly away, he swayed and the words echoed around his muddled brain:
Old sins cast long shadows, old sins cast long shadows, old sins….
Toppling helplessly forward, his befogged brain dredged up from its far depths the information that the Hall was somewhere near the River Brett.
ROZ AND HER contingent loitered uncertainly outside ‘Longacres’ for several minutes after Mark yanked at the old-fashioned bell pull.
In due course, the door swung open and Jack, dressed in a night shirt, a tasseled night cap and backless slippers stood on the threshold bearing a candle in a holder, similar to Roz’s own. At the sight of his Dickensian appearance, a feeling of unreality crept over Roz.
“Yeeees?” enquired Jack.
“This young lady has misappropriated her young man, er, Guy. Is he with you by any chance?” asked Mark.
The mildness of his manner and casual tone of his enquiry irritated Roz more than she could say at this moment. But he was helping her and she had to control her mounting anxiety.
“Jack. Is he? Is he with you? If he’s not,” she looked Jack up and down, “and I assume he isn't, then I’m desperately worried about him.”
“No I’m afraid not. I’ve been asleep for at least an hour. Longer probably. Er, come in.”
Jack stood aside and everyone filed past him. Apart from Mark and Roz, the visitors’ eyes greedily took in every detail of the accommodation. Roz noticed too, but at a far removed level, the wide hallway, the doors into the rooms giving off it slightly ajar, the tall window at the end of the hall, the large reception room into which Jack led them, the antique furniture, the oil paintings.
Jack sat Roz down and everyone else followed suit. Having never found Jack an especially likeable person, in fact quite the contrary, Roz was disarmed by his solicitous manner towards her now. She hoped it wasn’t a ploy of some sort.
“What’s the matter Roz?” he said. “Why are you so worried about Guy?”
“Well, because…because….” The tears welled up and Roz had no power to stop them, “because he’s not with you.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “All right. I understand. Where did you last see him? I think unfortunately that I may have left the tournament even before you did.”
“He was just playing away when I left.”
“Who else was playing at that time?”
“Well there were two pairs left. Guy and someone and two others. One of them might have been Harry or William or whatever he’s called.” Roz looked at Jack and paused. “I suppose I should tell you that the tractor driver Harry or William said that you ‘knew what I was about’. He meant the corpse in the orangerie. But I’m not about anything. We’re just on holiday. Do you think he’s Mary’s son?”
“Mary who?”
Roz told Jack about the séance.
“I assumed you knew,” said Roz. “Mark seems to.” Mark hadn’t asked the same question when she’d related the events to him.
Roz looked at Mark. He shrugged.
“Well those of us from that time all knew Mary. But a séance? I mean….not a very reliable source of information. Is it really?”
“But you must’ve known who the corpse was then,” said Roz.
Mark shrugged again. “No. No idea.”
“But didn't you suspect he was Mary’s husband?”
“No. I didn't know anything about Mary’s private life. I don’t think I even knew she was married.”
“What about the advertising literature?” Roz persisted.
“What advertising literature?” said Mark and several others all at once.
Roz gave up. “Jack did you say that about me to Harry or William? That you ‘know what I’m about’?”
“I don’t think so. Of course we all know you’re an ex-detective inspector - it’s all over the internet - and well….I don't really want any trouble here. None of us do. I suppose William was just trying to keep any trouble at bay himself.”
“But is he Mary’s son?”
“I wouldn't know,” said Jack. “I’ve been here fifteen years. But when it seems likely the corpse met his or her death, it was before my time. Mark might know.”
All attention turned to Mark.
“Certainly not. Mary’s son is Henry.”
“Who’s Henry?” said Roz, but Jack ignored her in the infuriating, dismissive way she’d come to associate with him.
“Was Henry one of the semi-finalists? Does anyone know?” asked Jack.
“No,” said Mark. “We were all watching ‘The Life of Jesus Christ’.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Roz could almost read his thoughts. An inkling of Guy’s liking for him began to filter into her psyche. He wasn't really difficult to read. He didn't hide his prejudices especially effectively and probably didn't actually want to. He was indeed quite straightforward and she wondered why she’d found him so objectionable.
If it isn’t spiritualism, then it’s religion, Roz could hear him thinking.
“Well he’s certainly a good player,” said Jack. “He and Guy might well have been in the final.”
Roz cast about amongst the souls collected here, but no-one offered any insight into Guy’s whereabouts or possible present predicament.
“Yes but,” she said, “where’s Guy? Where might he be? Is this William dangerous? Or Henry?”
No-one replied for a time. Then a woman piped up:
“Amelia’s the person most likely to know anything. She’s been here as long as anyone. And if you disregard the crystals and tarot cards and everything else she’s fundamentally pretty sensible I’ve always found. She’ll help anyone out.”
“Well OK. Where does she live then? I have to find Guy.”
“What I suggest,” said Jack, “is that we go back to your room first and then if Guy still isn't there, we go to Amelia’s. It’s on the same floor.”
It seemed like a sensible plan.
“Yes. Let’s do that. Straight away,” said Roz. “But could we knock on Henry’s and William’s doors on the way?”
“OK,” said Jack. “I’ll go and put on a dressing gown. It’ll be quicker though if I take William’s rooms and perhaps Mark could go to Henry’s.”
Mark immediately concurred.
As one, like a flock of starlings, they rose and soared off along the landing. At the T junction they split up, Jack and Roz going in one direction and Mark and his followers the other. Jack had fired up a couple of gas camping lamps before leaving his apartment and had offered one to Mark. Thus the landing before them was well illuminated. William’s rooms were just a few doors along.
“You said ‘rooms’. It sounds like a college set up,” asked Roz as they waited. “Doesn't William have a flat?”
“He’s single. No family. We have to reserve the larger units for families. The singles get a sort of bedsit.”
The door opened eventually and a sleepy William stepped out onto the landing.
“Sorry William but we’re looking for Guy. You don’t know where he is do you?” Roz asked quickly.
“Could we come in?” said Jack. “We don't want to wake anyone else up.”
William hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit of a mess.”
“William. Roz is worried out of her mind. We have to try to find Guy,” said Jack.
Suspicion coursed through Roz at William’s obvious reluctance. But he pushed open his door and let them in. The room was indeed in some turmoil. By the look of things, it could well have been the aftermath of a major struggle. But Roz had been given a summary lesson in how single men could create domestic havoc when taken to visit Guy’s son Boris a few times.
William yawned. “Housework and me doon’t see eye to eye,” he admitted.
Jack, standing on no ceremony, was proceeding to actually search the place. He bent and looked under the bed and in the wardrobe, he went into the kitchenette and shower room. He came back and shrugged.
“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. Just checking.”
If William found this intrusive or rude, he gave no indication.
Jack stood near the door out onto the landing.
“Did Guy reach the final? Who were the last people down there as far as you know?” he asked William.
“Just the marshals and Guy and Henry playing in the final. Everyone else had gone off to bed by about midnight.”
“William. Mark’s checking Henry’s room now. Then if that produces nothing, we’re off to see if Guy’s back in his own room. And if he’s not, we’re going to ask Amelia what she thinks and we’ll have to carry out a search. Will you come and help us?”
“Gladly. I hoop that Henry hasn’t done nothin’.”
“Why do you say that William? Is Henry….well is there something wrong with him?” Roz tried not to sound too alarmed. She had to keep calm. Becoming hysterical wouldn't help.
“He’s given us cause for concern a few times,” said Jack carefully.
William was more frank. “He’s a coold bastard and you knoo it. He’s lucky still ter be here.”
Roz swallowed. She didn't like what she was hearing. The obvious scenario was laying itself out before her of a son, a mother whose life had been difficult and presumably a deceased husband and father. A domestic crime background all too familiar to her. And she, Roz, had only that evening encouraged Guy to ask questions.
“Can we go please,” she said.
“I’ll pull some cloothes on and be out in a second,” William told them.
Mark and his group were already waiting at the corner.
“We hammered so loudly on the door that Danny at the end of the landing came out. He acts as a sort of caretaker for the floor as you know Jack and he let us into Henry’s rooms. He wasn’t in there,” said Mark.
“Right come on then,” said Jack.
They clattered down a flight of stairs to the first floor, this time not bothering about making a noise. Roz put her candle on the floor and fumbled amongst her clothing for her key. Locating it eventually, she opened the door and they all followed her through. The stillness hit her like a missile. Jack’s sensible suggestion had fermented hope that Guy might actually have returned to their room while she toured the building imploring people to help her. Obviously not.
They had just the one chamber. She ran over to and felt amongst their bedclothes, she knelt down and looked under the bed. There was no wardrobe but she forced herself behind the dresses and coats and skirts and trousers and jackets on the pegs.
“Come on Roz. He’s not here,” said Jack, lightly taking her arm. “I should put one of your coats on. The person who’ll know the most about this place and the people in it is Amelia.”
There was a degree of nodding from the assembled company but Roz still couldn't discount the possibility that they all just did what Jack suggested automatically. She looked at Mark.
“We’d better,” he said.
Therefore the same crowd in much the same order shuffled out of Roz’s ro
om.
Jack put a hand on Roz’s shoulder.
“Don't worry too much. We’ll find him.”
Roz nodded briefly. She must hope he was right.
“THIS IS WHERE Amelia lives.” Jack applied the jade knocker in the form of a baby dragon to the door with some vigour. ‘Shangri-La’ said the clichéd name plate.
As with Jack, it took a long time for Amelia to answer. Her own choice of bedwear was a white embroidered floor length nightdress with her hair in plaits and her feet encased in Fairisle bedsocks. A shawl was thrown around her shoulders and she bore a small torch in her hand.
“Sorry about this,” said Jack. “Can we come in. We need your help. Guy’s disappeared and so has Henry.”
Amelia didn’t gasp theatrically and rush off to consult her crystals or her runes as Roz feared she might. She ushered everyone in and listened as the events, such as anyone knew, were related to her.
“What do you think Amelia? Would Henry have taken Guy off somewhere to do him some harm? And where might he have taken him? You referred to the Black Monk, but actually, do you think the corpse up the chimney was Henry’s father? Do you think it’s possible that Henry or his mother or maybe both of them were responsible for the man’s death? I need to know Amelia. Guy might be in danger.”
Roz said all this in the calmest manner she could muster but the effort of remaining outwardly composed set her heart racing.
Amelia bit her lip, she sighed, she looked up at the ceiling and down at her hands folded in her lap. At length she said:
“Roz I’m sorry. I shouldn't have tried to mislead anyone. Though I dare say no-one took the Black Monk business seriously anyway.”
“No we didn’t,” said Jack.
“It is true. There was a Black Monk. But….your speculations are quite possibly correct Roz. I mean I don't have any direct evidence, it’s only what Mary hinted at. But that corpse, the psychedelic shirt, the medallion. It must have been Henry’s father. But Mary couldn't have put the corpse up the chimney and blocked it off. She was a tiny woman. Henry must have done that. Though whether either of them actually killed him, I don't know. Things that Mary said sometimes made us think something like that may have happened, but as far as we actually knew, he simply disappeared.”
