Stone Cold Dead Read online

  She tugged at his sleeve. ‘Dad!’ she appealed. ‘You know you like him.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, yes. I like him, certainly. A grand chap. But I could wish he was anything other than a policeman.’

  It was time, I realized, that we dismissed this theme as irrelevant, otherwise it could cast a blight on the evening’s festivities. I tried to laugh it away. ‘May I guess,’ I asked him, ‘that you’ve been recently breathalized?’

  ‘Tcha!’ He abruptly dismissed what had been intended more as a pleasantry than a serious proposition. ‘I am a solicitor. That ought to explain everything to you.’

  And indeed, it did cast some light on it. He was probably a country lawyer who specialized in criminal cases, thus bringing himself into opposition to the police. There would be plenty of crime in the district, placid countryside or not, you could reckon on that, and he would be the solicitor representing the accused. What might he have had to face? The theft of a van-load of sheep in the night, a boundary dispute that had erupted into violence? Always, Gerald Fulton would appear for the defence. Then he would exercise the exaggerated pose of self-confidence that I’d already recognized, in an attempt to disrupt the police case on technicalities he didn’t really understand. How proud would he be to be able to press the local bobby into minor admissions of faulty procedures! How soon after the event had the officer entered the details in his notebook? That sort of thing.

  I had, in my time, encountered all these problems, had stood in the witness box and attempted to retain my equanimity when alleged irregularities had been hurled at me. And I was supposed not to bandy words with the defence lawyer.

  But recently, I understood, the police were becoming more adequately aware of the possible legal traps that they might have to encounter, could combat them with more expertise, and therefore arrive at the court with more confidence.

  This might explain Gerald Fulton’s attitude. He was not a man to accept defeat graciously. He must always prevail, but the odds were that he wasn’t being too successful of late.

  ‘But you like him,’ I suggested blandly. ‘It ought to be easy enough to forget that he usually wears a uniform, and just relax in the thought of Mellie’s happiness.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Words of wisdom from a policeman? How very novel! But believe me, the young fool won’t let me forget. He seems to think it’s amusing to dig at me with his really very immature authority. “I see your car tax is running out, sir,” he’ll say. Damn him—when I’ve already sent off for the renewal. Thinks it’s amusing. And, “The tread on your off-side front tyre’s almost illegal, sir.” Blast him! Always “sir”—as though he’s about to arrest me. Not with any sign of respect, you understand. And he grins at me. In a sort of challenging manner, I always think. But you haven’t got a glass in your hand, my dear fellow.’

  ‘It’s all right. Plenty of time. But...is this the party?’

  ‘Oh no. In an hour or so we shall sit down to dinner. Then afterwards we come in here for the party. And...ah, here he is now. Trust him! Just his measure.’

  He had been looking past my shoulder. I turned. There was no need to tell me who was meant, as the young fool had turned up in his uniform. He was flapping his chequered cap against his thigh.

  ‘Evenin’ all,’ he said. ‘Is this bar licensed, may I ask?’

  ‘See what I mean?’ asked Gerald gruffly. ‘Come along, I’ll introduce you.’

  The young man had entered by way of the frosted-glass swing doors, so he must have walked round the house from the parking space. Now he stood and waited as we approached. He was very nearly as tall as Fulton, a little shorter than me. And in his eyes there was something that I could not put a name to, possibly embarrassment at the lack of response to his pleasantry, or perhaps something deeper than that. His eyes would not meet mine; he seemed flustered. And the lines down from the corners of his mouth I recognized, from past experience, as being due to a repressed tension.

  ‘I’d like you to meet a fellow police officer, Raymond,’ said Gerald. ‘Former Detective Inspector Patton.’

  ‘Richard,’ I said quickly, disliking the formality. It had been deliberate, of course. ‘And here is my wife, Amelia.’ She was now at my elbow, and held in her hand a whisky and soda, which I knew was for me. ‘This is Mellie’s fiancé, my love,’ I told her. ‘Ray Torrance, I understand.’

  Gravely, young Ray took her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the godmother Mellie’s mentioned—yes? I reckon she might be glad of your support. And you, sir, how do you do?’ Very grave, now, he was, and he almost clicked his heels as he reached forward with his right hand. And why, I wondered, was there that haunted expression he seemed not to be able to shake off? Why was his hand shaking as he offered it?

  Gerald Fulton, I realized, had quietly left us, his action being very close to downright insulting to young Ray Torrance.

  ‘Not “sir” please,’ I said. ‘And why the devil the uniform?’

  ‘Just come off duty. And anyway—’

  Then Mellie swept down on him and clutched his uniformed arm to her side with an almost predatory possessiveness. She shook his arm. ‘You did it on purpose, Ray, didn’t you? I know you. Just to irritate father. Now admit it.’

  He grimaced at her. ‘I wanted him to be quite sure you’re going to marry a policeman,’ he admitted. ‘And I hope...’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘Hope I might be able to get some support. I’ll feel better now, sir, with you here.’

  ‘Richard,’ I corrected patiently. ‘And I’ve already had a few words with him on the subject.’

  But Mellie wasn’t going to allow Ray any distraction from the central objective of his presence there. ‘You’ve brought the ring, Ray?’

  ‘Of course.’ He plunged a hand into his pocket and produced a small black cubical box, in which it presumably nestled.

  ‘Let me see...’

  He tossed her a teasing glance. ‘You’ve seen it a dozen times.’

  ‘No. Let me see it...’

  ‘Not now,’ he said, flicking a wink at me. But his words had been more abrupt than seemed necessary. ‘It’s supposed to be unlucky.’ He managed a distorted grin.

  ‘Oh—you!’ She allowed him a brief frown, then pouted.

  I had never heard of such a superstition, and when I glanced at Amelia she shook her head.

  ‘Got to get it right,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘if only for your dear poppa. All formal it’s got to be. The ring on your finger and a toast to the happy couple. Later, my lovely. Later.’ Then he thrust the box back into his pocket—and failed to meet her eyes. A nerve was flicking in his forehead.

  ‘Oh...you...’ she said, slapping the back of his hand playfully, but there was pain in her eyes, and a hint of distress in the line of her mouth. He had refused a request.

  Fortunately, at that moment the scene was shattered by the abrupt, bouncing arrival of a stocky young man with a shock of untidy hair and a beard that seemed to be hanging desperately to his chin and drawing down his lower lip. Perhaps not young, though. The beard misled me; he would have been in his mid-thirties. He had Mellie’s eyes—and there the similarity ended. There was no humour in the lines of his face, but a serious understanding, an almost heavy awareness of an authority that was not immediately apparent.

  ‘Mother says I’m to show you the house and your room and what-not,’ he told us, his gaze switching from Amelia’s face to mine. ‘You haven’t even been allowed the chance to freshen up. No organization at all. Mother’s hopeless, and father expects to be carried about. Come on. I’m Colin. Mellie’s brother. And what the hell’re you doing in uniform, Ray, you clown?’ He turned back to me. ‘You’ve got luggage?’

  ‘It’s in the hall.’

  ‘Ah yes. Come on, then. Dinner’s at around seven—in the dining room, of course—and the party’s to be in here afterwards.’ He glanced at his future brother-in-law. ‘In uniform! That sense of humour’s going to be the death of you, Ray
.’

  Amelia and I glanced at each other, and grimaced. We were in the safe hands of a man in control. I wasn’t quite certain of what, at that point.

  At the door into the hall, he paused to turn on a switch. It seemed to do nothing, certainly it didn’t stir the shadows in the hall. He then operated more switches, and hall and stairs sprang into view. They were not the stairs I had previously seen, but wider, and directly opposite to their bar-cum-lounge.

  ‘We’ve put you in what we call the front,’ he told us over his shoulder, marching ahead of us with our cases, which he had retrieved from the side door, in each hand. I carried my anorak. ‘Watch this step here, it’s deceptive. Second door on the right,’ he called out. ‘I haven’t got a spare hand.’

  I reached past him and opened the door. It seemed remarkably bright in there, though the room lights were not turned on. As I reached for the switch beside the door, he said, ‘Leave the lights off for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.’

  It was a special treat he had kept for us. There was a bright expectation in his voice as he led the way to the window. The curtains were drawn back.

  ‘This is why it’s called Flight House,’ he said with hushed pride. ‘That’s the flight, down there.’

  We were looking down—in a harsh white pool of light that must have required a whole bank of floods above us—on a canal basin, at what he had called the front of the house. There were three locks, rising from our left. This side of the water, and at the head of the lowest lock, there was a strange octagonal building, standing to one side of what looked like a footbridge, which ran over to the bank the other side of the locks. The two higher locks were directly opposite to us, and away to the right, just visible in the overthrow of strong white lighting, the upper canal ran away in a shallow curve to the left.

  It was breathtaking, a study in black and white uncompromising practicality, which at the same time presented a special beauty in its balance and proportions. Amelia touched my hand, caught it, and squeezed it.

  ‘It’s well over 200 years old,’ Colin said, his voice now hushed. ‘James Brindley built this, the canal and its locks, and the toll booth. That’s the octagonal building over there on your left—and this house here. It used to be a lock-keeper’s lodge, combined with a bargee’s pub, as you’ll probably have guessed. The old stables for the horses are still standing, but they’re at the far end of the house—to your right. You can’t see them from here. We’d have converted ’em into lock-up garages, but it would’ve been a bit hairy, getting cars in and out. Width enough to drive along beneath these windows—oh yes. Eight or so yards. But backing out or backing in...that’d be a bit tricky. Inches to spare—and one wrong move and you’d be in the wet. We could really do with lock-up garages.’

  He was silent. Clearly, he was devoted to the place. He loved it with a deep and reverent passion.

  Just to break the silence, I said, ‘It’s what they call a staircase, isn’t it? A staircase of three locks. Or a ladder—I can’t remember which.’

  ‘Oh no! Indeed it is not. It’s called a flight. That’s because of the two reservoirs between the locks. We call them pounds. It’s all terribly complicated, but it’s to save draining all the locks when a boat’s moving up. It takes a bit of working out, I can tell you. That’s why this is one of the few locks in the country that still has a lock-keeper. Most of the traffic’s holiday boats, these days, which is summer stuff. March to October. But boats do come through in the winter. People live all the year round in their houseboats. So there has to be a lock-keeper. Permanent. This whole building is the lodge. They did their lock-keepers well in the old days. Paid ’em well. Now it’s rent free to the present lock-keeper. And that’s me.’ He produced this with solemn pride.

  ‘No salary?’ I asked, and Amelia nudged me for asking personal questions.

  ‘Oh no. Just the lodge. Mind you—there’s a tradition. The lockkeeper gets tipped for helping the boats through.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. I was beginning to understand the unusual set-up. ‘And your father?’

  He turned to me. His face was heavily side-lit, cutting his features into harsh angles. He twitched his beard with what could have been a grin.

  ‘I’m the legal tenant. I let him live here, rent nominal, that’s to make him a legal sub-tenant. I took over this job from my uncle, and he from my grandfather. It’s been in the family since Brindley built the place. We don’t operate the pub now, of course. I offered my father the job of bar-tender, but he wouldn’t take it.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘He’s now trying to buy the freehold from the present owners, but they turned him down. Now he’s digging into obscure law to try to force them into selling. Not a chance! Don’t you think it’s a laugh? Don’t you?’

  ‘It is, indeed, a humorous situation,’ I agreed, and Amelia appreciated the tricky problem with her own little tinkle of a laugh.

  Yet it had its serious aspects, as Colin proceeded to explain.

  ‘I’ve told him,’ he said, ‘that if he does any more to break up the arrangement between Mellie and Ray, I’ll ask him to leave. I’ll tell him to leave. And he wouldn’t like that. Not one little bit, he wouldn’t. That’s because he knows, being a solicitor, that I can have him out of here. I rather like my sister, and Ray’s not a bad chap. They’ll be happy. But dad’s done all he can to break it up. Stupid man. Stupid self-opinionated nincompoop.’

  I hadn’t heard that word, nincompoop, for years. No doubt Brindley himself had used it in his time. Once again, I had to acknowledge that these people lived in the past. And perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing.

  Chapter Two

  After he’d left us alone, Amelia said, ‘We’ve got our own bathroom. Isn’t that splendid?’

  ‘I suppose it is. You try it then, love. Me later.’

  ‘I’ll unpack first. What’re you going to do?’ she asked.

  I tried her with a question. ‘Haven’t you noticed something that’s missing? Or rather, several somethings.’

  She shook her head. ‘Now don’t be so mysterious, Richard, please. Out with it. What’s missing?’

  ‘Ashtrays.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said, understanding.

  I am a pipe smoker. My pipe has now become part of me, an integrated element of my persona. But I do not smoke my pipe in other people’s homes unless they themselves are smokers. The evidence of this is in the presence of ashtrays. I hadn’t noticed any here.

  ‘So while you’re having your bath, love, I’ll just pop outside for a smoke,’ I told her.

  ‘Now...that’s ridiculous, Richard. You’ll be absolutely perished. Your lips’ll freeze to your pipe-stem.’ She laughed lightly, and patted me on the cheek.

  ‘What else, then? Do I open the window and put my head outside? In any event, I want to take a look at the locks. I’m interested in how they work—and I can’t understand this business about pounds that Colin mentioned. How do they help? I don’t get it.’

  ‘Then at least put something over your head.’

  ‘I’ve got a scarf.’

  ‘Now that I would like to see. You’ll look like a senile washerwoman.’

  ‘Nobody will notice me. If they do, they’ll think I’m the ghost of a bargee’s wife.’

  She pursed her lips at me, and stepped out of her slacks. ‘Then give me a quarter of an hour.’

  I nodded, slipped my anorak back on, and put the scarf, for now, around my neck. Then I hurried down the stairs, intending to go out by way of their bar. Or I would get lost.

  This I expected to be empty, but it was not. Ray Torrance was still there. Where else would he be, I thought, as he was, it seemed, already clothed in what he intended to wear for dinner and for the party. I would have bet that Gerald was already dressing for dinner, indeed always did dress formally for dinner, and Ray would seem even more out of place in his uniform.

  And he had been drinking. He had a spirit glass in his hand at that time, when I walked in on him,
and had the grace to look guilty. He even blushed.

  ‘Go easy on the spirits, lad,’ I said. ‘There’s a long evening ahead.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  It is a recognized fact that such a claim is usually made by somebody who is far from right already.

  ‘You’ll be a fool if you give your future father-in-law the chance to criticize you,’ I told him, nodding in emphasis. ‘There’s supposed to be a party coming up, and what a pity it’d be if one of the two most concerned can’t even stand.’

  He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Why don’t you mind your own soddin’ business?’ he asked, but without heat.

  ‘Because I like the lass. I’d hate to see her unhappy.’

  He stared at me blankly, downed his drink in one swallow, and banged the glass back on the counter. ‘Can’t you find something to do?’

  I noticed that there were ashtrays, after all, and here in the bar, not simply to complement the atmosphere of a genuine pub, but in use. This meant that I didn’t need to go outside. In fact, I was wondering whether it might be best to stay and keep an eye on Ray. There was something about this young man that gave me cause for concern. He did not handle his glass with the casual ease of a person who was used to spirits, and he was drinking as one who sought oblivion. But that could surely not be so, when this evening was intended as a joyful episode in his life. And I could not dismiss the thought that he was a worried young man, who might be tremulously in the process of changing his mind and backing out. His nerves were certainly stretched tautly.

  ‘Much more of that,’ I said, ‘and you’ll not be able to drive home.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m staying the night,’ he told me, thickly, defiantly. ‘They’ve got a room ready for me.’

  ‘You won’t be staying if you ruin the party,’ I assured him. ‘Don’t kid yourself, laddie. Poppa Fulton wouldn’t be pleased if you pass out, stoned to the eyeballs, before you slip the ring on her finger.’

  I realized I’d gone a little too far. He stood there, tense, face white with a flare of red on his cheeks. For a moment he stared at his hands, noticed that they were shaking, and clenched them into fists. I gave him time to do something, anything, by pausing to fill my pipe, but he turned away abruptly and leaned against the counter, presenting his back.