High Island Blues (15 page)

‘I said I remember him.’ The voice was quavery and impatient. It came from a small room used almost exclusively by the elderly residents. At first George could see nobody there. Then he walked in. The speaker had the shrivelled look of the very old and was so small that his chair hid him completely. He had been looking at George in a large framed mirror on the wall ahead of him and it was clear that the comment was directed at him.

‘Who do you remember?’ George asked.

‘The one that died. You
are
interested in him, aren’t you?’

‘Very.’

‘Well then.’

‘You remember Mr Brownscombe coming to Oaklands with his wife to visit Miss Cleary?’ So Mick
had
called in, George thought, when the weather was good for migrants just as Mary Arm had said.

‘Not recently!’ The old man was irritated by George’s stupidity. ‘No, no. I didn’t mean that. Years ago. He came years ago with his friends. Miss Elsie was here then.’

‘Elsie?’

‘Yes. Elsie! Mary Ann’s mother.’

‘You were staying here twenty years ago?’

‘I’d just arrived. Thought it would be for a week until my daughter made space for me. She never did.’ He screwed up his eyes and George was afraid that he was going to cry but the gesture seemed to be an aid to concentration.

‘I remember them driving up to the house that first time in their rental car, the girl and three boys. The radio blasting. They jumped out as if they owned the place. All talking at once. There was loud music all over the house the week they were here. No respect and I told them so. I wondered what I’d come to.’

‘What else do you remember about that time?’

‘Does it matter?’ His eyes were hooded. He looked at George in the mirror.

‘It might do.’

‘I liked it better then,’ he said. ‘It felt more like family.’

George sat down in a high-backed chair too. He did not speak.

‘They had time to talk to you,’ the old man went on. He shot a glance at George to make it clear that he did not feel sorry for himself, he just wanted to explain.

‘Who talked to you?’

‘All of them. It was real friendly. The other people staying here. Elsie. She worked on her own in the kitchen then and she didn’t mind us going in to sit with her. We’re not allowed there now. They’re all so busy. So I’d sit in her kitchen and we’d talk. She hadn’t had it easy, she needed someone to listen to her. Lost her husband and her family were no use.’

‘Did you ever meet Laurie’s father? Elsie Cleary’s cousin?’

‘Nope. He weren’t allowed near the place. I heard plenty about him though.’

‘What did they say about him?’

‘Nothing good.’

‘Is Laurie’s father still alive?’

The old man shrugged painfully. ‘’S far as I know. Sitting in a bar somewhere I expect.’ He paused, then muttered to himself, slurring the words, mimicking a drunk: ‘ Dreaming of his inheritance.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They say that’s why Elsie didn’t want him around the place. In case he took it into his head that Oaklands belonged to him.’

‘Was there a chance that it did?’

He shrugged again. ‘His mother and Elsie’s mother were twin sisters. That’s how I understand it. I’d have said he had a claim. He wasn’t interested when he was young. He liked the city. That’s what I heard. Off into Houston, leaving Elsie to run the place on her own. But now…’

He shut his eyes and seemed to doze for a while. In the distance there was the sound of voices. Rob Earl’s party must have returned form their trip to the coast.

‘I felt sorry for the one that died,’ the old man said suddenly. His eyes were still closed. ‘Brownscombe? Is that what they called him?’

‘That’s right. What do you mean?’

‘When he was here that first time with the other kids I felt sorry for him.’

‘Why?’

Slowly he turned and looked at George.

‘Because he was burdened with trouble and worn down with care.’

That sounded to George like the first line of a hymn but he could not place it. He was not quite sure how to reply.

‘We’d have shot them in my day,’ the old man said, brightly and inconsequentially.

‘Who?’

‘All those people who come to look at the birds. Swarming round the town. Blocking the roads with their cars. Most of them foreigners.’

‘The man who died was a birdwatcher,’ George said.

‘I know!’ the old man said triumphantly. He shut his eyes again and began gently to snore.

For the members of Rob Earl’s party it was a free afternoon. He had explained that he needed time to prepare for Sunday’s Birdathon. He was determined that the Oaklands team would see more species in twenty-four hours than any other group. It seemed important to Mary Ann and he didn’t want to let her down. If they were to compete successfully he’d have to stake out all the common birds in advance so they could concentrate on the more difficult stuff during the day. George thought that was an excuse, Rob was beginning to feel the strain of the investigation and needed time alone.

That afternoon Joan Lovegrove was thinking about the bird race too. She had aspirations to be in the team. She did not doubt her ability to get to grips with this birdwatching business, though she recognized her limitations. On their first day at Oaklands she had asked Rob Earl how long it would take her to be a competent birdwatcher. He’d said flippantly that he’d been at it for thirty years and he was still learning. There was something sarcastic about him which she had disliked from the beginning. In her thirty years as a teacher she had learned to recognize the cocky ones who thought it clever to answer back. There was a boy like Rob Earl in every class.

‘I didn’t mean
expert
,’ she said, because sometimes flattery worked better with these boys than chiding. ‘ I meant competent.’

Rob had muttered something under his breath which she had not been able to catch. Obviously he was pretending the whole thing was more difficult than it really was. She supposed it was in his interest to make himself out to be indispensable.

Esme had taken up birdwatching first. Without consulting Joan she had enrolled in a Workers’ Education Association class. There had been slide shows and once a month a field trip which had lasted all day. She had come back bragging about her newly acquired knowledge, pointing out common garden birds in the most irritating way. When Joan had suggested that she might enrol too – thinking only of Esme of course, it could not be much fun by herself – Esme had been strangely reluctant. Joan had wondered if there might be a man friend involved. Esme had been known in the past to make a fool of herself over a man. But there had been no obvious candidate for a suitor among the class members and Joan was forced to conclude that the interest in natural history was genuine.

It had been Esme’s idea to come to Texas. Joan was not quite sure what had prompted the enthusiasm – some romantic picture perhaps of cowboys. Esme had never really grown up. It was impossible to think of her travelling alone. Anyone so helpless and scatter-brained would be a danger to herself and a nuisance to her companions. So Joan had decided to accompany her, and really had to admit that she was having an enjoyable time. Despite the murder. Or perhaps because of it.

It was a hot and sultry afternoon with shocking flashes of sunlight when the clouds parted. It had the humidity of a glasshouse. When George saw Joan Lovegrove he was at the back of the Smith Oaks sanctuary. There was an open meadow where cows grazed and a lake. Joan was standing by an old pumping station looking up into a tree. He was surprised to see her alone in an area not much visited by the birdwatchers. He would have thought the murder would have made her cautious.

Rob called the Lovegroves the ‘ugly sisters,’ which was unkind, but in Joan’s case accurate. She was the large one, big boned with huge feet which made her seem to waddle when she walked like a diver in flippers. She must have heard George’s footsteps because she turned round, not frightened but excited, and she called in a stage whisper:

‘Mr Palmer-Jones! What luck! Do come quickly. I think I’ve spotted a black-billed cuckoo.’

George came quickly. Black-billed cuckoo was a rare bird. But he was disappointed. There was only one bird in the tree and it wasn’t a cuckoo at all.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you’re looking at a mourning dove. They’re very common.’

‘Ah!’ She was quite unabashed. ‘A modo. Isn’t that what the Americans call them? An easy mistake, wouldn’t you say?’

George wouldn’t have said but he muttered politely. She paddled along beside him.

‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if I might join you on your walk. You can tell that I’m a beginner. It would be helpful to have some pointers to identification. I’ve read your articles, of course, in
Birdwatch
magazine. Most enlightening.’

‘Thank you.’

He had intended to question the Lovegroves at some point and could hardly object to her company, but he had slipped away for a quiet hour’s birding and felt resentful that his plans had been disturbed.

They walked through a small gate and back into the wood. Smith Oaks covered a bigger area than Boy Scout. The trees were taller, more widely spaced. It wasn’t so intensively managed. There were fewer trails and fewer birders. It suited George better. He would have liked to have enjoyed it on his own.

‘Your sister isn’t with you today?’ Although they bickered incessantly he had never before seen them apart.

‘No. Esme feels the heat. This morning’s expedition tired her out. She decided to take a nap after lunch. We’ve arranged that she’ll join me here later.’

‘The murder must have been upsetting for you.’

‘Terrible! We were there, you know, when Mr Earl found the body.’

‘Yes,’ George said slowly. ‘I hoped you might tell me about that.’

They came to a clearing off the main track with a picnic table and benches. They sat opposite to each other, strangely formal. It was as if, George thought, they were sitting at a table in an interview room. Apart from the mosquitoes, which seemed not to bother Joan but which distracted him throughout the conversation so he worried at the end that he had missed something vital.

‘We didn’t see anything suspicious,’ she said. ‘ Except for Mr Earl hiding.’

‘Yes,’ George said.

‘And I know he’s a friend of yours Mr Palmer-Jones, but that
did
seem suspicious.’

‘I can see that it would.’

‘It would have been wrong not to tell the detective what we saw.’

‘Of course.’ He wondered if Russell and Connie May had been giving her a hard time. ‘ Would you mind going through your movements that day Miss Lovegrove? You went in the bus with the others to Boy Scout Wood?’

‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘It wasn’t quite what I was expecting. It was much more confusing than my previous experiences. The birds weren’t easy to see. And the noise! People shouting. Russell May became quite hysterical. I thought he’d have a heart attack. Mr Earl did his best to point things out to us but in the end he seemed to lose patience. It did say in the brochure that the trip was suitable for beginners!’ Her voice was disapproving.

George said nothing. He was not there to defend Rob to his customers.

‘So in the end Esme and I went for a walk by our selves.’

‘And that’s when you saw Mr Earl?’

‘Well that was rather later. The hotel had provided a good packed lunch and we’d eaten that.’

‘Did you meet anyone else you recognized during your walk?’

‘I was looking at the birds, Mr Palmer-Jones, not the people. You should ask Esme about that. She’s more easily distracted than I. There was certainly no one else on the trail by the body.’

She looked at her watch. Her wrist was unexpectedly thick, and George was reminded suddenly of a pantomime dame. The huge feet, the heavy features, the shock of grey hair which might have been a wig, made the dress she wore seem like a disguise and gave her a clownish quality.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Esme will be waiting for me at the entrance to the reserve. That was the arrangement we made.’

But when they walked down the track there was no sign of Esme. Joan tutted theatrically, apologized as George waited with her. ‘My sister has always been unreliable, Mr Palmer-Jones. As I said, easily distracted. She’ll have attached herself to another party and forgotten about me.’

Quite unconcerned, she insisted that they return to the hotel.

When George returned to the hotel there was a message from Molly who was pursuing her own line of investigation. She had followed his instructions and was in Devon, in the village where Mick Brownscombe had been brought up. She had left a contact number and asked him to phone her. He called from his room.

‘It’s raining,’ she said. ‘ I suppose you’ve spent all day sitting in the sun.’

After he’d made his peace with her and listened to her plans, he showered and changed for dinner, then sauntered across the grass to the main house. At the door to the bar he stopped. Inside Joan Lovegrove was making a scene.

‘Well she must be somewhere,’ Joan said. She looked around her as if she were accusing them all of conspiracy. She sounded irritated rather than anxious. Her audience were embarrassed by the scene, but also faintly amused. They were all there: Russell May dressed in the suit which he probably brought out each year for the Bowls Club dinner. Connie, dumpy and cheerful in a long floral frock like a Victorian nightdress. Julia and Oliver Adamson detached and above it all. And Rob Earl, still dressed in the jeans and T-shirt which he had been wearing all day, just back from the field, on his way to his room to change but attracted by the fuss in the bar.

‘Well, mustn’t she?’ Joan Lovegrove demanded. ‘I mean she just can’t have disappeared into thin air.’

She too had changed for dinner and was wearing an unflattering creation in emerald green which in her youth could have been called a cocktail dress.

‘Perhaps she went for a walk,’ Rob said, adding in a perfectly audible whisper: ‘To get some peace.’

There were stifled giggles. Joan looked at him furiously. It had the makings of a farce but George was uneasy. He walked into the room and they all looked at him. He felt like a stage detective making an entrance on one of those dreadful thrillers which were the staple of amateur theatre groups.