“What was it?”
The vicar stared deeply into Andy’s eyes. “She was pregnant. Pregnant with the child of Charles Harvey.”
Charles…forgive me. “And who was Charles Harvey?”
“Charles Harvey was the then Master of All Souls College. The Master who was the first to die when the meteorite, ‘God’s Divine Judgement’, struck the Master’s Lodge and set the whole College afire.”
Andy took a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t believe this.”
Wilkins shrugged. “I don’t blame you. There’s no proof that Elizabeth Woodcock was having an affair with the Master, and it sounds highly unlikely. What would a distinguished academic of such standing be doing risking his position for carnal affairs with a farmer’s wife? Daniel never believed either. Until the baby was born.”
There was a strange look in the vicar’s eyes as he continued.
“Again, there is no proof. No entry in the birth register for a child named Woodcock in 1799, and the doctor made no mention of pregnancy when he made his report.”
“But you believe?”
“Yes I do. Because the surviving Fellows of All Souls took great interest in Daniel Woodcock following his wife’s death. Some visited him, asked him - with deepest sympathy and respect, of course - if Elizabeth had been with child. This is noted in a conversation with the priest at Impington, a conversation that the priest in question recorded. The Fellows of All Souls suspected something between Elizabeth and their leader.”
“But why were they so interested in this child?”
“It was a rule at this time that Fellows of the College remain unmarried - and they were forbidden to have children. Children have been born out of wedlock for thousands of years, but I don’t believe it was the prospect of a scandal hitting their already beleaguered college that so worried the Fellowship. It was noted by the Impington priest that when Daniel answered in the affirmative…they all looked positively terrified. ‘As though the end of the world was upon them.’”
“What then? What did Daniel do?”
“Daniel Woodcock sold his farm and moved out of the area. His name does not turn up in any other parish register in these isles - Phil Lotson has tried finding him, but to no avail. He either moved abroad or changed his identity. The sale of the farm is the last written record we have of Daniel Woodcock.
Andy caught the emphasis. “Something was heard, then?”
Wilkins nodded. “In 1817 a man named Peter Hughes was tried and executed for the murder of Joseph Burling. Burling was the Bursar of All Souls, and the last surviving Fellow who witnessed the fire of 1799. Hughes claimed it was self defence, that Burling had tried to kill him and his son…the court was unconvinced. No one believed a drunken, penniless, itinerant labourer would be threatened by an esteemed and wealthy academic. The son was acquitted, but his father went to the gallows.
“I mention this because the physical description given of Peter Hughes matches that of Daniel Woodcock. I firmly believe they were one and the same person. And that the last Fellow of All Souls College who witnessed the Divine Judgement almost succeeded in his goal - of killing the son of Charles Harvey.”
“Where was this, exactly?” Andy’s mouth was dry.
“Quite a way from Cambridge.” That strange, appraising look was back in the vicar’s eyes.
“A small market town in Oxfordshire called Wallingford. I believe they have a yearly folk festival…some interesting carvings for sale…”
* * * * *
Jennifer Callaby slammed the door shut. She heard disapproving words from downstairs and closed her eyes.
She resisted the temptation to throw herself on the small single bed and bury her head in the pillows. For God’s sake, she felt like she was a teenager back at home again rather than a thirty year old woman! Nothing had changed.
How did it come to this? How can the clock be turned back so quickly? She knew the answer, but didn’t want to admit it to herself.
I have to: she told the shaking reflection in the dresser mirror. She didn’t recognise herself. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, her cheeks hollow and her skin flushed. She ran a shaking hand through her cropped red hair and wrinkled her nose. Needs a wash, she thought absently. When did I clean it last?
She had caught sight of the phone number on the caller display, just before mum put the phone down. It had been a Cambridge number. Andy had come after her.
She didn’t know how to feel at first. She had told him not to come, to leave her for a while. But on the drive up to St Neots, as the parent’s home got closer, she’d had time to think about the events.
She knew she hadn’t overreacted. She’d gone up to the attic to bring down her suitcases and that’s when she found it. The shotgun. At least, she thought it was a shotgun. It looked like some monstrous, futuristic cannon.
After the initial shock her first thought had been Pearce. The SIA licence Andy held would never be renewed by legal means, not with his record. Only someone like Graham Pearce could pull strings like that.
And he’d wanted a favour in return. A temporary home for the weapon. It was the final straw. She had climbed down the stepladder with shaking legs, eyes brimming with tears to their room where she hurriedly packed and then to the sitting room, where she wrote out her letter to him.
How could you, Andy?
Of course he couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t blame him for trying to keep his past under wraps. For trying to protect her from the dangerous parts of his life that would not let him go. Perhaps if she’d hidden his present on top of the wardrobe, and she’d never seen the gun it might have been different.
What he’d done last night was no different to what he’d done fifteen years ago. He’d gone too far again. Could she live with that?
She’d asked herself that as she came into St Neots. She still didn’t have the answer. She remembered her mother’s words, her warning when she told them she was moving in with him.
That’s not just suppressed anger in him, that’s rage. It isn’t normal. Mark my words, Jenny, he’s a walking time bomb. And you’ll be caught in the fallout.
God knew, the relationship had been hard recently. Something had been bothering him: he was even more edgy than normal but he wouldn’t open up to her. The strong, silent type taken to the extreme. And it wasn’t just the favour he had done for Pearce.
Only at night did he reveal his demons. When he was asleep he tossed and turned in their bed, punching the walls as he dreamt.
That was terrifying. There was a rage in him that was trying to escape its prison. His beautiful green eyes with flecks of gold in the irises gave no hint of the turmoil beneath. It was a rage he had hidden well, but couldn’t suppress indefinitely. It had to break free sometime. And it had done last night.
She knew she still loved him, had done ever since she served him a veggie burger at the Wallingford Bunkfest three years ago. She couldn’t deny that it was a physical attraction at first: the hard muscled body and shaven head of the man running the security had woken something in her, something she thought had died after the divorce with Mike. His support was strong and silent, few words spoken, just the comforting presence of him and knowing he was there. That was priceless, especially after her burger van business went to the wall.
Money had been tight the last few months, but they’d managed. Andy had been angry that he didn’t get the head doorman position at The Porterhouse, but extra shifts brought the pennies in when the agency couldn’t find her any catering work.
She wondered if he’d opened his present yet. No, he always insisted they open their gift together - after the Christmas roll about on the carpet, of course…she smiled sadly.
Perhaps there is a chance. But I need time first. And going to her parents was a bad idea. The minute she’d dropped her suitcase in the hall her mother had looked at her with a supercilious smirk, an “I told you so” look in her eyes.
That look soon disappeared. After an hour’s sle
ep and then hearing her mother launch into a lengthy diatribe against Andy, while her father buried himself in the Radio Times, she picked up the telephone and began phoning the local employment agencies, looking for work. She plugged her laptop in and emailed her CV to one firm that was looking for workers to help out at some college celebration tomorrow night.
Can’t sit on my arse watching DVDs and stuffing myself with sausage rolls, mum. I’ve always been a worker, you know that.
At least wait until after Christmas!
Christmas is five days away, mother. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you slag off my boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend, Jenny. You’re not going back to him.
Mum! Just piss off!
There was a knocking at the door. She wasn’t given time to answer before it opened and her mum stuck her head in. The smell of baked mince pies came in with her.
“Jenny?” There was no hint of concern on her hard, pinched features. Just tight-lipped annoyance at her daughter’s petulance.
“Go away, mother.” Mum! Just piss off!
“No, I will not go away. You’ll listen to me when you’re under my roof. There’s something you need to know - ‘
“I know you had no right to put the phone down on Andy.” She folded her arms tightly across her breasts.
“Jenny. It’s for your own good. I’m proud of you for leaving that animal - ‘
“He’s no fucking animal!”
Her mother managed to tighten her lips further. She took a step forward.
“You know he killed two people.”
“Yes, mother. And I know why. Anyone would have done the same.” Would they?
“History’s repeating itself, Jenny. That young man he put in hospital last night? I’ve just heard on the news. He’s dead. The police went to your home to arrest him. It won’t be long before they come here, asking questions.”
Jennifer Callaby didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that her cheeks were no longer flushed. She could feel the blood draining from her face, felt a chill running through her entire body.
Now everything had changed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Philip Lotson tightened his scarf and stared at the tower block he was expecting to meet Freeland in. He tried not to listen to the fading sound of the Rover’s engine, Nick staring bleary eyed from the sleep he’d had on the journey down to Limehouse. Kelly wasn’t going far, just to drive around until she found somewhere civilised to park.
She promised him she wouldn’t be too far away. The first sign of trouble, call me - I’ll be there in a shot! He’d laughed at that, trying to suppress his own fear. Of what Andy Hughes was bringing on them…and what was waiting for him here in Fellows Court.
Phil shook his head in wonder. Crazy, it sounded like a complex of luxury flats for the wealthy retired. It was the complete opposite. The courtyard was empty, not a soul around. Too cold even for the junkies and pushers, and for that he was grateful. The roller shutter doors on the garages were scrawled in obscene graffiti, some totally illegible, others written in such strange handwriting that it was a different language. A solitary football, half deflated, lay on the walkway leading to the courtyard. He kicked it half-heartedly, watched it limp into a pair of broken Grolsch bottles.
The lobby was as empty as the courtyard, only here the graffiti was more noticeable, in something approaching English. The smell was stronger as well, stale urine and old excrement mingling with the scent of damp, rotting plasterwork. The lift doors were battered and dented, the visible signs of three decades of drunken abuse, poverty-fuelled fury and alienation vented via booted feet on metal. He didn’t even bother to see if it was working. He took the stairs.
He made his way slowly up the concrete steps, thankful that at least the lights were working. By the time he had reached the twelfth floor he had worked up a sweat that chilled rapidly in the cold air. A piss-stained mattress greeted him, the brown smears on the fabric looking like a skeletal grin. He thought back to this morning’s dream with the ferryman and shuddered.
The flimsy doorways to the flats drifted past him. He looked at the left hand wall for the odd numbers. Eighty-seven, eighty-nine, ninety-one…
Ninety-three. This was it. No doorbell, no knockers like the boar head on the Master’s Lodge. My God, from All Souls to this. Two different worlds…two different nightmares. He wondered if the naming of the block was an irony Freeland appreciated.
He rapped his knuckles three times on the thin, cheaply varnished door. There was a stirring sound from within, the sigh of an old armchair releasing its occupant, soft treads of worn slippers shuffling over carpet to the door.
Phil heard the sound of a security chain disengaging then a deadbolt being released. Useless security methods to safeguard a door that could be kicked down faster than picking the lock, put there to give some peace of mind. Something better than nothing.
The door swung open invitingly. No hesitation. Freeland knew it was him.
The face at the door was pale and gaunt. Thick black rings circled watery, bloodshot eyes that hadn’t seen a single night’s undisturbed sleep for a long time. The drooping face was supported - if that was the word - on slumped shoulders that were once broad and powerful, a rower’s shoulders. His grimy blue shirt spilled out of his frayed brown corduroy trousers. A hand was extended in greeting. The voice was rich and cultured, but there was an underlying accent, a hint of Estuary that he made no attempt to hide or emphasise. Proud of his roots but not wallowing in them.
“You’re earlier than I expected, Mr Lotson,” Freeland said with a weak smile. “But you’re very welcome.”
* * * * *
The tiny flat reflected the dilapidation of its occupant. Once, the rooms would have been bright and new, the epitome of sixties modernity and a triumph of urban planning. Now, like the rest of the flats in the rotting tower block, it was a grim affair of peeling wallpaper: damp, cold and reeking of decay.
A threadbare Satsuma coloured carpet cowered from the skirting boards. The man sat in the brown leather armchair in the centre seemed to be doing the same.
Around him were chipped pine bookcases stuffed with various academic works that sat incongruously with the creased and bent spines of Catherine Cookson paperbacks. In the far corner stood a s black ash computer desk, stained with coffee mug rings, with an old CRT monitor. There was a humming sound from the PC.
Phil stared at the small photo Blu-tacked on the side of the monitor. A smiling woman in her fifties hugged a handsome young man in ceremonial academic robes. His hair was long and unkempt, threatening to dislodge his mortar board. One hand proudly brandished a scroll of paper, the other lovingly draped around the old woman’s shoulders.
Phil recognised the setting straight away. The grounds of the Senate House in Cambridge. The date printed on the base of the frame gave the year 1969. James Freeland must have been eighteen or so then, a confident, talented young man just starting on his academic career. A world away from the broken, ancient looking man sat opposite him. Professor James Freeland sighed as he saw the object of Phil’s attention.
“She told me that was the proudest moment of her life. Her only son graduating from Cambridge…and how proud Dad would’ve been as well.”
Phil looked away from the photo and stared at his feet, remembering the pride his own parents had felt and shown when he graduated. Freeland smiled wistfully.
“He died when I was three. Accident on the docks. I hardly knew him, but I remember how long it took Mum to get over the loss…and how she struggled to bring me up. Working all hours in the laundry, a few extra notes earned here and there working the bar in the working men’s club. Not enough to pay the mortgage though. Hence this flat being her last home…and it broke her heart.”
He’d moved to a small drinks cabinet to the left of the PC. He lowered the drawer and took out a small bottle of cheap dry sherry.
“She grew old before her time, Mr Lotson. It was only when I got my
undergraduate place in Cambridge that she…grew young again. Every time I came home for the holidays she beamed so much I thought her cheeks would crack. Especially Christmas. She loved this time of year. ” He took out two tiny glasses and filled them to the brim. He passed one to Phil. “She was so proud of me - but was more pleased that I was happy in what I was doing. That I’d found my calling. Not many dockers” sons went to Oxbridge at that time, Mr Lotson. Certainly none from the inner city pit they had a cheek to call my school. And when I graduated, told her I’d won a scholarship to work for a doctorate…she was over the moon. “Make your mark on the world, Jimmy!”
“The only thing that would have made her happier was to see me married. She often asked me why I hadn’t found the “right one” yet.” He smiled ruefully. “And then she said “I don’t care if you’re one of them homosexualists, Jimmy. Just as long as yer happy.” The smile vanished, and Freeland stared into the sherry glass.
“It was only when I came back here last year, when I told her what my duties as a Fellow of All Souls consisted of…why none of the Fellows are married. She knew then.” Freeland indicated the leather armchair. Phil sat in it, or rather fell. The springs had gone long ago. Freeland pulled up the swivel chair from the PC desk.
“I would say Merry Christmas, but…well, I don’t see much point in keeping it any longer. This will be the first one without her, so…”
“Jason Franklin told me she’d…passed away. I’m sorry, Professor. How did she die?”
Freeland smiled thinly. “He didn’t tell you?”
Phil shook his head.
“Little shit.” He drained the sherry, swallowed and winced. “On her way back from church in September she was attacked and killed. After learning what I’ve done during my time at All Souls she got religion pretty damn quick. Felt my soul needed as much prayer as she could give it. Maybe she’s right…but prayer won’t wash away my sins.”
He reached for the bottle and poured another measure. “It didn’t stay in the headlines for long - killings around here are so commonplace that no one bats an eyelid over the murder of a defenceless old woman anymore. But…”
The Caretakers (2011) Page 24
