The Drowning Pool

by Syd Moore

  My eyes widened as I listened. ‘She left him.’

  ‘Yep. She wrote a letter, though. Said she needed to go and find herself. It was the eighties. A lot of people were going over and doing the spice trail and that. And there was that Shirley Valentine movie that got them all going.’

  ‘And that upset Sharon?’

  ‘Well, sort of. She swears that there was some kind of argument between Doctor Cook and her mum. He probably assumed Cheryl knew where Veronica had gone. Whatever, Cheryl died shortly after. Massive heart attack. Sharon blamed Doctor Cook for it. And you’ve got to admit, if he knew she had a weak heart, he really shouldn’t have got her so wound up. But that’s life.’

  ‘And death,’ I said.

  Corinne shrugged. ‘You get to this point of the year and it’s fifty: fifty as to whether Sharon will start raking it up again. She tries to hide how she feels about it but sometimes it all spills over.’

  I could understand the reason for Cheryl’s concealment but I could also appreciate the depths of misery that the revelation incurred: the guilt and regrets.

  ‘Poor Sharon,’ I said. ‘Is she still a patient there?’

  She snorted. ‘No way. She left the practice after that.’

  ‘You didn’t leave then? Out of solidarity?’

  ‘He’s the best doctor in Leigh. Nicest practice too.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It’s a lovely house. Strange atmosphere though.’

  Corinne took a sip from her glass and coughed. ‘I did wonder at some point if she was having an affair with Sharon’s Uncle Chris,’ she said into the fire.

  My ears pricked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Veronica,’ she said dreamily, as if she wasn’t really talking to me. ‘But it was strange because Chris was a warden at St Clements.’

  ‘The church?’

  ‘Uh-huh. He was very proper. Quite religious. Engaged at the time too. Of course I’ve got no real proof. I just remember Sharon and I going back to her place for tea one day back then – Cheryl made the best fairy cakes in Leigh. School had closed early. Leaky water pipe I think. When we got there Veronica and Chris were leaving the cottage. They were a little embarrassed and they had that look about them. You know, they couldn’t stop smiling or looking at each other. And they were giggly. I thought it was kind of odd – two adults acting like that. We were meant to be the teenagers! Said they’d dropped something off for Cheryl. Sharon didn’t bat an eyelid, but I remember thinking “Ooooh”.’

  ‘Did he hear from her? Chris?’

  Corinne shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure I would have found out. The adults closed ranks. Anyway, I have no idea if it was serious or a flirtation or a friendship. And I expect Veronica wanted a clean break. People do that sometimes, don’t they?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  The fire blew sparks over Corinne’s side. She stamped them out and then stared into the flames. I followed her gaze. In the centre of the drum shapes were shifting, mirroring each other in a ghostly preternatural dance.

  ‘Sharon though,’ Corinne was speaking slowly now, in the hypnotic thrall of the fiery spectacle. ‘Veronica had been fond of her, not having any children of her own. She liked me too but I think she saw something in Sharon that she admired. She was a quiet woman herself. After she left Leigh, and then when her mother died, I think Sharon felt it was a double bereavement. That’s when she got involved with drugs.’ She continued to stare into the heart of the fire. ‘And when she started saying weird things, making accusations.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked carefully.

  But Corinne made no reply. And I could tell she wasn’t going to.

  Under the darkening sky we sat in silence, lost in our thoughts. If you had found us then you would have seen that both of us were frowning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sharon’s untimely collapse that night proved fortunate, at least for me.

  When I woke her in the morning she looked awful and phoned her work, professing a seasonal cold. Later, over coffee, when I told her I needed to go to the hospital, she insisted on driving us there and occupying Alfie whilst I saw the neurologist. I didn’t protest. Really I should have organized childcare but what with one thing and another I hadn’t got round to it. So while I was prodded, peered at, inspected and tested, Sharon took my son to McDonald’s, a rare politically incorrect treat.

  Mrs Falwahi was thorough, methodical but silent. A similarly mute nurse sat in the corner of the consulting room inputting comments on the computer. At the end of the examination I was asked how long the eyelid had been drooping, if I had noticed anything unusual and if I could return in a couple of weeks with some old photos? Despite fairly rigorous probing on my half the consultant calmly told me that she would write a report to my GP and that I should make an appointment with him to discuss it.

  ‘But am I OK?’ I asked as I stood up to leave.

  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t worry. There is some swelling but …’ She made a gesture that indicated she was searching for a word she couldn’t find. ‘It is nothing much.’ She stood up. The next patient was due. Mrs Falwahi wanted me to go. ‘See you soon.’

  The nurse confirmed my details and told me to expect an appointment through in another couple of weeks.

  Back at home Sharon was rather more alarmed. I had figured, while I waited for them in the car park, that it couldn’t be urgent or even life threatening if Mrs Falwahi thought it was ‘nothing much’ and was prepared to wait to look at old snapshots. After all, the government was trying to improve waiting lists and NHS care, weren’t they? Surely if you had something serious you’d be whizzed through to the front of the queue.

  But Sharon was aghast as I relayed the appointment details. Her reaction might have produced something stronger and more fearful in myself had not her pale, perspiring face and endless paracetamol-popping reminded me that she was extremely hungover. Now that Corinne had filled me in on the details I could see that my friend was also morose. Yet her concern was comforting and when she left, late that afternoon, I realized that I had enjoyed the remainder of my day with her.

  On Tuesday I took Alfie to my mum’s on the east side of Southend, Thorpe Bay, so he could be spoilt rotten again. I thought that Lottie may have mentioned my appointment but Mum didn’t allude to anything in her general chit-chat and ‘how are yous’. I knew she would have, if she’d had the faintest inkling that I might be ill. Instead we sat in the garden and had tea and then wine and discussed relatives and their doings then, when I had been brought fully up to date, I mentioned my research project. Though I neglected to state why I was doing it. Mum had always been interested in history. A wannabe grammar-school girl, she had been forced to give up dreams of becoming a teacher when her father died and financial hardship meant she needed to go out to work along with my gran to maintain the household income and support her younger siblings. The novels of Jean Plaidy and an attraction to the folk revival scene of the sixties sustained her intellectually for decades. Recently she had begun to sketch out ideas for a series of historical novels.

  I guess I hadn’t said anything to her before as, until that point, I hadn’t been entirely convinced what I was doing was sane and hadn’t been produced by pressure exerted on my frontal lobe. Things were coming together though: the appearance of Sarah, the stunning insights of Andrew McWhittard, the similarities in our positions, the emergence of themes – all combined to convince me that now I was being propelled forwards by things beyond my control.

  Of course none of this was mentioned to Mum as we sat under her parasol that sunny summer day, basking in the scent of nearby lavender. The conversation went from a brief report of what I’d learnt of Sarah Grey, to a more generalized chat about Leigh.

  Mum was delighted that I was taking an interest in the town. She leant forwards to brush crumbs from the tablecloth. Her eyes always sparkled when she got excited. ‘It’s a fascinating area, Leigh. I had a couple of ideas for stories there. Have you di
scovered Elizabeth Little?’

  I shook my head. I’d have remembered that name.

  ‘An interesting lady. Smuggler. Top of her game about the same time as your Sarah Grey. Her speciality was lace and silks. She had a shop by the Peter Boat. Actually, come to think of it, I did read somewhere that the Littles put about that there were witches in Leigh, especially in St Clements’ graveyard. The stories frightened the locals and stopped them investigating the lights and strange sounds that people saw in the churchyard at night.’

  ‘Really? Poor Sarah, she had everything stacked against her.’ I sighed, picturing a woman shunned by peers, made a scapegoat by the smugglers, stifled by poverty, scarred by endless bereavement. What a wretched, joyless life.

  ‘You know Pauline Dobinson? From the folk club? Used to make those awful macramé plant holders …’

  I delved back into my childhood and came up with a thin woman in white jeans and orange lipstick.

  ‘Her dad, when he was alive, used to have a cottage in the Old Town. Do you remember? I think we went there when you were young, though you couldn’t have been more than eight at the time.’

  Vague memories of an old man with a stick and a puppy dog came to mind but there was nothing concrete.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. At the back of his garden he had a shed, and on the back wall of the shed there was a door that opened onto a dark passage. He reckoned it used to lead up to one of the graves in St Clements. The coastguard was just down the road patrolling the open roads up the hill, so the smugglers had to use other means to transport illegal goods. Old Mr Dobinson’s tunnel must have been one of the smugglers’ routes up. And what better way of stopping folks from poking their nose into your business than scaring them off with stories of foul witches and terrifying ghosts?’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It’s all very Scooby-Doo!’

  ‘Yes, quite clever. I can’t see them having anything to do with her death, though. The criminal element surely would want her alive to keep the rumours rife. A crooked, scary, old spell-casting shrew would have been a strong deterrent for busybodies.’

  ‘She wasn’t that bad,’ I said, with irritation. ‘Old yes, and worn out, but not dirty. Arthritic perhaps.’ I stopped myself. These details had come from my dreams, not the books and records. I was giving myself away. Again.

  Mum didn’t challenge my sources. ‘You know we’ve got connections in Leigh. Not your dad’s side. His lot come from Walthamstow. No, on my side. We’re Essex through and through. Aunty Brenda knows more about it than me. Apparently we go back to one of the fishing families. I did often wonder whether there was something in you deciding to relocate to Leigh and not Thorpe Bay. Almost like you were drawn there. I mean, Charlotte’s over this side of town, and Thomas, and …’

  I stopped her. ‘You don’t think we could possibly be related, do you?’

  Mum laughed. ‘That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? It is a small world after all.’

  But my interest was piqued. ‘Seriously, Mum, is there any way you could find out?’

  She sat back in her deck chair, folded her arms across her lap and tilted her face sunwards. ‘I could ask Aunty Brenda. I’ve been meaning to call her. She’d know.’

  Since Mum’s sister had moved to Surrey their communication had become erratic. Not because of any kind of rift but because absence does that sometimes. ‘When are you going to phone?’

  ‘Within the next week or so, I expect,’ Mum said, noncommittally. ‘But anyway, I always used to think that old women have been given bad PR by history. Young women, too. And those of middle-age.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘It still puzzles me how “bachelordom” conjures up visions of cheerful young men yet “spinsterhood” gives you sour rejects. Wizard – wise, witch – evil. Actually, now I’m not sure that wicked Sarah Grey might have been worth more dead than alive. What’s more frightening – a witch or the ghost of a witch?’

  I sat back and pondered. That night I thought about Sarah Grey and Aunty Brenda. Then I added Elizabeth Little to my list of suspects.

  I was sitting down to some empty American cop show with a bag of toffee popcorn late on Friday night, when there was a knock at the door. As most childless friends tend to ring the bell I was surprised to find Andrew McWhittard on my doorstep. Of course, he hadn’t always been childless, I remembered guiltily as he strode into the living room.

  The week had done him good. He’d filled out a tad and there was a healthy colour to his cheeks. He was in good spirits too: I offered him a wine or cup of tea and he clapped his hands together and declared he’d love ‘a proper English cuppa’.

  While we waited for the kettle to boil he chatted about what he’d done in the week: caught up with friends in Glasgow, attended family barbecues and visited Aberdeen. He didn’t say why but I remembered Imogen had come from there and asked him gingerly, ‘Did you see your wife’s family?’

  He looked at me rather indignantly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  I’d made a mistake. ‘Oh, nothing. Just wondered.’

  ‘Well don’t,’ he said, then he sort of straightened himself up and rephrased his answer. ‘Don’t worry yourself about me. I’m all right.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ I muttered as I filled the kettle, deciding this was my house and my rules. ‘Go into the living room and make yourself comfortable.’

  To my surprise he followed orders and disappeared.

  When I brought the two mugs through we sat opposite each other and blew the steaming tea. I had my eye on the black record bag at his feet but didn’t want to mention it.

  Andrew spoke first. ‘You got any further with your investigation?’

  ‘Actually yes,’ and I told him about Sharon’s findings, adding the Elizabeth Little tale at the end. He didn’t think the smuggler was a goer as a suspect but he was very interested in the fact that Sarah Grey had had a child in 1823 and that she was married to Robert Billing, a widower then.

  ‘That bears out what she said,’ he said, more to himself than me.

  ‘What she said? What who said? Sarah?’

  Andrew set down his mug carefully, pulled the bag onto his lap and produced three sketchbooks. ‘You’ll have to forgive the writing. It’s a little all over the place. I can’t stand working on lined paper.’ He took a heavy brown book from the top of the pile and handed it to me. ‘I didn’t research chronologically so I’ve flagged up the order that would be most logical for you, using these Post-it notes. Start with that,’ he pointed to the one in my hands. ‘You can get the gist of what’s going on with one of the early letters.’ He wasn’t making much sense so I made a mental effort to commit these directions to memory.

  ‘Then it’s best to move on to this one.’ He passed over a thicker journal. It weighed a tonne. ‘It may seem a little fragmented but I don’t want to overwhelm you. It’s not what you’re after really, as fascinating as I might have once found it myself.’ He brought the last book over to my sofa and sat beside me. Not too close. Though several respectable inches lay between us, I could feel his body heat.

  ‘Finish with this.’ He held up a book bound in racing-green leather. It was thinner than the other two and had been well thumbed. ‘Try to keep to the order specified. It’ll make more sense.’ A managerial tone was creeping into his voice again.

  ‘Right.’ He got to his feet and made for the door. ‘I could really do with a lie-in tomorrow. The drive down was pretty horrendous so can you phone me after ten please?’

  I laughed.

  He didn’t smile back. ‘I’m not joking. You’ll be on the phone as soon as you’ve finished. I’ll make time for you tomorrow but I do need to rest. OK?’

  A familiar indignation came over me. Arrogant fucker. Who did he think he was?

  At the door McWhittard stopped and turned to me. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and kissed me on my cheek.

  I didn’t get myself together enough to say goodbye, and stood there dumbly as he walked off to his car.

  Andrew McWhittard
was revealing himself to be a host of contradictions, I thought, shutting the door and returning inside. I turned over the books and took them into the kitchen.

  It was a quarter past nine.

  I shifted the first journal onto the table and began to read the Reverend Eden’s words in McWhittard’s stumpy calligraphy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Letter to Thomas Gooden

  18th of January, 1838

  Dear Thomas,

  I must apologise for the delay in my return correspondence. I promised to give you some account of my new position in Essex but have found little time to sit at my desk. As you know from my last missive much change has been afoot.

  The seasonal tasks and responsibilities here have been manifold. In addition to the duties of the position, I have needed to assist the settling of the children and appointment of a new governess as Emma is with child. Although Mary, our eldest, has been a great support and Frederick has returned to his schooling, Caroline and little Alice have taken quite some time to adjust to their new home.

  It is clear to see that the air agrees with Emma, she has been quite exhausted by her new duties as Rector’s wife. Last week we acknowledged we both felt some relief as the old year came to pass.

  The parish, which is sprawling, has been most receptive to the liberation of God’s word in the services that I have vigorously delivered to them. And thankfully so. It appears my predecessor did not venture down towards the town, afraid it seems of the untoward character of the people thereabouts. The Lady of the Manor, Lady Olivia Bernard Sparrow, did at one time engage the services of one Ridley Herschell to preach to the congregations here. It seems the man, a convert from abroad, was much loved by the people of Leigh and, so my neighbours tell me, was presented with a Bible and Prayer Book when he left after but a year and a half.