Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 14

  My minute of recreation over, I once again sat in Arthur’s study, my notebook on my knees. I wondered if Uncle Gilbert would stagger in, if he had sobered up.

  “I assumed you or the inspector would be around for this story,” Arthur said, cradling his teacup on his lap. “Talbot seems to attract attention, whatever the year or circumstance. Even if it is ancient history, I suppose you must delve into it. We can’t keep much private in a village. Not that anyone cares about Talbot’s claim. It’s just an annoyance at times, the way he goes on and on about it. Still, it’s the type of thing that could yield so much to an investigation, isn’t it?”

  “Depends, sir, on how the investigation proceeds. If there’s nothing to it, we forget it and get on with another line.”

  “Waste of time, wouldn’t it be?”

  “Both the chief inspector and I have wasted a good deal of time through our careers. I wouldn’t let that worry you.”

  “I won’t. Just intrigued with the policeman’s job. Err, woman’s,” he said.

  I figured he was confused about being politically correct. I let it pass. “It has its moments.”

  Angling farther back into the chair, Arthur nodded. “Well, Talbot was born in 1934, survived the air raid on Coventry in ’40, though the bombing demolished his house. Fortunately, he was living with an aunt at the time.”

  “Parents killed in the war?”

  “Parents were killed in ’38. This aunt took Talbot in, gave him a home and such until he was adopted. Was a bit of a long process. There was no thought of adoption when Talbot first came to his aunt, of course. She was all for doing her duty by her brother’s child—some sort of misplaced family loyalty—but she couldn’t quite swing the financial end of it. Plus, I don’t think the two of them exactly hit it off.”

  “Bit of an odd man out, was he?” Uncaring homelife, lack of understanding, and associations with hooligans tainted many a teenager. Nice that Talbot had straightened out.

  “Probably, knowing Talbot. He’s a shingle loose, at any rate. Can’t see him fitting in with most normal households. That’s assuming this aunt had a normal household.”

  “There’s no accounting for some folks’ life styles.”

  “No, there isn’t. And I wonder how some of them survive in society. Well, all I know is that Talbot was living with his aunt from ’38 until he was adopted. 1951, I think, though I’m not certain.”

  “Dare say we can look it up if we need to.”

  “That’s the problem. Coventry got it pretty badly, didn’t it? Talbot’s family belongings, including his adoption papers, were destroyed.”

  “Pose any difficulties for him later on?”

  “Every year. His aunt was confirmed dead years ago. I checked. Thought I’d help out the fellow, at least put a stop to his annual whine. But I can’t prove his adoption, though privately I believe it happened.”

  “Would you happen to know the name of Talbot’s alleged adoptive parents?” I looked up from my notetaking, holding my breath.

  “Certainly. He made no secret about it. Flaunted it, in fact. Only trouble, as I said, he couldn’t prove a thing. Talbot always swore that his adoptive father was Peter Halford, Derek’s father.”

  I asked if anyone else knew of the supposed relationship.

  “Should think anyone older than forty would. No secret at all. Peter Halford always called Talbot son, but then he called all the boys in the village son. Derek insists it was just an affectionate nickname his dad used for all the lads, Talbot included. The older Halford was keen on children. I always thought it a shame he only had one. But it does seem reasonable that Halford would adopt Talbot. He and Talbot’s dad were chums as lads. I’ve often heard Derek’s dad talk of Talbot’s parents.”

  “I suppose Peter Halford—”

  “Dead, I’m afraid, yes. Died in 1973. No, no. That was Kris’ dad. 1970. Heart attack. Doesn’t help with this adoption puzzle, does it?”

  Nothing would help, I thought, except the official paper from the adoption service. “So, from 1951, say, Talbot became fixed on this legal son-and-heir bit. That is when he first began spouting off about it, or do I have it wrong?”

  “If only they would’ve let Tal alone. If only people would let others just live. Tal’s not a bad chap, really. He does good work, doesn’t ask for much out of life.”

  “Just every November third at dole time he goes crackers.”

  Arthur nodded. “And him being older than Derek… Well, you see why it’s important. If he was legally adopted, he’d be the older son and entitled to the dole.”

  “So there’s no proof to Talbot’s claim. None that anyone has ever found to date, at least.”

  “I’m hoping to set up something for him without his knowing of it. A bit of annual income.”

  “How will he receive that without being suspicious of a handout?”

  “That’s my legal team’s worry. But I’ve talked it over with Ramona, and she’s in favor of it.”

  I thought that was democratic, including the fiancée in the financial arrangements. I asked how Ramona was getting on with her wrist.

  “Of course, she’s limited in what she can do, but it’s the pain that’s the problem at the moment. Byron and I have been going over, seeing to her meals and necessities. I’ve been insisting she be faithful in taking her pills. You don’t know Ramona, Sergeant. She can be very stubborn.”

  “Even when it comes to medication?”

  “If the problem’s painful enough, she’ll take it. I was there Sunday evening, when your police surgeon tucked her in. And Byron or I will go down tonight with dinner. I tried to get her to move in one of the guest rooms for a few days…” He trailed off. I knew he was thinking of the vacated rooms from the tourists.

  “That would be a help,” I agreed.

  “She won’t have it. Says it would look bad.”

  “Nice to see someone still worries about proprieties,” I said. “Well, thank you, sir.” I took my leave, wondering if the adoption mess would ever get sorted out.

  * * * *

  “I tell you, sir,” I said as Graham and I compared notes in the incident room. My pint momentarily forgotten, I tried to put sense to the mountain of growing information. “I’m amazed at these villagers. If I lived here and had to put up with Talbot’s constant haranguing, I don’t know if I wouldn’t be moved to do something about it.”

  Graham paused with his pint to his lips. He set the glass down. “That’s a bit thick, TC. You, of all people, talking like that. Where’s that famous detachment?”

  “Stretched thin, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t live here, if that’s how you feel.”

  “Probably is. Anyway, I found out Kris Alton Halford’s dad died in 1973, if that’s of any interest to you.”

  “Popular year. Also the year of the quick engagement and subsequent breaking of same between her and Byron MacKinnon.”

  “You think the two incidents are connected?”

  “I don’t know. It’s tempting to put too much weight on it. 1973… What month did Mr. Alton die?”

  “December. I checked it through the computer. Just to substantiate Arthur’s story. I like to be thorough. It was a wintry road accident.”

  “Bad way to go.” Graham closed his eyes, then rubbed them. “Life for our two love birds was certainly fine in November. That’s when the perpetual row came up and Talbot got the news of the forthcoming wedding.”

  “So what happened to break it off, then?”

  “Couldn’t get a clue from Kris. Shall we try the unlucky groom?”

  “Might as well. You haven’t talked to him yet.”

  “We must rectify that, Taylor. He’ll feel left out.”

  * * * *

  “So how many rooms, then, you figure?”

  Graham came to such an abrupt halt outside Byron’s office that I bumped into him. He held his finger to his lips and inclined his head toward the door. It was nearly
closed, yet left an inch for the skilled listener to sidle up to and listen. Which is what we did, I stooping somewhat to accommodate Graham’s tall frame. His chest was against my back and I could feel his warmth. We must have looked ridiculous, but I loved it. I had never been so close to him.

  “I’ll know more when we get the plan finalized.”

  “And when’ll that be?”

  There was a scraping of a chair, as though one of the talkers was getting to his feet. I recognized the voices—Talbot and Byron. Seemed like strange bedfellows, but perhaps not. We had yet to deduce the topic of their conversation.

  Byron said something that I couldn’t hear. He had moved away, possibly turned his back to us. Graham leaned closer to the door. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  Talbot said, “Fine. Just so as you keep me up to date. I don’t like surprises.”

  “You sound as though you don’t trust me. Is that a way for partners to start out?”

  Talbot’s verbal reply was inaudible, but I did hear his belch. Seconds later he said, “And converting it will take—”

  “Now you sound like a ruddy banker.”

  “Well, when there’s this much at stake—”

  “You leave it to me, Talbot.”

  “That’s just what I have to do for the moment, don’t I? I’ll feel better when I can actually get my hands into it.”

  Another verbal exchange that was muffled by a moved chair followed this, then two sets of footsteps growing louder. Evidently coming toward the door. Graham and I stood up. He motioned me to the opposite side while he then took a large step backwards. I raised my fist as though about to knock. It was not the first time I wished I had some Royal Academy dramatic classes under my belt. When Byron opened the door he saw what appeared to be two police officers just walking up to his office.

  “I’ll see you later, Talbot,” Byron said after recovering from his initial jolt.

  Talbot mumbled something just audible about never knowing what will turn up on your doorstep and being careful what you step into. He sniffed as though there was a putrid aroma somewhere, and left. Byron then held open the door for us.

  Looking like a patient who’s been given bad news by his doctor, Byron took us into his office, and asked us to excuse the mess. It consisted of the expected letters, books and brochures of a tourist-oriented business, yet harbored more papers than I had expected. Either business is so good he can’t keep up with his paperwork or the man’s heart’s not in his work. He belongs to the landscape and the breed of nature-linked ancient Scot, I thought on seeing him again, taking in his ginger colored hair and mustache. Remarkably like over-grown patches of heather on a craigy mound.

  “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a rather bad moment,” Byron said, clearing a space on his desk.

  I could believe that. Did he suspect we had overheard his conversation or was he referring to his work?

  He quickly jammed his personal cheque book into a drawer, wadded up a paper nearly black with mathematical calculations, and tossed it at a full waste can. The sheet glanced off the edge of the can and rolled beneath the desk. “Sorting through my accounts,” he explained.

  “If we’ve come at an inopportune time,” Graham began, only to be waved off by Byron, who said it was all right.

  “No time’s really good when it’s got to do with murder.”

  “Murder does seem to take up a bit of everyone’s time,” I agreed. “Far reaching effects, if that’s not too trite a statement.”

  Graham asked about the car crash involving Kris’ dad.

  Byron seemed mesmerized by my pen. “I, uh— Oh, December 1973? I can’t remember. Sorry, but there you are. If you give me a day or so, I might remember…” He played with his watchband, then rushed on as Graham coughed. “Ah. Yes. Well, uh, it was a hell of a winter, even at that early stage, wasn’t it? George Alton and I had been debating about the trip to Edinburgh. But since he had cleared his calendar and sort of made up his mind… Well, I used to do a lot of driving for Mr. Alton. I wasn’t his ‘driver,’ or anything like that. He wasn’t that well off! It’s just that I was in my thirties then, needed a bit of extra cash, and had the time.”

  “I understand Kris had gone briefly to America in the mid-sixties. When did she return?”

  “Oh, must have been 1971. Yes. I started driving Mr. Alton about, quite sporadically at first. He and his wife had gone over to America just before Kris' graduation. Something about seeing where her mum had grown up. Illinois, I think. They made quite a holiday of it—several months. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, going all that way?”

  “Was Mr. Alton banned from driving?” I said, wondering about the circumstances that warranted a chauffeur.

  “You mean had he any restrictions on his license? No. He simply didn’t like making long trips or driving at night. I didn’t mind, so I ended up with the job. We liked each other well enough. I liked Kris, too. Well, to this day I don’t know what went wrong. I was driving, must have hit a patch of ice. The car skidded. I couldn’t control it, no matter how I steered it. God, I still hear it, the brakes squealing, the crash against the stone wall, the screams. Anyway, I couldn’t go through with the marriage after I had killed her dad, could I?” He asked the question as though he were challenging our morals.

  “But it wasn’t deliberate,” Graham said.

  “No. And Kris knew that, but I couldn’t have her look at me each day and be reminded of the accident, or her dad. So I broke it off. Walked out of her life. Literally. I left the village.”

  Uncomfortable with Byron’s emotions, I looked at Graham, mouthing my request to leave. Shaking his head, Graham asked quietly, “When and why did you come back, Mr. MacKinnon?”

  The secretary’s hand dropped to his lap. He raised his head, squinting at Graham and looking as though he had just awakened and was bothered by the light. “1975. When I heard she had married Derek. I knew it was safe for me, for us. I still love her, though.”

  It was then that Graham nodded and we quietly left the room.

  We interrupted our return from the manor house to pause beside the burnt-out bonfire. The police tape still fluttered in the breeze, the dregs of Guy Fawkes Night still sat mutely where they had been left. The dole and Guy Fawkes—two ceremonies dealing with long-ago deaths. The first ceremony honored a death, reverently recalling personal passions of a loved family member. The second ceremony ridiculed a death, transforming an ancient tragedy into a mocking entertainment and social festivity. Amazing, I thought, staring at the charred potatoes, their blackened skins barely discernible in the ebony mess of the fire and the fading afternoon light. Two events two days apart, illustrating the two sides of human nature.

  A gust of wind whipped up a handful of ashes and dust, mixing them into an eddy that peppered the air. “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,” Graham said. He rubbed his nose. The aroma was not pleasant. It stank of spent wood, old ashes and dry earth. “How many hundreds of fires, Taylor, have been enjoyed without any tragedies?”

  I thought he wanted an answer, but he kicked at a potato, just tinged gray from the fire. A fly buzzed off at the interruption to its feeding and faded into the deeply coloring sky. “Burnt potatoes and burnt chestnuts,” Graham sniffed. “Burnt offerings to Revelry and in merry memory of Mr. Fawkes. Burnt offerings, sacrifices that are ignored or go to no avail. The broken hearts are still there, for all the efforts. Remember, remember the 5th of November. Damn.”

  Graham picked up the potato, flicked off an annoying ant, and threw it at the gallows tree. There was a satisfying splat as the potato hit its mark. He turned and hurried down the road, his shadow momentarily obliterating the few potatoes scattered in the grass.

  * * * *

  I took the scenic route back to the pub. Not that it was difficult to do, for any walk in the village was proving a picture post card vista.

  Taking the eastern road, I walked past Talbot’s house, entered the woods, then turned toward Arthur�
�s castle. The climb had been steady, yet not tiring, and I emerged from the woods into the open greenery. Rather like a woman gone mad with cosmetics, sunset splashed its lavenders, blues and vermilions across the leaden sky. A hint of crimson glowed along the western horizon where the sun hovered, its base nestled firmly on the hazy hill. On the summit of Ashmoor Pike the trees stretched like black lace across the lowest edge of the mottled sky.

  I paused to pick a crocus—the Crocus sativus of saffron fame—astonished to find the fragile purple flower still in bloom. Yet, it was sheltered somewhat from the cold, northern wind. So I picked it, thinking I would admire it more in my room tonight than anyone else would do in passing along the road. Twirling it slowly against my thumb and index finger, I could feel the stiffness of the stem. I peered into the cup, looking at the small stamen. I decided to sketch it as a last offering of autumnal joy before winter swept all delicate beauty from the land. I should have left it alone, then perhaps I wouldn’t have been so preoccupied with my find.

  I might have seen him. But I didn’t. On turning toward the village, I heard “Hey! Hop Cop!” It was the ridiculous, taunting nickname he had created for me in police class. I had colored when he had whined it—anything to demean or make it arduous on me, the sole woman. It had been born of my tardiness to class due to helping an injured rabbit. Mark had laughed at his cleverness in inventing the nickname. By now, though, ‘The Hop Cop’ had disintegrated into ‘The Cop’ or ‘TC,’ and most of my colleagues had forgotten the story.

  I know I blushed. He always unnerved me. I hated myself for it. Of course I couldn’t pretend not to have heard or seen him. I held my flower in front of me, as though it was a banner leading me into battle, and smiled.

  “Hello, Mark. You having a busy day?”