Death of a Hired Man

by Eric Wright

  And now? Who knew? The man might now be a bishop, and perhaps the liberated times would turn against him and he would be condemned for having been a coward back then. There. See? Pickett couldn’t risk upsetting a man’s life, could he? Thus he tried to prepare for his son’s announcement of his discovery.

  He had tried to keep the initiative when he arrived. “We can be formal,” he’d said. “Or we can use first names, which is probably more common over here than with you. What I’d find real awkward, at this stage, is you calling me ‘Dad.’ Okay?”

  His son was a slightly built, handsome man of less than medium height, with thinning fair hair and a still watchfulness that kept his features from expressing anything. He was wearing a tweed suit and brogues, an outfit of a quality that even Pickett recognized represented the income of a very successful man. When he spoke, there was a tiny speech impediment to do with the letter “r,” but hardly detectable within the English accent. “I’d find it awkward, too. Very awkward.” He drew in his breath, waiting to be asked what he meant.

  Pickett sensed the ticking of the bomb. “You said you’d heard something, or found out something, about you and me?” Now he was sure of what he was going to hear.

  Colwood waited for a few seconds to give his words their full weight. “Do you remember my Uncle Ernie? My mother’s brother?”

  “No. Yes. I met him just once. A wireless operator in the RAF, right? Nice guy.”

  “A decent bloke. We never saw much of him, but a solid type.”

  And now Pickett knew the form the discovery had taken. Ernie, long forgotten, was the only one in the family who knew the truth. His sister had confided in him at the time so that he would not be tempted to get a couple of pals and teach Pickett a lesson for seducing his sister, possibly by putting on ammunition boots and waiting for him outside the pub, the lower-class equivalent of a horsewhipping. Ernie had come to Pickett then to let him know that although the family officially regarded Pickett as a rotten bastard, he, Ernie, knew different, and wanted to thank Pickett for looking after his sister.

  “I remember Ernie,” Pickett sighed. “I thought I could trust him.”

  “You could. But you must know what I’ve thought of you over the years. The man who poked my mother and then wouldn’t marry her. A Grade-A bastard. Uncle Ernie could have set me straight long ago and saved us all a lot of trouble.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” said Pickett, slowly gathering his wits. “I don’t know if it would have made it easier for you. Why did he tell you, finally?”

  “When Imogen wrote and said she’d tracked you down and was staying with you, I got alarmed. I had no idea she was coming over here to look for you. Well, yes, she said something about it, but I didn’t think she had a hope of finding you, or of getting you to meet her if she did. When she did both, I wanted to fly over myself. I didn’t want her mixed up with a man I regarded as a royal shit, no matter what my mother said.”

  Pickett said, “Your mother didn’t agree?”

  “She would never hear a word against you. Anyway, Uncle Ernie took me aside when he heard I was coming over. He has cancer and thought it was time to tell me what was what. Why didn’t you tell Imogen the truth?”

  Pickett didn’t even bother to answer this question. He had had time to think. “Did Ernie tell you who your father was?”

  “No. Mother wouldn’t tell him.”

  “So, since it wasn’t me, you were left wondering who your real father was. And your mother went through a lot to protect him.”

  “So did you, of course.” Colwood seemed to be losing a bit of his attitude now that the human factor, the real Pickett, had appeared.

  “I was nineteen,” Pickett said. “I enjoyed being able to help your mother. And then when Imogen turned up, I wasn’t sure I had the right to tell her the truth. You still haven’t told her, have you? See? It’s a problem. Her grandmother trusted me; her real grandfather was very respectable. Why haven’t you told Imogen?” Pickett began to relax. The hell with it, he thought. Let them know it all. Let them get on with it.

  Colwood said, “I thought I would have it out with you first. Why didn’t you tell her when she first arrived?”

  Pickett fought to construct his response. The reality had been that telling Imogen would almost certainly have involved telling his colleagues, and he was simply not up to it. And once he had met Imogen, he didn’t want to, anyway.

  Gradually his brain stopped trembling as an idea took on a form. “It was a problem. You realized that or you would already have told her yourself. As I said, your mother’s lover—your father—was a very respectable man.” Pickett was mentally clearing his throat, almost ready to begin. First, he went on to the reasons how, in 1944, a man in the lover’s position could be destroyed.

  “You know who it was?” Colwood demanded.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

  “I think I’m entitled to know. He’s my father.”

  “All right, then. And afterward, could we talk about what you will do with the information?”

  Colwood gave him a bitter glance. “Ever since I was old enough to understand, I’ve thought my mother was seduced by some Canadian shit. Now I might want to tell the real shit what I think of him.”

  “And you might not be able to. But I’d like to be the one to tell Imogen. Okay?”

  Colwood shrugged. “So what’s his name? He’s probably dead by now.”

  Pickett took the first step, finding a plausible, English-sounding name. “Does Derek Hanstead mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Art teacher.” That was safe enough.

  “No.”

  “He died about six years ago. He had moved after the war, and was a teacher at a girls’ school in Yorkshire somewhere. On the moors. He never married, but after he died, his house was sold and the new owner dug up the back garden and found the skeleton of a woman.”

  Colwood went white. “Who? Who was it?”

  “Turned out to be a colleague of his who had gone missing thirty years before. Her skull was fractured in three places.”

  “A teacher?”

  “So I understand.”

  “He killed her?”

  “They think so. He certainly buried her.”

  “Dear God.”

  Pickett feared he had gone too far, too soon. “I’m sorry I had to tell you. I’ll look after telling Imogen.”

  “You aren’t going to tell Imogen this!”

  “I have to, don’t I? Isn’t that why you came?”

  “But bloody hell, this makes a lot of difference. Can we think about it for a minute?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for fifty years.”

  “Yes, I see.” Colwood leaned forward, the mask of his face dissolving as he lost his last threads of detachment from Pickett. He squeezed his hands between his knees, like a boy. His white face was patched with red on the cheekbones, giving him a hectic, fevered air. “I say, could you, could we, have a cup of tea? Or coffee, if that’s all you have.”

  “I’ve got tea. Would you like a drink, though? Scotch?”

  Colwood shook his head, then thought for a moment and nodded. “Both. Make a cup of tea, if you would, but I’d like a scotch now.”

  With the scotch gone, and sipping his tea, Colwood said, almost as if to himself, “It’s a lot to absorb, isn’t it? What am I going to do?”

  “Ready for more?” Pickett asked.

  Colwood looked frightened, but nodded.

  “I made it up,” Pickett said. “I’ve no idea of where your father is now, or if he’s alive.”

  “You made it up!”

  “I wanted to lay out one possibility before you ran off to tell Imogen.”

  Colwood watched him, looking for a way to attack.

  Pickett continued. “Once upon a time I did something when I was a kid because I loved your mother, and she loved someone else and she got pregnant by him. It was easy to let go, and stayed easy until Imogen cam
e looking for me. I wasn’t ready for that. If I had known she was coming, I’d have made sure I was out when she arrived.”

  “But why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”

  “First of all, think about what it would have looked like to my mates. They would have assumed she was my granddaughter and that I was being a bit of a prick not to acknowledge her. There was no way I was going to tell the whole world the truth. I might have once, but not after fifty years. And then there’s Imogen. Once I’d met her, I wanted to keep her. All right? She looks like her grandmother.”

  “I know you are fond of her. She is of you. I wondered a bit about that.”

  Pickett let this go by.

  “Now what?” Colwood asked when Pickett failed to respond.

  “Maybe your uncle should have kept quiet. Then you could have come over here and bawled me out like you wanted to. Now it’s your problem.”

  “Mine?”

  “Sure. Now that you know, it’s all yours, and I’m very glad of it. I’m tired of it. I was soft on your mother fifty years ago, so I covered for her. Now there’s Imogen, and you, and my goddam sister-in-law.” Pickett explained how the plan to adopt Colwood had grown out of a need to protect his estate against Verna’s greed. “See, I couldn’t help thinking of Imogen as my granddaughter once I’d met her, and everything followed from that. You are a man of the world—that the term?—so take some advice. Consult your company’s lawyers. I don’t think lawyers should get involved myself, except to draw up the adoption papers, but do what you like, George. George? That right? Just let me know what you plan to do. I’d like to get it settled. And if you decide to tell the truth, I want to tell Imogen myself. And that will probably be that. But if you go home first … oh, fuck it. Do what you like.” He turned and moved quickly to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. When he came back, he was composed.

  Colwood seemed smaller. He nodded at the offer of a refill, waited until Pickett was seated, then said, “I’m sorry. When Ernie told me, I was already booked for New York. Then I thought I’d try to meet you and find out from you who my real father was. But now, with you and Imogen so close … I need time to think.”

  “The more time you take, the harder it will be to tell Imogen the so-called truth and explain why you waited so long to tell her. You’ll be in the same position I’m in now.”

  Colwood looked at him over his glass. “No one else knows?”

  “No. All I know is that your father was a married man, an art teacher, and I’m the only one who knows even that much, except for you now.”

  “Then let’s leave it alone.” Colwood looked as if he had decided to ignore a discrepancy in a major client’s accounts for the sake of a larger good, like the security of the realm. A huge decision.

  “Permanently?”

  Colwood shook his head. “I can’t say that. I don’t know what to do at this moment, so I don’t want to do anything. But that could change.”

  “It worked for fifty years.”

  “I just can’t promise.”

  Pickett said, “But you’ll let me be the first to know, won’t you?”

  “No news will always be good news.”

  “So I’ll carry on, shall I, as the Canadian shit who seduced your mother?”

  “Yes, well, sorry about that. But we can all take Imogen’s word for it that you’re not such a shit, can’t we?” He tried to smile. “Why not?”

  Pickett said, “Now let’s get ready for Imogen when she comes back. How am I supposed to act with you, now we’ve met?”

  Colwood said, “Now that we’ve met, we’re getting along fine, surely. She would expect that to happen, because she likes us both.” Colwood scrambled to make common cause with Pickett. “By the way, Imogen wants to come back to Canada to live for a while. Her sister thinks she might like to visit her here. I refused to talk about it before I left, but … how would you feel about it? If we carry on as is, I mean.”

  “Her sister can stay with Imogen. Upstairs. Imogen can have Grandad to dinner to meet her. And Grandma, too.”

  Colwood said, “I thought your wife—”

  “I got married again. I didn’t write to Imogen about it yet.”

  Colwood wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Perhaps I should stay and meet my stepmother. What’s she like?”

  Pickett blinked. “She’s presentable enough when she remembers to wear her shoes.”

  “What?”

  “You’re asking me what my wife is like. What kind of question is that? You want to know whether your stepmother is suitable for Epsom society?”

  “No, no. Oh, no. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. No. Please. You must think I’m a real idiot.”

  Pickett said, “Let’s put it back in the box. Now. You can meet my wife the next time you’re over.”

  “As you like. I’d be happy to stay for a day or so if you thought I should.”

  “There’s no need. What are you going to say at home, in England?”

  “I’ll tell them we met, got along well, but didn’t have much in common.”

  “So you’ll stop going around Epsom calling me a shit?”

  “All right, all right. I’ll change my tune now I’ve met you. Sshsh.” He held up a hand.

  The front door opened and Imogen came in, shouted with glee, embraced her grandfather, and kissed her father. She glanced at the cups and glasses and said to her father, “See? I told you. What’s the matter, Dad? You look upset. Aaaaah.” She put her arms around him. “Reunions.”

  Colwood said, “We’ve had a good talk, and now I have to go.” He tried for a joke. “You have my permission to know him,” he said to Imogen, kissed her, shook hands with Pickett and said, “Please give my regrets to your wife. Tell Imogen who I mean.” And then, too many emotions coursing through him, he moved quickly to the door. “Call me at the hotel tomorrow morning, Imogen. I’ll try to fly out tomorrow night, but you might want to stay over for a day or two. Let me know.”

  “What was that all about?” Imogen asked when her father had left.

  “We were talking about your grandmother. And speaking of grandmothers, I have something to tell you. Let’s go out for some spaghetti. This is serious. It’s about your new grandmother. I’d like you to come up to Larch River to meet her. We could go up tomorrow, come back the next day.”

  One day, he thought, Colwood’s curiosity would overcome him and he would try to find out who his true father was, but by that time, Pickett would be dead, surely, and Colwood would almost certainly get nowhere with his inquiries. The story would eventually become a family legend, and one day someone would turn it into a novel, perhaps.

  Then the truth would come out.

  Also by ERIC WRIGHT

  MEL PICKETT BOOKS

  Buried in Stone

  LUCY TRIMBLE BOOKS

  Death of a Sunday Writer

  Death on the Rocks

  CHARLIE SALTER BOOKS

  The Night the Gods Smiled

  Smoke Detector

  Death in the Old Country

  The Man Who Changed His Name

  A Body Surrounded by Water

  A Question of Murder

  A Sensitive Case

  Final Cut

  A Fine Italian Hand

  Death by Degrees

  OTHER

  Moodie’s Tale

  Always Give a Penny to a Blind Man (A Memoir)

  The Kidnapping of Rosie Dawn

  DEATH OF A HIRED MAN. Copyright © 2001 by Eric Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Designed by Lorelle Graffeo

  eISBN 9781429982559

  First eBook Ed
ition : February 2011

  First Edition: March 2001