Broken Music (17 page)

‘Which seems to strengthen the idea it
wasn't
an accident.'

‘Indeed. I refuse to believe she would ever have destroyed them otherwise, not Marianne. To me, what she wrote seemed mostly rubbish, but of course,
she
didn't believe that, Marianne herself.' Her eyes, bright and alert, regarded him steadily, then she said, as if coming to a decision, ‘If I were you, I should ask her family about them.'

‘Ask which family?'

In the long, shadowy room the arrival of the young man had gone unnoticed. He walked to the far end and threw a large fish on to the draining board where it slithered into the sink. ‘Roach,' he said, coming back. ‘Not much else doing this afternoon, Ma, except tiddlers.'

He was lanky, bespectacled and quietly spoken. His mother was, she had told Reardon, pinning her faith on his hopes for a junior fellowship at Cambridge; he had a brilliant degree, he had worked hard during the war, it was only what he deserved. Steven Rafferty himself appeared to be an unassuming young man for such accolades to be heaped upon him; but that was a mother's privilege.

‘Steven, how quietly you came in. This is Mr Reardon, who used to be with the police. He was wondering what we can remember about poor Marianne's drowning.'

‘Oh?' He regarded Reardon owlishly through his spectacles. Then he smiled pleasantly but waved away Reardon's extended hand. ‘Sorry, I'm filthy. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and tidy myself up a little.' He was wearing fisherman's waders and a disreputable old jacket, patently outgrown, presumably donned for fishing.

‘Don't go to any trouble for me,' Reardon said.

‘Oh, it's no trouble. Can't spoil your tea, and mine, smelling of fish.' He went outside again to wash his hands at the pump, returned and took the wooden flight of stairs in the corner in several easy strides. Mrs Rafferty went to make fresh tea. A few minutes later Steven presented himself, changed, combed and tidied, and accepted cake and tea from his mother. ‘Well now.'

He listened with grave attention while Reardon outlined the position, seemingly as incurious as his mother had been about his motives in starting up enquiries again.

‘I have spoken to Miss Wentworth and she seemed to think I should speak to the Gypsies.'

‘Nella did? I wonder why?'

‘Wasn't one of them making a nuisance of himself? Hanging around you and your friends and…er…having his eye on Marianne?'

‘Good Lord, only Rupert – the Austrian, von Kessel – thought that, or pretended to. He made the excuse that Danny Boswell seemed to be paying too much attention to Marianne, but I think he just felt a Gypsy should keep his distance from people whom he thought were not quite the same standing, so to speak. Which wasn't the case at all. They're well known around here, the Boswells. As long as they keep their hands off other people's property, nobody minds them. All the same, it wasn't usual to do what Grev did one day.'

Reardon lifted an eyebrow.

‘He went over to Danny and suggested he join us.'

‘Join you?'

‘I know, I know. Ludicrous, wasn't it? Especially as there was no danger of him doing so. Grev knew perfectly well Daniel would run a mile rather than join us. To be honest, I wondered if he had actually put the question to him at all, simply pretended he had. They're proud people you know, the Romanies, they value their independence and rightly resent condescension. Grev only did what he did to annoy Rupert.'

‘So they didn't get on well?'

‘He was William's friend, not Grev's. Schoolfriend. And I dare say
they
would have grown out of each other afterwards, meeting other people, as one does, but they were still pretty close, then.' It seemed fairly obvious that Steven hadn't much liked the Austrian, himself. He appeared to be a young man who probably took nothing on face value and might very well be a clear-eyed judge of character. ‘But no, he and Grev didn't get on. There was always a feeling of thunder in the air whenever they were together, although Grev was studiously polite to him, as people are with those they don't really like, you know?'

‘It must have been rather a touchy situation.'

‘It was, and more so with Rupert being on the other side, as it were.'

‘Tell me more.'

‘There isn't a lot to say, really. Actually, Rupert was rather…shall we say, full of himself. It was obvious there was going to be a war but he hung on here, out of sheer bravado, until the very last moment. Notwithstanding the wrath of his father, I believe.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘I have no idea. Other than the fact he only left on the same night that Grev left to enlist. Rather arrogant, wasn't it? But as I said, he liked to make an impression, especially on the girls. Though I don't think that worked too well.'

‘Not even with Marianne?'

The grave answer came after a moment. ‘Don't be fooled, Mr Reardon, Marianne had far more sense than most people gave her credit for – including my dear mother here,' he added with a smile, stretching out his hand and patting hers pacifically. ‘Emotions are unreliable, don't you think? Facts are what matter more in a case like this, surely?'

‘Possibly. Well, you know the facts. So what do you think happened?'

‘The obvious solution is usually the right one, and if you look at it logically, what happened to Marianne must have been an accident. I think she simply forgot how unsafe the jetty was, and couldn't save herself when it collapsed.'

‘And what do you think a young woman like her was doing there, down by the lake, on her own, at night?'

‘Oh, I think she went to meet Grev. Where they could be alone, to say goodbye properly.'

‘Hmm. Have you any idea why Greville Foley should have changed his mind about joining the fighting?'

‘Who knows? But what happened the previous evening probably had something to do with it. There was a supper party at Oaklands – and it ended in an altercation. We, my parents and I, the hoi polloi, were actually invited.' He smiled deprecatingly, disarmingly, with a lifted eyebrow.

‘What Steven means is, we were not in the habit of receiving invitations to Oaklands, but it was Mrs Villiers's seventieth birthday – the girls' grandmother you know,' Mrs Rafferty intervened, ‘and we were invited as her friends. But let's not mince words, Steven, it was more than an altercation, it was a fight. Rupert more or less accused Grev of being a coward and Grev proved he was not by knocking him down. They shook hands afterwards, but I'm afraid it did rather break up the party.'

‘As I must break up this meeting, Mrs Rafferty, and you, sir.' Reardon wanted now to be alone, to assess what he had learnt. ‘Thank you for the cake, and the conversation. It's been a pleasure.'

‘I hope it's been enlightening, too, Mr Reardon.'

‘I'm not sure of that yet, ma'am, but I hope it may be.'

The Leasowes, the place where Nella Wentworth had told him the Gypsies were encamped, turned out to be on Oaklands land. Although he had indeed spent the previous day walking the surrounding hills, Reardon thought he had better give more credence to his pretence of being here on a walking holiday by leaving his motorcycle parked in the yard behind the Greville Arms. He walked along the road towards the outskirts of the village and, following instructions obtained at the pub, he found the encampment without difficulty, the blue smoke spiralling up through the bare tree branches giving him the first indication of its whereabouts. He climbed over a stile by the side of a five-barred gate, but it was still hidden below the slope of the field. He paused to reconnoitre.

He had learnt a thing or two about these Gypsies while he was making his enquiries as to their location. The first was that the same family, the Boswells, had been coming back to Broughton Underhill to pitch their caravans for generations, from where they were never hounded or moved on as they were in many places. Or not until some of their more antisocial activities became too outrageous to be ignored by Ted Bracey, whose motto of live and let live was sometimes sorely put to the test by them. Apparently the old earl, in his day, had been heard to say that if they only took a pheasant or two to fill their children's bellies, they were damned welcome to them, and if they needed a place to camp for the summer, the Leasowes wasn't being used for anything else, and had ordered them to be left in peace. His daughter, Lady Sybil, evidently saw no reason to change that state of affairs.

As he eventually began to make the descent towards the stream, the camp came into view: several brightly decorated covered wagons drawn up together round a fire, over which a pot was suspended on a tripod, sending forth a sharp, savoury aroma which blended pleasantly with the woodsmoke. It was a quiet and secluded spot, on a curve of the stream, overhung by willows just turning green-gold, with catkins hanging from the bare black branches of the hazels. There were no men about but a group of women seemed to be washing clothes at the stream, and a few horses grazed at some distance. Otherwise there appeared at first to be no further sign of life until, as he drew nearer, half a dozen savage-looking dogs suddenly appeared from nowhere and in a moment surrounded him, snarling and leaping, teeth bared.

Not much frightened Herbert Reardon, but he didn't like the look of these at all and there was no possibility of escape. As it was he stood immobile in the centre of the ring, feeling a fool but not inclined to try moving forward, until the sound of a whistle caused the pack to sink to the ground, tongues lolling, though still keeping watchful eyes on him. After a few further undignified minutes standing in their midst came another whistle which made the dogs slink back to wherever they'd come from. Greatly relieved, Reardon moved tentatively forward. There was no sign of the person who had sent forth the command, and silence reigned, until he came into full view of the circle of caravans, heard childish voices and saw an old woman sitting on the steps of one. She was traditionally garbed, with a multi-coloured headscarf and a shawl around her shoulders, a poppy-red skirt, smoking a short clay pipe and observing him with interest as he came nearer.

Several filthy children played in the dust at the old woman's feet, but none of them took any notice of him, except for one little girl who smiled up at him, all black eyes and jet-black curls, gleams of gold from the rings in her ears: a lovely child, though he suspected that the chances of her not growing to look like the wizened old creature on the steps within a very few years were slim. He addressed the old woman. ‘I'd like to speak to Daniel Boswell, if you please.'

For a long time her eyes, black as obsidian in her weather-beaten face, looked into his own, then moved over his face, as if memorising its contours. She showed neither shock, disgust nor pity at what she saw. Returning the gaze, he realised she was probably not as old as he had first thought, but rather, simply worn down by time and circumstance. Finally, her gold earrings jangling, she jerked her head sideways towards an elderly man dressed in moleskin trousers, his straight black hair falling to his shoulders, the inevitable red scarf around his neck, who had appeared from the back of the caravans. He was surrounded by the dogs, now quiet, Reardon was relieved to see, though unnervingly, like the woman, they never took their eyes off him. ‘Here be Daniel Boswell.'

‘What can I do for you?' the man asked, civilly enough, when he reached them.

‘My name's Reardon. I'm looking for Daniel Boswell – young Daniel Boswell.' He hazarded a guess. ‘You're perhaps his father?'

‘No.' His black eyes were deep set in a proud, dark Egyptian face, as unsmiling as the old woman's.

To be truthful, Reardon had never had much time for Gypsies – travelling folk. They were always wanting to tell your fortune or wheedling you to buy rubbish you didn't want, generally getting into mischief. He'd personally crossed swords with them once or twice, when they'd been on the wrong side of the law. But his preconceived ideas were given a jolt by this man. He looked different. He had what, Reardon thought, searching for a word, could be called dignity. He didn't ask what the stranger's business was, but Reardon had a pretty good idea his appearance in the village, and the reason for it, would be no news to any of the Gypsies. He forbore to enlighten him, asking only, ‘Perhaps you'd be so good as to tell me where I can find young Mr Boswell?'

‘You be staying in the village.' It was a statement, not a question.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, for the time being…'

‘Then he'll find you, when he wants to. Good day, mister.'

Reardon, however much he might object to the abrupt dismissal, looked at the man's unyielding face, the alert dogs, received a strong impression he would get nowhere by any further questions, and chose caution as the better part of valour. It seemed as though he had no choice, for the moment at any rate, but to wait until – or if – Daniel Boswell the younger chose to approach him. He murmured his thanks with as much dignity as he could muster and walked back up the field, feeling with every step he took the eyes of Boswell, the old woman and the dogs still on his back. Once out of sight of the camp, he passed through the field stile again, then turned to lean on the gate beside it. Only the blue smoke of the fire was visible from here but he felt, disconcertingly, as if the Gypsies he'd left behind, out of sight, knew he was still there.

As he stood, the same barefoot little girl who had smiled at him emerged from behind the trees which sheltered the caravans, carrying a big enamel pitcher, and ran towards the river. At a point where the water fell gently over some rocks to a slightly lower level she squatted to fill the jug. The water would be as shallow here as it was in most places in its meander through the village, and so clear you could see the pebbles lying on the bed. At its edge grew the reeds and osiers the Gypsies sometimes used to make baskets which they then sold to the villagers and anyone else who would buy them. After a few minutes the child he had been watching turned with the pitcher, staggering under its weight as she made her unsteady way back to the caravans.

He sat on the step of the stile for nearly half an hour, thinking over what he had learnt so far. He was not a great deal further along in his quest and his time here was nearly up. He thought about what Steven Rafferty had told him and why Nella Wentworth should have directed him to the Gypsies. Was it because she didn't share Steven's feeling that Daniel Boswell was entirely blameless? Or did she know something he didn't, something Marianne had told her, perhaps? Had something happened, which concerned the Gypsy in the days before Marianne died, that might have led up to her death?

A voice several yards to his left said, ‘You wanted to see me.'

He hadn't heard anyone come close and it made him jump. He saw a younger version of the man he had been speaking to – not much more than a boy, really – sitting on the grass, one arm around his knees. He had on a brown felt hat that he wore pushed to the back of his head, but the dark hair straggling beneath it, unlike the old man's, was matted and unkempt. A pair of old corduroys were held up with a length of rope tied round his waist. Reardon had the uneasy feeling he might have been there all the time, watching him. ‘Daniel Boswell?'

The boy nodded.

‘The old man didn't say you were around.'

‘My uncle don't like
gauje –
outsiders. What do the police want of me?'

He'd been right, they had known who he was. He said, ‘I'm making enquiries into the death of Miss Marianne Wentworth, the girl who was drowned, the summer before the war, remember?'

‘I don't remember nothing about that, mister.'

‘You should. You were following her around, watching her.'

‘Not
her
.' He grinned, showing stained teeth. ‘Me, a married man with two
chaves
?'

Married? Two – babies, did he mean? Surely not, the lad before him couldn't be more than twenty-one, or two at the most – and they were talking of nearly five years ago. But they married young, these Gypsies. That was why their women, often lovely in youth, grew old before their time, he reckoned. All that childbearing. No home comforts, living on the road, in all weathers. Eating nothing except what they could pinch, or get for free: hedgehogs, rabbits, birds' eggs.

‘If you weren't watching her, what were you doing hanging around her and her friends? And who was it you had your eye on, if it wasn't her?'

The boy didn't seem to feel it necessary to answer, or to hurry to fill the silence which ensued. He brought a thin, rolled-up cigarette from his pocket, lit it and gazed out over the valley as he smoked. Reardon, leaning over the stile, watched him in equal silence, for the moment willing to let him take his time, and it wasn't until he'd finished his smoke that the Gypsy spoke again.

‘It were the boy, the young master, that's who I was watching for. There was trouble round him. I warned him but he wouldn't listen.'

‘What sort of trouble?'

‘You shouldn't ask questions that there ain't no answer to, mister.'

‘Come on, what sort of talk is that?'

‘Danger. That's all I can tell you, 'cause that's all I ever knew. There were some kind of trouble around him.'

‘And you thought you could prevent it?' The Gypsy shrugged. ‘Why did you – and all of your family – leave so suddenly?'

His teeth were crooked as well as stained and the smile he directed at Reardon had something wicked in it, yet Reardon wasn't distrustful of it. ‘What do you think happens to the likes of us in a war?'

‘I don't know. You tell me.'

‘We got out quick, and spent the time in Ireland, that's what. We have relations, other Romani, over there, they knew how to look after us.'

It was possible, at a time when the whole country was in a tumult and even ordinary people were doing all sorts of unexpected and extraordinary things. Nobody would have bothered a few Gypsies.

‘The night Marianne Wentworth died. What were you doing?'

The lad grinned. ‘Minding my own business.'

‘Look here, nobody's accusing you of anything, Daniel. Her family have never had a proper answer to what happened to her, and they want to know.' He was stretching the facts a bit here, but since he thought it was true, he felt justified. He didn't rightly know what the Gypsies' attitude to suicide was, but he'd never heard of any of them taking their own life as a solution to their problems, and he thought they might regard it as a bad and unlucky way to go into the next world. He said, ‘They don't go along with the idea of suicide. I just want a straight answer to a straight question.'

Daniel had retreated into one of the long silences the Gypsies seemed to specialise in. ‘I saw her,' he said at last.

‘You saw what happened?'

‘She fell into the water.'

‘Fell? Where were you when you saw this?'

‘On the other side of the lake, in the woods on the far bank, opposite the boathouse.'

‘What were you doing out in the woods?' Daniel threw him a sardonic look, and Reardon didn't push it.

‘Well, never mind that. More to the point is…did you try to save her?'

‘Can't swim, mister.' This might have been true. Gypsies weren't very fond of water at the best of times, and Reardon had met sailors who were afraid of water and couldn't swim. ‘But I run round to the other side, all the same. Waded into the water at the edge to see if I could get her out but she wasn't there.'

‘Was she alone – before, I mean?'

The Gypsy looked at him. ‘She was when she fell in.'

It felt as though he was drawing teeth, but Reardon schooled himself to patience. ‘So someone was with her before that?'

Daniel stared into the remote distance, as though he wasn't going to answer. ‘The boy from the house, the one I told you about – the young master – he was there, but after a bit he went and left her.'

‘Were they quarrelling?'

‘Not if you call kissing her quarrelling, they weren't. Then after he'd left her, she just sat there, on the grass. Crying, I reckon.'

‘What time was all this?'

‘After the church clock struck midnight.'

Reardon said, ‘Did you know young Mr Foley left the same night to join the army?'

‘No. I told you, we was gone ourselves afore dawn.' He saw Reardon's expression. ‘We was planning to go anyway.' He threw away his cigarette butt, and lit another. ‘He weren't the last to see her, though. There was somebody else there, after him. Dunno who it were, couldn't see by then, it were getting dark. Only her I could, she had a white dress on, see.'

That was true. Reardon vividly called to mind a white blouse and a torn, dark blue skirt, black shoes, a tortoiseshell slide holding her hair back.