The Kaiser's Gold

by Bill Kitson

  ‘Because he doesn’t want to? Is that what you’re getting at? The memories are so painful his mind has shut them and everything else about his past out?’

  ‘I’m no psychiatrist, but it does seem the most logical explanation of his amnesia. However, even if my speculation turns out to be accurate, nothing about his past gives us a clue as to what he’s doing around here, or why he’s interested in Barbara.’

  ‘Do you honestly believe he’s American? He might have picked up the speech pattern from films, or TV. I certainly didn’t detect any accent, nor did I spot the phrases until you pointed them out.’

  ‘I’m not saying he is American, only that there’s a possibility he spent some time in the States. It would tie in with the knife, and those injuries. There is one other thing, that poetry book I found in his coat pocket. It’s a very old book, entitled Mountain Interval.’

  ‘Why is that significant?’

  ‘Mountain Interval is a collection by the American poet Robert Frost. He is revered in America, rightly so, but all but unknown in this country. I’d never heard of him until I went to work in New York.’

  ‘The name means nothing to me,’ Eve agreed. ‘As to the other part of your theory, I didn’t know there were any British soldiers involved in Vietnam. I thought it was mostly Americans, Canadians, and Australians.’

  ‘I don’t believe there were any British troops, at least not officially. I think there might have been a few “observers”, which is polite code for Special Forces such as the SAS, but I also think there could have been some who joined as mercenaries, or because they believed in the cause. If our tramp was living in America at the time, he might have considered it his duty to volunteer. I suppose I could call an ex-colleague of mine in New York. He’s now working for NBC, and he might have access to someone at the Department of Defense in Washington who could tell him, but we’d need more clues as to the man’s identity first.’

  ‘It sounds like a vicious circle to me.’

  ‘Another thing that occurred to me after today’s confrontation is that car Lewis was driving. I can’t believe our County Council is so lavish with their salaries that he can afford to go swanning around in an expensive piece of metal like that Merc. Given the state of their marriage, I can’t imagine Barbara buying him a bicycle, let alone something that costs as much as that sports car; even as a leaving present.’

  ‘Maybe he bought it on hire-purchase.’

  ‘He’d still have to have a chunk of money to put down as deposit. I suppose his bit on the side might have bought him it. Wealthy women often buy their boyfriends expensive presents, or so I’m told.’ I stared at Eve meaningfully. Her father had left Eve and her sister a sizeable fortune each.

  She responded to my sly comment with a stony glare. ‘Consider yourself lucky you got me: with or without a dowry.’

  I hastened to assure her just how fortunate I felt.

  Later that evening, having had tea with Barbara at Linden House, we ate a supper consisting of pâté, cheese, and biscuits, accompanied by a glass of claret. I’d been on the point of broaching the subject of our future, but was still undecided how to begin, when, as we dined, Eve made her great announcement. ‘I’m thinking of returning to London tomorrow. Will you give me a lift to the station?’

  My dismay must have been apparent, because she smiled placatingly and added, ‘I’m only talking about being away for a few days. I should be back next weekend.’

  ‘It seems like a lot of expense for such a short time. Can’t you deal with whatever you have to do over the phone?’

  ‘Not really. I suppose I could give my notice in at work by phone, but that would be a bit unfair. They’ve always treated me well, it would be churlish to tell them I was quitting without doing it in person. And even if I was prepared to do that, I certainly can’t arrange to put my flat up for sale by telephone.’

  I stared at Eve, the penny only dropping extremely slowly. ‘You mean…’

  ‘I mean that I’ve decided that London is far too boring compared with the pace of life and excitement here in the Yorkshire Dales. So, if you still want me to, I’d rather like to come and live with you in this darling little cottage.’

  I pulled her to her feet and held her close. Having demonstrated that her plan met with my complete approval, I walked over to the dresser and took a small box out of a drawer. I held it for a moment before I turned and handed it to Eve. ‘This belonged to my mother. It was never off her finger from the day she and Dad got engaged until she died. Would you like it? Or would you prefer me to buy you a new one?’ I added, unsure of her reaction.

  Eve opened the case and looked at the solitaire diamond ring. With tears in her eyes she turned to me and smiled before she handed it back. ‘You should do this, Adam.’ She held out her left hand for me to place the ring on her third finger, which I duly did. ‘Look,’ she exclaimed, ‘it’s a perfect fit.’

  ‘What made you decide?’ I asked a while later. ‘Was it last night?’

  ‘No, I was already certain. Why do you think I came up to Yorkshire? I had to think up a good excuse, and when I talked to Barbara and she told me how things were at Linden House, it fitted perfectly, like the ring. Last night only confirmed it.’

  She paused and gripped my hand tighter. ‘I realized what a mistake I’d made when I said no earlier this year, and it was making me miserable. Then, when you refused to give up, I knew I had to grasp this chance or risk losing you forever.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘That storm on Saturday night gave me the perfect opportunity to seduce you.’

  The following morning I drove Eve across to York in time to catch the London train. I’d dreaded the thought of that journey, but Eve’s decision the previous night changed all that. The knowledge that we would only be apart for a short time was enhanced by the thrill of looking forward to a lifetime spent together.

  Not unnaturally, when I returned to Laithbrigg, I was unable to settle to work. Before entering the house, I sat in the car staring at the building. Eve had said how much she adored the cottage, but I was aware that although the accommodation had been ideal for my solitary existence, when Eve joined me, and with the added prospect of us starting a family, it would be far too small.

  The choices were simple. We either had to move, or make some changes. As I looked at the weather-beaten shingle alongside the door, I smiled. That could be the first change. A simple transposition of the letters would do the trick. There was ample room to the side and rear of the building, so when the cottage became a house by the addition of an L-shaped extension we would have ample family accommodation, and we could then rename it Eden House.

  My inability to concentrate meant that I also got little work done on the Tuesday. As I’d promised Eve, I phoned Barbara Lewis that evening to check she was OK. There was no reply, and I was extremely concerned, but on Wednesday morning, after several attempts, I managed to contact her. ‘Yes, I’m fine, Adam.’ She told me. ‘I went to Wetherby races and got back late.’ She then explained how she had been trying all morning to make headway over the sale of Rowandale Hall and seemed as if she was about to say more, but then said, ‘Sorry, I’ll have to dash, one of the owners has just arrived to watch his horse exercise.’

  I promised to call her again the following evening; and turned my attention to writing. By Friday morning, the characters in my plot were still demonstrating their unwillingness to cooperate, so by late morning I decided to abandon work for the time being and take a walk. It was a cold, fresh, clear day, which might go some way to clearing the fog in my brain Eve had created.

  Laithbrigg is unlike many villages in England, and certainly unlike Hollywood portrayals, in that it isn’t built around a village green. The houses form a single row facing Thorsgill Beck, with the church at one end; the pub and village shop at the other, and the packhorse bridge somewhere in the middle. Apart from the bridge there is another way of crossing the beck, but that way isn’t available all year round. A short distance beyond
the pub, opposite the last house in the village, is a set of stepping stones. These are often covered in water, but I decided to risk them. If they were impassable I could always retire to the bridge.

  I strolled in somewhat leisurely fashion along the street, my mind still preoccupied with what to do about the fault in my plot when I noticed the pickup truck belonging to our milkman parked at the side of the street ahead of me. It was long past the time when he delivered, and I realized this must be his wife, who collected money from customers on Friday. I’d not left mine out as I usually did, and decided to wait for her to come back to the truck so I could pay her then and there.

  I didn’t have long to wait. As I stood for a moment watching the stream gliding smoothly by, I noticed movement out of my eye corner. I looked down the street to see the woman emerging from beyond the pub. The lady was built on generous lines, but despite her size she was moving like Sebastian Coe when he’d won his Olympic Gold Medal earlier that year. She obviously saw me but by the time she reached the pickup her pace had slackened considerably, probably because she was out of breath. I noted the expression on her face, which seemed to be a combination of fear and horror.

  ‘Something wrong, Mrs Price?’ I asked. I can be pretty good at stating the obvious.

  She gasped in an effort to breathe and speak, but found the twin tasks impossible. After three or four failed attempts to communicate, she managed to convey her message, albeit with great difficulty. At the same time she was waving her arm in the direction of the far side of the village.

  ‘Body…there…bodyinthe…beck…body…by the stones.’

  ‘Body? Whose body?’

  ‘No…idea…’

  ‘Good God! Wait there. I’ll go look.’ I sprinted the couple of hundred yards until I was past the pub. I wouldn’t have challenged Coe, but then he wasn’t weighed down with heavy clothing and walking boots. Sure enough, exactly where Mrs Price had said, I could see a body wedged against the stepping stones, partly obscured from all but the closest inspection by the nearer bend of the beck. The victim was a man. His features were distorted; by fear of what had been coming or by pain preceding death, I wasn’t sure which. Not that he’d been particularly handsome in the first place.

  Recognition came quickly, not only via his face but by his clothing, clothing that bore holes where a knife had been used. There are very few people in Laithbrigg or the surrounding villages who wear suits except for parties, weddings, and funerals, or to attend church. Certainly not as a matter of course during the week.

  It is an unfortunate fact that, as an ambulance man once told me, a way of dealing with terrible scenes is through a form of gallows humour. My immediate thought, as I stared at Charles Lewis’s body, was that at least Barbara no longer had to worry about the terms of a divorce settlement. Then a darker thought intruded. Although Lewis’s death might have solved one problem for her, it had undoubtedly created another, in that given the acrimonious state of her relationship with the deceased and the fact that their differences were common knowledge, Barbara would be high on the police list of suspects.

  I returned to the pickup, where Mrs Price was half-sitting, half-leaning on the tailgate of the vehicle. ‘You’re right,’ I told her. ‘We’d better phone the police and get them out here before anyone else sees the corpse. It would hardly be nice for the children returning from school to witness something like that. Do you want me to make the call?’

  Although she had recovered her breath, Mrs Price appeared to have lost the power of speech. She stared at me for a long, silent moment as if I was a complete stranger then nodded. My first attempt, using the public phone box opposite the bridge, met with failure. The device was out of order, signalled by the lack of dialling tone. I looked around for an alternative and settled on the pub. Inside, a couple of villagers who I recognized were seated on bar stools chatting to the landlord. Conversation died as I entered the bar and all three inspected me as if I’d that minute landed from Mars. Deciding that I was not an alien, which in fact they already knew because, although I was by no means the most frequent visitor, I had been in the pub many times since moving into the village, they lost interest. I only got their attention back when I asked to use the phone, adding that I needed to contact the police. ‘I tried the kiosk, but the phone there seems to be out of order.’

  ‘Has been for weeks,’ one of the locals told me, morosely. ‘They’ve been told about it a few times.’

  ‘Why do you need the police?’ the landlord asked.

  ‘We’ve found a dead body in the stream. Or rather, Mrs Price has.’

  The open-mouthed silence that followed my statement told me that I hadn’t lost my talent as a conversation stopper. I picked up the phone passed from behind the bar and amid total silence, dialled 999.

  Both the customers and landlord listened intently to my end of the conversation, and I guessed that there would be only one talking point in the bar that night; probably for weeks to come, given the lack of competing excitement in the village. When I’d finished, I sank onto the nearest stool and looked along the counter. ‘Would one of you mind fetching Mrs Price inside, please? She’s had a terrible shock and she’s in a bit of a state.’

  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly feeling on top form myself. No matter how many acts of violence you witness, the sight of a corpse mutilated as badly as Lewis’s is unnerving, to put it mildly. One of the locals dismounted from his barstool and hurried outside. I guessed that he was both keen to hear her story and equally anxious not to miss anything that might be said inside during his absence. The landlord placed a tumbler of whisky on the bar in front of me. ‘Drink that, it’s on the house,’ he told me. I noticed he hadn’t put ice or water in it, presumably because there wasn’t room for any. A couple of minutes later, without being asked, he prescribed and dispensed a similar dose for Mrs Price. None of the locals seemed tempted to go inspect the body; presumably my description of the corpse to the police deterred them. I can’t say I blamed the drinkers; these were devoted disciples of Bacchus and there can be few things more likely to put you off your beer than the sight of a badly mutilated body.

  Chapter Six

  The police didn’t arrive in the manner portrayed in films or on TV. There was no sudden invasion of a host of cars, no influx of flashing lights, no blaring sirens, no team of detectives with their back-up squads of coroner’s officers or pathologist. Rather, they turned up in dribs and drabs. First on the scene was the constable whose duty it was to cover the twin villages and several others in the surrounding area. PC John Pickersgill was nearing the tail-end of his career. Overweight, a heavy smoker who was fond of his food, and, as I knew from my occasional visits to the Admiral Nelson, not averse to the odd pint or two. He was a fine example of old-fashioned, no-nonsense community policing. Pickersgill was the sort of local bobby who would not hesitate to deliver instant justice via a clip around the ear to youngsters committing minor acts of misbehaviour. Such treatment, frowned upon though it might be by so-called advanced thinkers who considered it barbaric, nevertheless prevented more serious offences from occurring. As far as I knew there was little, if any yobbish behaviour within Pickersgill’s patch.

  He strolled into the bar of the Admiral Nelson as if he was merely another customer about to order a pint. He nodded to the landlord and locals before focusing his attention on Mrs Price and me. ‘Hello, Mary, you’ve had a bit of a shock, I hear. Stay there and finish your drink. You’ll need it when CID turn up and start pestering you with daft questions.’

  He turned to me. ‘Morning, Adam.’ I nodded. ‘Having seen some of your reports from war zones, I’m aware that you’re no stranger to scenes of violence, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me the body?’

  I finished my whisky and followed him out of the bar.

  ‘The report I had of your phone call didn’t mention an identity, do you know who the body is?’

  ‘I deliberately didn’t say anything over the phone because the landlor
d and locals were listening in, but I did recognize him. His name is Charles Lewis.’ I explained how I knew the dead man.

  ‘Try and keep quiet about the fact that you recognized him, otherwise most of the county will know by closing time tonight. That lot will get the information out of you faster than the KGB or the Spanish Inquisition could. This will keep the rumour factory busy for months.’

  We reached the stepping stones and Pickersgill gave a sharp exhalation of breath as he looked at the corpse. ‘Very messy,’ he said after a couple of minutes. He looked closely at the crime scene. ‘It’s a good job the body got wedged in the stones, I reckon, otherwise he’d have gone all the way to the river. That would have given folk in their narrowboats a nasty shock if he’d drifted past whilst they were eating their toast and marmalade.’

  It seemed that black humour was Pickersgill’s way of dealing with trauma as well as mine. He stared at the deceased for a while longer; then turned to me. ‘What do you think? You’ve a bit of a reputation in these matters. You sorted out that business at Mulgrave Castle last year, didn’t you?’

  My liking for Pickersgill was turning rapidly to respect. ‘You know I did.’

  ‘Ah, well, I make it my business to know as much as I can about anyone who moves into my patch. You were dead easy by comparison with some.’

  The fact that he and I had sunk many a pint together did go some way to him knowing my history.

  ‘So what about it, O Great Detective?’ He invested the title with ironic capitals, but I regarded it as a challenge.

  ‘One question I would ask is, where’s his car? He has a flash-looking Mercedes sports job.’ I gestured around. ‘I don’t see it anywhere, and from what little I know or have been told about him, I don’t think Lewis was the keenest hiker in the area. Added to which he isn’t dressed for it. That would suggest he might have been killed elsewhere. I guess if he’s floated downstream the priority ought to be searching the bank further up Thorsgill Beck. It might be easier to locate the car and that should give you the place where the murder was committed, unless the motive was car theft.’