Inheritance

by Ellen Kefferty

  Edith stopped adding to the list. It had become ridiculous. Articles were cursorily scanned for anything striking or interesting. She hoped that something would jump out at her, something obvious. She would know it when she saw it. Hopefully.

  Failing that, she could always tell Sam that Thomas Faircote was murdered by a conspiracy consisting of just about everybody. Except journalists. They clearly loved him and his ability to fill newspaper columns.

  The dates on the articles thinned as they stretched back beyond the turn of the century. Thomas was younger, less sure, less able to get attention. He still cropped up here and there.

  An article from 1998, ‘Anarchist Centre Opens Its Doors’, concerned the opening of the Basement Cafe. It was illustrated with a large picture of six people. Thomas Faircote stood at the far left, clearly the youngest, while in the centre was David Carter, his huge frame showing that he was the David Edith had spoken to yesterday.

  After a few more articles the results stopped completely for a few years. Then a solitary article from the Knutsford Guardian in 1992, ‘School welcomes newt arrival’. The story was of a local school which had built a nature garden the year before and had managed to attract a colony of rare newts. The picture showed a young lad holding a newt up to his face. It was Thomas Faircote, just ten years old. Edith wondered if this was where his love of nature had begun. The little boy grew up to find the natural world around him was being carelessly destroyed.

  It was the last result on the page. There was one more page of results. Edith clicked through, happy to be nearly at the end.

  The last page had half a dozen articles. Their title were similar. They all concerned the same story from 1988. How did they concern Thomas Faircote? She opened one and read in confusion and disbelief.

  ‘Police are seeking anybody who was in the area of Street Lane, Poynton around ten o’clock Tuesday morning and may have information relating to a suicide on the railway. The deceased has been named by the police as Thomas Faircote, 26, of Knutsford.’

  “Leave it, Edith, just leave it.” Ben brought his fist down onto the armrest of his chair. “Samuel’s only paying me to investigate one death so that’s all he’s getting.”

  “Don’t you think it’s suspicious?” Edith spoke into the darkness, ignoring her father’s continuing mistake. She was doing the investigating. “Two guys, with the same name, meeting untimely ends? One drives off a cliff into a quarry the other chucks himself into the path of an oncoming train.”

  “Of course it’s suspicious! But it might be nothing. How do we know it’s not just a drunk and a depressive offing themselves? People die all the time, that’s life. Don’t waste your time on it.”

  Edith pushed back against the wall and slid down to a crouch.

  “How can you say that?” Her voice a whisper. “Aren’t you as curious as I am?”

  “You’re not me, sweetheart, are you? I don’t want you getting too far into things you can’t deal with. Now, if you were Sunny things would be different. She could go out and bang some heads together, but you’re not her either. I have to work with what I’ve got. So let’s stick with something simple which you can handle.”

  “Well, at least Sunny can be wrong,” Edith crossed her arms as she spat out her words, “she thought you would get me killed.”

  “She said that did she?” Ben hid any emotion in his voice.

  “More or less. She didn’t want me doing anything on a case.”

  Ben pursed his lips but swallowed his anger in silence. “Let’s get back to business. You spoke to the first person on the scene of the crash who says Thomas Faircote wasn’t drunk?”

  “Yeah. This fellow Trugger says he couldn’t smell any alcohol on Thomas’s breath. I told you.”

  “And everybody says Thomas was teetotal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Thomas’s friend reckons that people were out to get him?”

  “Yes. But all that doesn’t add up to much, does it? Just a couple of people’s opinions.”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s enough. You’ve done the preliminary work, you’ve confirmed that Samuel’s not the only one who thinks it’s dodgy. Take it back to him on my behalf. Get him to pay up if he wants more.”

  “What shall I say to him about the other Thomas Faircote, the one who threw himself under a train?”

  “Nothing.” Ben rethought. “You’re jumping the gun anyway. You don’t even know they’re related.”

  “It’s an uncommon surname and they were from the same town. They must be related somehow. I can look into that, I’m sure it won’t take long.”

  “No. No. Look, like I said, don’t even mention it to Samuel. If they’re relatives he’ll know about it and if they’re not it doesn’t matter. It complicates things even mentioning it. Just tell him what I’ve found, confirm that the car crash is suspicious, and collect the fee.”

  “What if he wants to know who did it?”

  “Tell him the truth!” Ben tutted at his idiot daughter. “The fella made a thousand enemies and there are hundreds of possibilities. He’ll have to cough up a lot more money if he wants all them going through.”

  “And if he does?”

  Ben stood up and moved toward the shuttered windows, pretending to look out upon what he hadn’t seen in eighteen months. His right hand rested on them, assured that they could be taken down one day. Maybe soon.

  “I’ve been ill too long.” Ben paused and tasted the sadness in his words, “I’m almost better now. It won’t be long until I’m ready to take the case off you. I’m nearly ready. Not long now. Not long.”

  Edith opened the inner door to leave. The darkness where her father stood was complete. The tears as he rested his head on the shutter were unheard.

  “I’ll see if I can speak to Sam tomorrow and tell him what we’ve found. I’ll let you know how I get on.”

  She left the room. She left Ben to be with his memories.

  He remembered how he had failed. Now it was too late to put right.

  Day 6: Monday 6 November

  Edith wondered if she had the right turning. The road was narrow and deeply hedged, leading only to a couple of houses and a riding school. Poynton was a mile behind. The sign at the head of the road clearly read, ‘Street Lane’. This was the place she was looking for.

  She had already crossed the railway line on the main road and couldn’t quite make the geography fit. There must have been some mistake in the newspaper article about the location. Or some explanatory detail she had missed.

  As she drove beyond the riding school the road began to rise and narrow even further. The hedges gave way to brick parapets of a bridge. Edith pulled over into the non–existent verge, letting the Punto balance precariously on the edge of a steep slope. A quick check over the parapet confirmed that the railway ran below. The other Thomas Faircote had killed himself here.

  Or had been killed. The possibilities fought in Edith’s mind. She shook her head to ride herself of the battle.

  An open mind was needed. Nothing more or less would do. Willing to believe that both men had been killed. And also willing to concede that it might be nothing more than a tragic coincidence.

  She looked back over the bridge at the pair of houses and the riding school. Inside were the possible witnesses. Only three doors to knock on. The death was thirty years ago and the chances were poor. Maybe the best she could hope for was lead, a pointer in the right direction. Otherwise she would drive into Poynton and make herself a nuisance in very pub by talking to the old men and women. Somebody would know something.

  That was slowly becoming her motto. It astounded her what people knew or thought, and how easily they could be made to divulge it. Her father was right, people love to talk and you only need to get them going. Of course, he was wrong about not bothering to investigate this lead.

  The riding school faced onto the lane masquerading as an old farmhouse. A quick peek behind revealed two large green sheds. A row of horse boxes wer
e tucked neatly along one side. The smaller of the two sheds would have been the stables. The larger the arena.

  For her ninth birthday Ben had brought Edith an ‘Own a Pony’ day. Aunt Shelley had taken Edith to a riding school where she was introduced to ‘her’ pony, Little Bee. She fed Little Bee, and groomed her, and cleaned her stall. Then she was shown its tack arrayed neatly on rows of pegs, and taught how to saddle and bridle the pony. The day culminated with riding Little Bee around the arena for half an hour.

  For months after the pictures that Aunt Shelley had taken were circulated among classmates to show that, yes, her father had really bought her a pony. Jealousy reigned until their teacher, Miss Shercliff, who knew it to be an outrageous lie, eventually put a stop to Edith’s claims.

  For several years she nourished the private belief that Dad would actually buy a pony for her. The birthday gift had been a test to gauge if she was ready. Now it was only a matter of saving the money.

  It ended one day when Sunny burst into Edith’s bedroom for the sole purpose of cruelty. ‘Edith, you’re such a child, don’t you think you should stop daydreaming about ponies? Dad’s not going to buy you one. Aunt Shelley paid for that pony day. Dad never knew a thing about it.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, you’re nearly twelve, it’s about time you grew up. Me and Dad aren’t going to be around to look after you anymore.’ Once she had turned sixteen Sunny suddenly knew a lot of things that Edith didn’t. Ben only had time for one of them.

  Edith knocked on the door of the riding school. A middle–aged man in a green gilet opened the door and stared. There was no hello. His head tilted slowly waiting for her to speak.

  “Hello?” Edith spoke unsure of her turn.

  “Is it about horse–riding?” The green gilet spoke in a monotone.

  Edith stifled a laugh. “I wanted to ask if you remember something which happened in Street Lane in 1988?”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a suicide. A man threw...”

  “A suicide?” The man glowered, disgusted by mere mention of the word. “We don’t know anything about that. We’ve only been here since ninety–six. We don’t know anything about...you know, that.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t help you.” The man shook his head and shut the door.

  Edith knocked up the neighbouring cottage, which sat on the corner with the main road. A woman in her seventies, short and grey–haired, with a strong Yorkshire accent answered. Edith asked her the same question.

  “We’ve only been here since we retired. That was ten years ago. Never heard of such a thing.” The Yorkshire woman pointed across the road. “Try Mrs Hartsall. The Hartsalls have been here for a long time. Since the eighties, definitely.”

  “Thanks.”

  Edith knocked for the third time. The door was opened by a woman who can hardly have met the description of Mrs Hartsall. Even if she married young, to have lived in the house for thirty years would make her fifty. She certainly didn’t look it.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mrs Hartsall.” Edith carefully couched her question to avoid insult. The woman was possibly her daughter.

  “Speaking.” Mrs Hartsall smiled showing only the most gentle creases on her face. “Did Shirley from over the road send you? I saw you talking from my window.”

  “Oh,” Edith looked over her shoulder back to the other house, “she did.”

  “What can I help you with? It’s not often people are point in my direction.”

  “Shirley said that you have lived here for over thirty years.”

  “I have indeed. Since 1983, when this house was built. My husband and I are the only people to have lived here.” Mrs Hartsall smiled, patiently. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you remember the suicide?” Edith didn’t think to phrase the question more softly.

  “Come in, dear. I know what you’re talking about. But let’s not do it on the doorstep.” Mrs Hartsall stepped back from the door and raised her arm to guide Edith in. “You can call me Susan.”

  Susan led Edith into the house. Immediately there began a tour of the property, as though Edith hadn’t even mentioned a thirty–year–old suicide. The perfection of the house was claimed in every feature. Everything had taken so much thought to get just right. The newly–weds had bought the house before it was finished and consulted with the builders to make last–minute changes. The lounge window had been moved. The porch was larger. The bathroom laid out far more effectively. Even thirty–five years later the details were important.

  Not to Edith. But so long as the tour was punctuated by polite nodding from the guest Susan would continue.

  At last they reached the kitchen. Susan explained that it was entirely nineteen–eighties. Nobody would ever guess because it was so utterly timeless.

  Edith nodded.

  “Would you like a drink?” Susan asked as though her guest’s needs might suddenly matter.

  “Please. A glass of water.”

  While Susan’s back was turned Edith fixed herself at the kitchen table, the chair tucked in tight. The tour was over, she wasn’t about to shift. Susan hesitated, on the verge of continuing, then sank into the seat opposite Edith.

  “Your house is really lovely, Susan.” Edith summarised the tour with the grace of a wrestler finally pinning down their opponent. The conversation was tugged and spun around to her goal with pointed unsubtlety. “And you say you’ve lived here since 1983?”

  “Yes.” Susan sighed. There was no more misdirection. She should have turned Edith away when she had the chance. It would have been easier. Maybe. But Edith clearly knew something. Nobody would knock at her door and ask so abruptly otherwise.

  Susan had spent weeks, then months, then years, thinking that it would all come out. How odd that it should be like this. Edith was young, under thirty. She wasn’t even born at the time.

  Susan began without further prompt. “I don’t think anybody’s spoken to me about the suicide for a long time. Nobody in the village ever mentions it. The fellow wasn’t from here and, well, nobody really saw much.”

  “But you remember it? It was here?”

  “Yes, of course. He threw himself from the bridge just down the road.” Susan pointed loosely with a raised hand. “Can I ask why you want to know about it? You can’t have even been born then.”

  “I...,” Edith quickly did a mental sum. The older Thomas Faircote would be about fifty–five, a little too old to be her cousin. Maybe an uncle? Her father’s grief over a sibling’s death had been passed down a generation?

  She remembered how Susan had responded on the doorstep. There was no confusion. No shock. An immediate invitation to enter the house. ‘I know what you’re talking about.’ Those were her words.

  Edith braved the most honest reply she could. A knife to the heart of the matter.

  “It wasn’t suicide, was it?”

  Susan blinked.

  “I’m not sure how much help I can be to you.” She drew her hands from the table and clasped them in her lap. She shrank into her chair. “You seem to know a lot already.”

  What was going on? Edith was less investigating a hidden crime and more stumbling into an open secret. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Susan let out a long breath. A moment’s silence. “I used to take Christopher, my younger son, up the lane to the sheep field. He was nearly three at the time. It was spring so there was the extra treat of lambs. We chose to have our family in the countryside exactly for this reason. Our children would have nature on their doorstep rather than the dirt and ugliness of the city.”

  “You would walk over the railway bridge?” Edith helped her on.

  “Yes, I pushed his buggy out. Such a lovely walk. Only about a mile down the lane. Even though the lane is narrow it was usually pretty safe. Very few cars go down the lane as it doesn’t really lead anywhere. Is ever so quiet.” Susan fell silent and looked around the kitchen before starting again. “That’s what
was different on this day. A car parked on the verge by the railway bridge. I had never seen that before.

  “Of course, there’s hardly any verge so the car was stuck half out into the lane. We had to walk round. I remember the car was a blue Ford Cortina.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Oh no, not at all. There was a special blue colour, just for this make. It really was a lovely hue. I could spot it a mile off. That’s how I remembered the make of the car. Naturally I couldn’t remember the exact model or the plate, which would have helped to trace it.”

  Edith nodded intently. Then she stopped. Her brow furrowed.

  “Trace the car?”

  “Yes. Christopher and I spent an hour out on our little trip. By the time I came back to the bridge with my son the police were there taping up the whole scene. That was when we knew something had happened. Of course I immediately told them I had seen a car parked there an hour earlier. But they never found out who it belonged to.”

  “The car didn’t belong to Thomas Faircote?” Edith struggled to process the information.

  “It can’t have, can it? The police said they found a railway ticket to Poynton on his body.” Susan closed her eyes and shivered. “What must have remained of his body.”

  “So what did the police say about the car?”

  “They said it must have been a coincidence.” Susan stared at Edith. “What other explanation could there be? It just so happened to be there on the same morning. It could have gone before he got there. How could I know? How could I argue?