No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (23 page)

‘Not everybody,’ he corrected her and when she turned her angry eyes towards him, he added, ‘since it was more than half a century ago, there won’t be many left who could tell us.’

‘So Betty Turner is lying?’ asked Helen.

‘Or her mind is puddled?’ offered Mary, ‘if we’re going to take the charitable view.’

‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Sean Donnellan?’

Was there a slight hesitation from Mary, a tiny wavering in her voice? ‘I cannot think of a reason why anybody would want to kill anyone.’

‘Did he make any enemies?’ asked Helen.

‘Not that I can remember but it was such a long time ago.’

‘So tell us about this Sean Donnellan,’ said Tom, ‘when did you meet him and what was he like?’

‘Why should I?’ Mary snapped suddenly.

‘No
reason,’ admitted Tom, ‘I just thought you’d prefer to tell us rather than the police.’

‘The police?’ She looked rattled then.

‘This isn’t just a story,’ Helen reminded her, ‘it’s a murder enquiry. We have to pass on any information we hear to the police.’

‘And right now we are hearing that you and the dead man were more than just friends. If you’re saying that isn’t so then we’ll hear you out.’

‘I don’t want the police on my doorstep for a second time,’ Mary said. ‘Every curtain in the street will be twitching.’

‘Can you remember Sean Donnellan coming to the village?’ asked Helen, ‘I realise it was a very long time ago.’

‘Miss Norton,’ said Mary Collier, ‘everyone old enough to recall that time will remember Sean Donnellan coming to the village, particularly the girls.’ It was the first time Helen had seen the faintest trace of a smile crease onto the old face but there was warmth there, buried deeply.

‘Handsome chap, was he?’ asked Helen.

‘You might say that,’ conceded the old woman.

‘You recall that much,’ Helen said it in a teasing tone. They were a couple of teenagers now, discussing the best-looking boy in class and Tom decided to let them talk.

‘Since not very much of importance happens to me these days, memory is all I have left.’

‘What else can you remember about him?’

She cocked her head to one side and seemed to be staring into a space somewhere above Helen’s shoulder. ‘Where to begin?’ she asked herself. ‘With poor old Betty, I suppose.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

1936

There
was childish excitement in Betty’s voice. ‘Wait till you see him,’ she told her young friend, ‘he’s tall, good looking and his voice,’ she giggled and shook her head in wonderment, ‘it’s like he’s singing to you. I could listen to him for hours!’

‘I’m not sure I want to go down to the river just now,’ replied Mary, ‘it looks like rain,’ and Betty’s face fell. ‘I thought I might stay in and finish my book.’

‘But you said you’d come,’ Betty reminded her, ‘please say you will,’ she implored. ‘I can’t go down there on my own. What would people say?’

‘Hurtful things, I should imagine.’

‘Exactly,’ said Betty, ‘it wouldn’t be proper. But if I went with you …’ and she gave Mary a hopeful smile.

Mary closed her book and stood up. ‘All right, I’ll risk catching a cold in a downpour, so you can make cow-eyes at Mr Blarney Stone.’

‘Thank you, Mary, you’re a true friend.’ Then she added, ‘And don’t be like that. He’s a lovely man.’

‘How can you tell? You’ve only just met him.’

‘Sometimes you just know,’ Betty replied dreamily.

‘Love at first sight?’

‘Perhaps.
Don’t you believe in it? Wasn’t it love at first sight when you met Henry?’

‘We were children, so I hardly think so.’

Betty was as excitable as a child, wittering on about Mr Sean Donnellan every step of the way, only finally falling silent about him when they rounded a bend in No Name Lane and saw him up ahead, sitting on the river bank, intent on his work.

‘A good day to you,’ he said as they reached him. He must have heard them but still he didn’t look up, which Mary considered the height of rudeness.

‘Good morning, Mr Donnellan,’ Betty addressed him with a formality she might have reserved for one of her old school teachers.

His pencil darted one last time over the drawing he was working on then he looked up at them. A handsome face squinted against the sun, which was behind them.

‘Becky, is it?’ he asked the younger girl.

‘Betty,’ she reminded him a little desperately.

‘Betty! Of course you are,’ and he gave her a huge smile to make up for forgetting her. He climbed quickly to his feet and took one of her hands in his. ‘Please forgive me. I’ve been engrossed in my work. I can forget my own name when that happens.’ The smile grew broader and there was a gleam in his eye, which set Betty to laughing and blushing at the same time. Mary could see through the charm and knew very well she would not be falling for it – unlike her silly friend who knew nothing whatever of the world or men like Sean Donnellan. Mary turned her attention to his drawing, which she had to admit was a
fine representation of the river bank, with not a detail excluded.

‘That’s very impressive, Mr Donnellan,’ she told him.

‘Why thank you, miss,’ he smiled at her now, ‘but you have me at a disadvantage; you know my name but I haven’t learned yours.’

‘This is Mary,’ Betty answered for her.

‘Mary,’ and he fell silent as if trying her name on for size.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mary told him, ‘I’ll remind you of it next time we meet.’

He laughed at her cheek and said, ‘I have a feeling I’ll not be forgetting you in a hurry.’ He seemed oblivious to Betty’s obvious disappointment, even though it was written all over her face. He was regarding Mary as if Betty was no longer there. She felt satisfied that she had read the man correctly. Whatever he had said earlier to Betty, when he stopped her in the village to ask for directions to the river bank, it had been enough to turn her head. Mr Donnellan however had forgotten her a moment later and was now turning his insincere Irish charm on Mary. Well, it wouldn’t have worked on her, even if she wasn’t already promised to another.

‘I understand you are here for the river,’ her tone was deliberately formal.

‘That’s correct. I have a contract to do some work for an Edward Cummings,’ he told her, ‘or rather, a commission from his publisher.’

‘You’re illustrating a book?’ Mary asked him.

‘Quite so,’ and there was something about the lyrical tone of his voice that even Mary was forced to admit was
endearing. Betty was right about that. It was hard not to enjoy the way he had of making the commonest words sound poetic, ‘
More Essays on Nature and Topography
,’ he announced, ‘that’s the title of his book;
more
because there has been one previously and it sold enough for a second to be commissioned, which keeps me gainfully employed at least.’

‘It sounds lovely,’ said Mary without conviction.

‘Do you think? I’m not so sure. I’m not one for reading essays about anything. I like a good book as much as the next man but I’d want a story in there. Mr Cummings has a terrible dry way with words and there’s only so much a man can take in about rookeries, hedgerows and village characters. However his writing has enabled me to make an honest living, outdoors in the summer time, so who am I to complain? Your countryside is as close to the area described in Mr Cummings’ new book as can be. Apparently he walked here while he was writing it.’

‘People do,’ explained Mary, ‘they walk the river banks because Great Middleton was built on one of its widest parts. The water swells here and it floods from time to time, covering the fields during the wettest part of the year.’

‘Are you staying with us long?’ asked Betty and Sean Donnellan answered her without taking his eyes from Mary.

‘For a time; I’ve been asked to submit a fair few drawings for their consideration. They’ll choose the ones they want and discard the rest. Sure as hell, they’ll only pay for the ones that end up in the book.’

They talked a while longer, while Sean Donnellan
explained the iniquities of the publishing industry and the difficulties of earning a living as an illustrator, with work in short supply and demand so variable. Betty didn’t say much and Mary assumed she felt out of her depth.

‘I read a quote,’ Mary told him earnestly, ‘that an artist cannot be a true artist unless he is hungry, because nobody ever created anything truly worthwhile on a full stomach.’

Sean Donnellan nodded. ‘I know who said that,’ he told her.

‘Who?’ asked Mary.

‘An idiot.’ Against her better instincts, Mary laughed. ‘It might be true that some artists need to be hungry in order to work, but not me. If I’m not fed I lose all powers of concentration, by which I mean that I’d stop drawing trees and start drawing sausages.’

Despite herself, Mary found that she was warming to this trivial man, so she decided it must be time to leave and made excuses for both of them.

‘We didn’t have to go so soon,’ Betty told her.

‘If you feel kindly towards a man,’ Mary replied, ‘then it’s best to leave him before he’s heard everything you have to say or he’ll tire of you.’

Betty thought for a moment. ‘You really think so?’

‘I know so.’

‘But you and Henry talk for hours,’ Betty reminded her, ‘on your walks.’

‘We are on a higher plane,’ and Mary immediately regretted sounding so haughty, ‘by which I mean, we have
known each other for a long time and have reached a point of mutual love, respect and admiration.’

Betty smiled at her then. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘What is?’ asked Mary, irritated by her friend’s smirking.

‘By which I mean,’ Betty reminded her.

‘Mr Donnellan does not have sole rights to the English language,’ Mary scolded.

‘Doesn’t he have the most beautiful way with words though?’ Betty sighed, ‘and such a talent for drawing. I think he’ll be a great and famous artist one day. Isn’t he just amazing?’ and she hugged herself in excitement.

‘Oh come on, Betty. Mr Donnellan may have a certain roguish charm but he’s as common as rain.’

‘Well, I like him,’ snapped Betty, ‘and we don’t all have the chance to marry school teachers.’

After that, they walked the rest of the way back along No Name Lane in silence.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

They
listened to the local news as they drove back to Helen’s car but there was nothing new about Michelle Summers, so Tom turned off the radio.

‘She is definitely hiding something,’ he said at last, as he guided his car to the side of the road.

‘Betty might not be all there but she is more convincing than Mary Collier,’ agreed Helen.

‘Thanks for today. It was interesting.’

‘Couldn’t have done it without you,’ he told her, ‘literally. I wouldn’t have survived another visit to the Turner clan.

‘I want to find out more about this Sean Donnellan. We might need to put his name into play, get it out there. I’m going to have to move quickly on any information we uncover. I can’t just sit on something while I wait for the
Messenger
to catch up, no offence.’

‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘I realise you can’t wait a week so we can share an exclusive.’

‘So how do you want to play this?’

‘One day at a time,’ she offered. ‘You were right. We learned a lot today by working together, so I’ll keep going,’ then she added, ‘for now. Maybe something will land in my lap at the right time. It’s not ideal but I’m still learning.’

‘You learn fast,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t have a clue what I
was doing in my first six months,’ and that admission, more than anything else she had learned that day, cheered Helen.

‘I am not gay,’

‘Okay,’

‘I’m not!’ declared Ian Bradshaw.

‘Fine,’ said the doctor, ‘though I never said you were.’

‘You did,’ insisted Bradshaw, ‘in so many words.’

Doctor Mellor shook his head, ‘no.’

‘You inferred it.’

‘I don’t think so, Ian.’

They’d only been in Doctor Mellor’s room for twenty minutes and already Bradshaw was sitting up in a state of agitation.

‘You asked me about my relationships with the opposite sex, you reminded me I hadn’t had one for a while, you hypothesised this might be because of my former police partner and the feelings I had towards him,’ he sent the doctor’s words tumbling back to him, ‘you implied I might be a homosexual man in denial.’