Say Goodbye to the Boys (9 page)

He headed the procession, in front of the Brynbach Silver Band. He was wearing a black jacket, pinstriped trousers, a bowler on his head. And he carried a rolled umbrella, and made of it a drum-major's stick. He blew his whistle. The Band struck up. We moved off. Very few came to watch us in the new part of town, but faces at windows peered at us. Emlyn gestured at them with his trumpet and curtains fell back into place.

‘It's a cold audience,' he observed. ‘When that bloody band stops murdering all the men of Harlech, we'll give them “I Got Rhythm,” OK? After four.'

Our turn to murder, as we turned the corner on to the promenade.

It was deserted, ravaged by the wind. The procession leaned against it, broke up to retrieve hats and flowers and strips of tissue paper and the Brynbach Silver Band ran out of puff. Now we were straggled. Blossoms from ‘Bilton's for Better Blooms' took to the air. The promenade went on for as long as the Sahara Desert.

‘Everybody squat down,' Emlyn ordered. ‘We'll hit 'em for six in town.'

And there the band revived, but now the procession was bruised. Miss Lottie Hughes retired, chilled. But Mae West marched on, and so did the children. There was a state of emergency aboard ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor', and one side of the flower cart read ‘Bil or etter looms'.

‘Keep it up, you chaps,' MT told us, and went bounding to take his place at the front.

But it was worse in the town. There the wind came at us suddenly around corners, and in a more confined space had greater force. It slashed and punched, caught the procession suddenly and unaware, guard down. As we entered the High Street I saw Laura standing with Will Wilkins outside his shop.

‘Oh, what a shame,' she cried, ‘don't get pneumonia, will you?' I saw Ceri too, and her hand came up to her mouth and she bit on a knuckle – a familiar gesture – to hide a smile. Then, twenty yards or so down the High Street, where the watchers were two deep on the pavement, we stalled.

I stuck my head inside the cab. The driver was making no effort to re-start. ‘Don't tell me we have to push this bloody wagon,' I said. He turned and looked up at me, bloodshot eyes rolling. ‘Bloody hell, man! Thought I saw a hand come up then! In the middle of them flowers! On that bloody cart!'

I banged my head and heard myself tell him to get on with it, for God's sake, everybody laughing their heads off at us. He re-started the cab and we set off with such a jerk that the piano nearly fell on Sid Bates. ‘He says he saw a hand come up,' I said to Emlyn, and he said, ‘Jack's been at the bottle for years.' But he came to my side and we rested our elbows on the roof of the cab and stared ahead. Sid Bates stopped thumping on the piano. Amos Ellyott stumbled over to join us. Only Mash kept at it, brushes in his hands, his foot steady on the bass pedal.

We drew closer to the cart. And she was there, an arm exposed, a shoe pointing at the sky, couched among ‘Bilton's for Better Blooms'. The drum went swish, swish, thump, swish, swish. Someone at an open window above a shop cried out. We stalled again. The driver yanked the hand brake up and switched off the ignition. He heaved the door open and nearly fell out. He slammed the door shut. ‘That's me – finished,' he said, ‘nobody told me it was a fucking funeral!' And off he went, abandoned us, and we stood and watched the cart's slow progress all the way down the High Street. And it was deathly quiet, except for Mash going swish, swish, thump, swish, swish on the drums.

IX

 

 

‘A spinster lady, name of Sweeney,' Amos Ellyott explained yet again. ‘Amy Gertrude Sweeney, daughter of a fruit importer, lately of Southampton, of independent means, like Miss Porterhouse, and of eccentric habits, again like that poor lady. Miss Sweeney believed in sea water applied to the feet at night, as a medical aid.'

A paddle in the dark and someone waiting. I looked across the promenade at the estuary, the tide out, the big ships motionless in the channel, white evening clouds banked low and suppressed a shiver.

‘Unlike Miss Porterhouse, Miss Sweeney was quite well known. She was given to lecturing on a matter of some concern to those people who have sought sanctuary here – health.'

Ever since the carnival the comments of the town had echoed the old man's. Not as precise perhaps but in the same vein – all wonder and irony, with sorrow and compassion only afterthoughts. Miss Sweeney dead had put in a public appearance, after all. ‘Did you see her?' was the question. The town was getting used to murders. A kind of relish in the way they spoke.

‘There is no immediate link between Mrs Ridetski, Miss Porterhouse and Miss Sweeney, although it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the two spinster ladies may well have utilised the services of Mrs Ridetski. They were not called to the Market Hall, but I am assured that the method of despatch was the same.' He decided then that he was exhausted and headed for one of the benches on the promenade. ‘The style is everything, is it not?' He went on. ‘Your interviews with that idiot were brief, I understand?'

‘We didn't do this one,' Emlyn said.

‘But Marshall was detained for some considerable time, was he not?'

‘Only because it takes him longer to tell them he didn't do it.'

Amos nodded. ‘Bilton's flower cart, finishing touches apart, was made up late last evening, and left in the yard of the Royal under a tarpaulin. Miss Sweeney lived in a bungalow no more than twenty yards from the Royal. Fairhaven, she called it, a port she failed to make.'

‘It's all so bloody amusing,' I remarked to no one in particular.

‘Oh, beyond joking,' the old man agreed as he tried to stand. ‘A surfeit of victims, I agree.' His joints had locked and we had to go through the business of straightening him. We were on our way to the Grange in response to an urgent message from Mrs Edmunds. It was to do with Mash, I knew, and I was anxious to get there, impatient with the old man who was giggling at our touch. ‘The press are here,' he said as we resumed our walk. ‘The town has been mentioned on the wireless. Infamy fascinates. I think the police force of the entire country is in attendance. Poor Inspector Marks.'

As we came up to the Grange he was saying, ‘I am intrigued by an emerging pattern. Our assassin does not rob, indulges in no sexual malpractice...'

‘Do you mind?' Emlyn said. ‘You're making me feel ill – for God's sake Philip, knock on the damn door.'

I rattled the brass knocker.

‘Our assassin would appear to be incapable of leaving his victims alone.' Amos droned on. ‘I should say his or her victims, of course.' And the door opened, and Sylvia Edmunds stood there asking us to come in.

She sat in a high-backed wickerwork chair and she knitted, and the click of the needles punctuated the conversation. Hands big as a man's jabbing at a pattern, eyes concealed behind the thick lenses of her glasses. A driven woman, I felt. And she came straight to the point. How long is this to go on for? How many more times were they going to drag Marshall in for questioning? Had they asked us questions? Did they want to know where we were last night?

‘In the bath, that's what I told them,' Emlyn said. ‘And that's where I was – after I brought Mash home.'

‘Marshall,' she corrected him. ‘Marshall. That absurd name you give him...'

‘I've no alibi.' I told them.

‘Marshall was here with me until he went to bed, and I went up to see him afterwards. Why can't they leave him alone? They're picking on him.' She spoke to Emlyn most of the time. ‘You've seen terrible things. You've been in the hands of the enemy. You know what questions are like.' Her voice reasonable, all her anger in the needles. ‘Do you know where they are now? Him and Marshall? Cutting grass! Marking out the park for his sports day! After that dreadful, dreadful farce this afternoon. What a response – the sports day cancelled, until tomorrow!' Her feet were big, her legs sinewy. Dark fuzz of hair along her arms. ‘There are things I need to know. Why did Marshall hit David Garston, Philip?'

The question caught me off guard. I had been quite prepared to let Emlyn do the talking.

‘Maybe he'd had a bit too much to drink,' Emlyn broke in.

‘Does he get violent with drink, then?' The question was addressed to me.

‘Not usually. He doesn't usually...'

‘He didn't have any drink in him when he attacked Emlyn, did he? Well – come on. Don't be evasive, Philip. Your father was always evasive...'

‘Not a question of being evasive.'

‘Facts, then. You were there. What would have happened to Emlyn had you not been there? What started it off? Come on – tell me.'

Emlyn came to my rescue. ‘Philip was up on deck. It wasn't an attack really. We were just fooling about, ragging each other – and it got out of hand.' He was smiling there, a tanned, open face, a con man to his fingertips. ‘When you're ragging about things get serious. Maybe I stood on his toes, or something. Mash – Marshall's got dead-sensitive toes.' He grinned at her, but she was not amused.

‘You're his best friend,' she said. ‘Even when you were small. He wouldn't attack you, would he?'

‘There wasn't an attack – as such.'

She paused in her knitting to adjust her spectacles. ‘Well – it was what Mr Ellyott said. Wasn't it Mr Ellyott?'

Amos, who had been sitting quiet and watchful, looked suddenly irritable. ‘A question of terms, madam. Perhaps attacked was too strong. I withdraw the word.'

Mrs Edmunds nodded. ‘Mr Ellyott paid me a visit.' She almost smiled at him. Then she was off on another tack. ‘This woman – Mrs Ridetski. All of you called there, didn't you? I'm not going to comment about that. You're men now. Men have all the privileges, don't they? But – this is what I want to know – the authorities don't really think Marshall had anything to do with this woman's death, do they?'

My turn to answer again. ‘Course they don't. It's just that Mash forgets – gets mixed up – sometimes.' Oh God, I thought.

Now she was agitated, restless on the chair, the needles going ever faster. ‘He forgets. He forgets because he's got nothing to tell them. Having a father who had to join in this confessing business didn't help. Did you know...?' She choked on the words. ‘Did you know he told the police that Marshall slept here in his bed that night?' And he did sleep here – not in his bed granted. But how would he know? Where was he that night? Out exercising as per usual? Delivering bits of paper?' A silence that stretched. Outside on the lawn the swallows flew low. Even the needles were still. Then she resumed, words tumbling out of her, as if her speech were somehow connected to the movement of her hands. ‘What does he do? Plays with the boy. They wrestle. Play games. All games with him. All talk, talk, talk.' I was shocked. I wanted to tell her to think what she was saying – to shut up. ‘That's why I gave up handing over... Look – it was my money that set him up, but I had to pull out otherwise there would have been nothing. Nothing for the boy.' Whatever reason she might have had for asking us to call this wasn't it, I felt. All this was burning inside her. Had to come out. ‘You start asking questions about where he got the money from, Mr Ellyott. He was close to bankruptcy. No more from me, I said. But he kept on going, didn't he? Even with petrol rationed. Even with no cars to sell. You start asking questions. That's all.' Her glasses had steamed up. She ran her finger behind each lens. A dark cloud overhead. Shadows in the room. ‘That's all I'm saying. I'm very tired. Please go now.'

I looked at Emlyn. He motioned for me to stand. Amos said, ‘But, dear lady, if you could...'

She dismissed us. ‘You let yourselves out. Please. The boys know the way.'

I followed Emlyn to the door. Click click click went the needles. Amos came shuffling after us. Then she said, ‘Knitting helps me to stop thinking.' And we paused there, uneasy, disturbed, but she said no more, and we went out through the house, the click of the needles following us all the way.

Outside the air was fresh and clean. ‘I could murder a pint,' Emlyn said. ‘She was talking about old MT!'

‘A driven woman,' Amos said. ‘Desperate. Concerned with another matter.'

‘A man burnt in pound notes,' I said, Mash's voice in my head. We came to a halt. Swallows swooped around us. ‘I just thought of that,' I added feebly.

‘Philip will insist on playing at detective,' the old man remarked. ‘A Sergeant Lockman, of the American Army Pay Corps, with a car full of money, who came to ashes on the coast road...'

‘How much money?' I asked him.

‘Enough for a bonfire, apparently.'

‘Enough to save a man from going bust?'

‘Do not anticipate,' Amos said with something that might have been a laugh.

We walked on in silence until we came to the Anchorage, which always tried to be better than it was, and which we never patronised. ‘It will have to do,' Amos insisted. But he barred our entrance briefly with his stick. ‘Should we not have asked the lady of the house were she was on the night in question?'

‘Oh, really, bollocks,' Emlyn told him and went ahead into the pub.

‘But the motive is there,' Amos said softly. ‘Think about it.'

‘Mash? In Lilian's case it might make sense, but what about the others?' He stared at me over his glasses, challenging me to say more. ‘To make us think it's a maniac? Draw attention away from Lilian's case?' He nodded encouragingly. ‘But – Ridetski, if he's after something would want to do that, wouldn't he?'

‘A person resembling Ridetski has been reported in the area, certainly...'

‘Well – Ridetski then?'

‘Not a desperate and driven lady? A local?' He barked a spiteful laugh at me.

The first thing we heard in the pub was that the police had taken the German in. Everyone heard it. Jack Partridge, doing the rounds, was shouting it out.

‘Klaus Schneider – found the keys for the Market Hall on him. All them pissing Nazis should be hung!'

‘It will be necessary for us to take a look at Mr George Garston at home,' Amos Ellyott whispered to us across the table. I had never met anyone who wanted to raise his voice above a whisper in the Anchorage, except Jack Partridge, and they had long since called the police to show him the way out. ‘Former prisoners of war interest me, of course, but Garston interests me more. Marshall can drive us thither.' Mash, with white from the marking-out machine still on his hands, had joined us after a search that had taken in most of the town's pubs. ‘Does not the gentleman live on a farm named Y Gors?'

That style of speaking was bound to bring out the worst in Emlyn. He rolled his eyes at me and said, ‘Yea, verily.'

‘And this farm – is it not some miles hence?'

‘A fair number of leagues, sirrah,' Emlyn said. It had to be the Anchorage that set them going like this. Everyone in it, the barmaid especially, looked stuffed.

‘You're not thinking of going now? This time of night?'

‘Precisely, Philip. Now. And don't you dare bring me into this wax works again.'

Mash, who had been removing white from under his nails with a matchstick, thought this was very funny.

‘Dead of night has great significance for the peasantry,' Amos explained, once we were bouncing along the track that led to George Garston's sour acres. ‘Night brings on dread and unease...'

‘Oh, Christ,' Emlyn moaned in my ear, ‘this is making jelly of my insides. We'll never make it.'

The way to Y Gors twisted like a snake through broom, gorse and marram grass. It was a poor farm on the edge of the estuary, most of its fields sandy and barren and subject to tidal floods – a low-lying, sinister place even in broad daylight. Mash's headlights picked out signs that said ‘DANGER' and ‘NO WAY' and ‘NO SHOOTING'. A dead gull hung from one of them.

‘Slow down Mash,' Emlyn cried out, ‘I'm having a heart attack.'

But Mash flung the little car at the bends and rode the potholes with abandon, driving badly. Normally he was fast but careful. Now he deemed to misjudge the bends, and I began to wonder how many pints he'd had. The old man was enjoying it, however. We could hear snatches of song from him.

Just before we reached the white gate that guarded the house, Mash must have stamped hard on the accelerator and we went off in a skid, and finished up with the back of the car almost touching the gate.

‘I've gone!' Emlyn groaned as we disentangled ourselves. He gave Mash a punch. ‘What are you pissing playing at, you bloody great 'nana? I'm damaged, that's what. Had it!'

Mash switched off the engine. Now we could hear George Garston's dogs howling, and music accompanying them.
Tosca
, I think, flooding out of the house behind us. ‘Hey that's nice,' Mash said, ‘what do we do now?'

Emlyn appeared to be rubbing himself all over, as if attempting to restore circulation. ‘We were going to create a diversion so that Mr Ellyott could have a look round. Maybe burn a barn, or stampede Garston's cattle. But you've buggered it up!'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' Mash said.

‘That's all right, Emlyn responded, ‘Don't let it happen again.'