The Graveyard Position (17 page)

Witherspoon thought.

“Is there something…
wrong
there? Is he the Docherty boy?”

“Yes, he is. And his father is Jake Docherty.”

“I never put any faith in those stories. They went around after the old man's death, and he'd have to have been at it with his own daughter long before his wife died, which seems to have been what set him off on the sexual rampage. That story was just whispered around some of the older members of the business community.”

“But the story you thought might have something in it?”

“Well, just going on what
happened
…I did think there might be something in the tales of old Merlyn and his son Paul's wife. We knew the boys, you see, better than we knew the girls. Their father would sometimes take them to the factory, or bring them to dinners and social events. To see if they had managerial material, I suppose. And there was always tension between him and Paul, the youngest of the boys. Hugh set his sights higher than a middling-flourishing clothing firm in Leeds. Gerald was mad as a meat-ax. But Paul—he was…interesting. Not a business brain, but highly strung, intelligent, sensitive. He and his wife had a son, he left them both almost immediately, and so far as I know he's somewhere in America. That's what really made the rumors go around. And the fact that old Merlyn died just before Paul took off didn't stop them.”

“And was that the only—”

“I think they're going in for the pep talk,” said Mr. Witherspoon, getting up carefully and going toward the far door, where a crowd was gathering and passing through into the next room. “I'll pretend to go along and then nip away. I don't need pep talks at my age. And I think I've told you more than enough unsubstantiated rumors of yesteryear, don't you?”

“I'm grateful for your time.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Time is what I've got plenty of, so long as it lasts. But I wish I understood what's behind all this. If this boy—man—is who he says he is, and if he's been left Clarissa's house and her money, as rumor suggests, I don't see there's any more for you to do. Let him enjoy it and be done with it.”

“It's not quite as simple as that,” said Oddie, moving cautiously along by his side. “His car was tampered with two nights ago, and a joyrider who took it was killed. I don't need to spell out the possibilities we have to consider.”

The old man, walking beside him, shot him a glance.

“One of the Cantelos, are you thinking? Bad blood, and all that nonsense? Something suspicious about the old man's death, perhaps? I wouldn't envy you trying to investigate
that
twenty or more years on. And there were never any rumors about that at the time.”

“I suspect everyone heaved a sigh of relief and went about their business,” said Mike. “That applied to the family, but also to the business community as well, I imagine. He was an embarrassment.”

“He was. A dirty joke with unpleasant overtones….” He paused as they neared the crowd slowly edging through the door into the next room, set out with rows of chairs. “You're not serious about this security job, are you?”

“I'm not sure. Anyway, it's a good trial balloon for job hunting in the future. One of my colleagues thinks I should use my payoff money to set myself up in a small business. Something specialized I could get interested in.”

“Sounds like solid advice. I'm sure you know that
nothing,
not even daytime television, is more boring than security work. Tell me if you find anything interesting to specialize in. I might put some money into it—give me an interest. Nothing to interest me here now. I'm Tom Witherspoon, by the way. Oh—I told you. Known to the workers as old Tom. Makes me sound a bit like Cantelo, doesn't it? Go on—go in. Bore yourself to death.”

And he pottered off, apparently rather pleased with himself.

 

Merlyn had clung to the house in Congreve Street for thirty-six hours. One trip out to fetch a Chinese takeaway had been his only excursion, and then he had had to stop himself from looking over his shoulder the whole time. Dolly was happy to exercise herself, as obviously she had done in his aunt's last years, and anyway Merlyn didn't think she would be much use as a defender. Even if he'd felt more confident he didn't feel sure what he wanted to do outside the house. His instinct was to go and tell the family of the dead boy how sorry he was, but instinct also told him that a visit from him would only increase their pain. But by the second evening in the old house the urge to imprison himself was wearing out. The television news at ten was the same as that at six, and there was only Hindemith on Radio Three. Going to the window he saw that in the street outside Mr. Robinson was coming through his gate for his late-night dog walk. Duke, his Yorkshire terrier, was following him as if this were a chore he went through in order to give his owner the requisite exercise. Merlyn put Dolly on her lead and went out to the front gate.

“Hello, Merlyn. Don't worry about Duke and Dolly. She often comes and pays us a visit. Are you joining us?”

“If you don't mind.”

“Not at all. But is it wise? There are a lot of rumors going around about your car.”

“True ones, probably. It was interfered with. And some poor young blighter got what was intended for me.”

“So I heard. You should be taking precautions, you know.”

“I can't stay locked in the house forever—let alone in a hotel room. B and B in Armley jail would be preferable. I'm keeping my eyes open—what more can I do?”

“Get police protection, that's what I'd demand.”

“But it's what you wouldn't get.” At that moment a police car passed along Cardigan Road, at the end of Congreve Street. “But they're doing what they can afford to. Mr. Robinson, you've been around here a long time, haven't you?”

“All my life, boy. Born in Leeds General, brought back here a week later.”

“I remember you when I came to live with Aunt Clarissa. That was in 1981. Do you remember that time?”

“Remember it? Well, not specifically, but I suppose…Would that be about when your grandfather died?”

“That happened a few years earlier.”

“So Clarissa had become mistress of the house and had set up in the crystal-ball-reading business.”

“Clairvoyant. That's right. I've just found a few little notes I made at the time. Auntie was obviously worried then, and worried about something connected to the family. You wouldn't have any idea what that could have been, would you?”

Mr. Robinson stopped, the two dogs stopped, and all looked at Merlyn.

“You're not remembering well, young man. The Cantelos didn't fraternize with the neighbors. Beyond a ‘good morning' or a few words about the weather, there was nothing passed, not till your aunt took over and things loosened up a bit. Your grandfather liked that house, and he needed a big one with the family he had, but he thought he was a mite above the area, and any social contacts he had must have been made at work, or perhaps with the Rotarians. You won't find anyone around here that knows much about Cantelo family affairs. We kept—we were kept—at a distance.”

Merlyn's disappointment showed in his face.

“That's a bit of a blow. I can't ask one of the family because anyone and everyone could be implicated.”

Mr. Robinson considered.

“One of the ones who was too young to be in on anything at the time might have caught a whiff of something later on.”

“They'd probably stay schtum because their parents were implicated.”

“Possibly so. You seem to be thinking that they all might have been in it.”

“That seems to have been Auntie's assumption.”

“Have you thought of Renee?”

“Renee? Who's she?”

“I think you would find that she was helping at the refreshments after the funeral. I saw her going into the house half or three-quarters of an hour before the family started arriving back.”

“Renee? The woman who came three mornings a week to do the heavy housework?”

“That's right. The last of a stable of servants. She was working there in your grandfather's last years, and she went on working for Clarissa until a year or two ago. Since then she'd just come in ‘to oblige,' as she used to say, when Clarissa felt the need for her.”

“Do you think she knew anything?”

“Don't know. But one thing I do know is: she's a great talker. And a great observer too. Sometimes an outsider sees more of the game. Her name is Renee Osborne, and she lives in Kirkstall View. If I was you I'd get in touch.”

Merlyn came down Kirkstall View next morning, with Dolly on a lead. The little dog was already showing signs that the walk had been longer than she cared for. Merlyn was looking for number eleven, where the telephone directory told him there was an Osborne, R. The number had obviously been too familiar to Clarissa to need entering in her little book of phone numbers, which was mostly filled up with those of clients, home and business. The street began its downward descent to Abbey Road at number twenty-nine, and he followed it as fast as Dolly's dilatoriness would allow. By the bus stop halfway down a young woman with two small children was keeping up a one-sided battle with them.

“If you don't stop shoving Katie you'll get a smack. I mean it. Jerry, you're all over chocolate. You'll be sick on the bus, and then you'll know about it. And it'll be straight to bed when you get home. I mean it.”

Why did incompetent mothers always say that? Merlyn wondered. Because the children had already twigged that their threats were meaningless, and they were making a desperate attempt to shore up their credibility? He passed a woman in her tiny patch of front garden dead-heading brown daffodils and blowsy, falling tulips. The spring bulbs were over, except for the odd bluebell, and it was time to prepare for bedding plants. He let himself through the low wrought-iron gate of number eleven and rang the doorbell.

“She's not in,” came a shout. Looking up the road, he saw it was the gardening woman two houses up. “She and Patsy's gone to Morrison's. They've bin gone half an hour, so they won't be long, not unless they've stayed for coffee.”

“Oh…right,” said Merlyn. “I'll wait around…. Who's Patsy?”

“Renee's daughter. Lives next door.” She pointed to the terrace house between them. “Sam's out on a job—car broke down on the road to Shipley—otherwise he'd've driven them.”

Merlyn nodded as if he knew whom she was talking about, then went out again onto Kirkstall View and gave Dolly a desultory stroll she certainly did not relish. It was twenty minutes before he saw, coming from Abbey Road, two female figures, one elderly but spry, the other middle-aged. The older woman rang a vague bell in his mind: it could have been from his distant past living in Congreve Street, or from the more recent wake, where there had been domestic help flitting between kitchen and dining room. He decided to let them go into their homes, if they were Renee and Patsy, but as they passed them Dolly started wagging her tail. The older woman turned and looked Merlyn in the face.

“That's Dolly, isn't it? Clarissa's Dolly. And you must be—I can't recall the name now. Getting old is horrible. Thora's lad. They said you'd come into everything.”

Merlyn went up to her and shook her hand.

“Merlyn. Merlyn Docherty. I lived with Clarissa for a while.”

“Of course you did. I remember that quite well. It's different when there's a boy in the house—more mess and dirt. But I didn't
see
much of you. Always at school, I suppose. But I mind your features, now I can get a look at you.”

Merlyn rather doubted that. She was peering at him in a way that suggested that her eyesight was poor. She turned into her gate and held it open for him.

“Do you want me to come in, Mum?” said the other woman.

“No, love. No call for that. He'll just be wanting me to go and give the place a good clean. I can still do most of what I could do when you were a young-un, Merlyn, and there's not many seventy-seven-year-olds could say that, is there?”

She gave him a triumphant smile, opened the front door of her terraced house, and led the way into the sitting room. Dolly was ecstatic at being done with walking, but improved the shining hour by an ecstasy of sniffing.

“There, look at her! And she's never been here before. I suppose she must be smelling me.”

“Just noting things down to enlarge her catalog, I should think,” said Merlyn. He decided to go along with the pretense that Renee had already furnished him with. “I was wondering if you could come round to Congreve Street for a day and give the ground floor a going-over. You'll have to be a bit careful, in case there are important papers and things. But if you could just make it presentable, in case I should have callers, that's really all it needs.”

She shot him a look that was almost roguish.

“Thinking of having a Cantelo family reunion? I don't reckon it will be all that well attended.”

Merlyn laughed. “Well, blood is thicker than water,” he said. “But there's some of the family I wouldn't want to play host to.”

“I can imagine. And some of them that you knew have disappeared long since.”

“Who are they?” asked Merlyn, to get the conversation going. “I can think of Paul, but no one seemed to know where he was when I lived with Aunt Clarissa.”

“Well, no one's seen Gerald for years, so far as I can make out. Not that anyone's advertising for him in the papers or anything. And they've not seen your uncle Paul for even longer—not since soon after your grandfather died.”

“His son, Roderick, seems to have been in contact with him recently.”

“Really? If he
is
…But you don't want to hear that old scandal.”

“Actually I always find old scandal irresistible. It seems as if it was the boys who took flight, doesn't it? I wonder why.”

“Well, there were…Any road, that's neither here nor there. It's your aunt Clarissa you'll be mourning, and a loss she is too, even if the family don't realize it. She was a good friend to me, and for many years too. Nineteen seventy-two I started working there, and I still went, now and then, up to her death.”

“Did she talk to you a lot? Confide in you?”

Again she shot him a glance. Maybe she was already suspecting that the request for domestic help was mainly a cover.

“Not so's you'd notice,” she said. “Not like some, who'd tell you their whole life history, or who their husbands are sleeping with. You hear all sorts of things—you'd never believe it. Clarissa was a lady, and there was nothing of that. Just now and again I'd see that she was worried, and I'd say something, and she'd maybe come out with this and that—bits and pieces, you know.”

“About the family, I suppose?”

“Well, yes. I'm talking about when her dad was alive. Later she had her clients, as you'll know, but she couldn't see them at home while her dad was living there. He'd have exploded and told them they were fools. And she never talked about her clients anyway—like a priest not revealing what he's told in confessional. So mostly what she talked about would be the family, if she talked at all. Some of them I met, though not often. Funny lot.”

“Yes, we are, aren't we?”

“Oh, I wasn't including you, Mr. Docherty.”

“Merlyn.”

“Well, Merlyn then…You're different. And Clarissa always said that you were. But you could see most of them are a bit funny, and I saw it again at the funeral. They just make you feel…uneasy.”

“Really? At Clarissa's funeral? Of course I was seeing them for the first time in years.”

“So was I, I can tell you. The Cantelos were never ones to go calling on each other. That was the first time I'd seen them together since Old Man Cantelo's funeral. They were just the same then.”

“And they made you feel uneasy?”

She frowned, trying to pin it down in words she was used to.

“They couldn't do what people try to do at funerals. They couldn't pretend to be friendly, united in grief, that sort of thing.
Loving
would be even better, of course, but there was no question of that. They did all the surface stuff, smiling, shaking hands, asking how they'd been (because they obviously hadn't seen each other in years, mostly) but then it would wear thin, and there'd be these snide remarks, these boastings—about money, jobs, prestige, as if they were all in competition with each other. Tell you the truth, I thought it was childish. School playground stuff.”

“Was it a sort of cover, do you think, or reflex action?”

He saw he had disconcerted her with that last expression.

“Maybe a cover. Or maybe like going back to childhood. I thought then that all they were really thinking about was who got Clarissa's house and money. And that meant you, didn't it? So all the ones who had hopes turned on you, or said you weren't really you at all. Daft. Even I, who didn't know you well, could see it was you. And these days things like that can be proved scientifically, can't they?”

“They can, thank heavens, and they have been. But you said things had been the same at Grandfather Cantelo's funeral.”

She nodded vigorously.

“The same in spades. Edgy? You wouldn't believe how edgy they all were, especially considering most of them were pleased as Punch. Clarissa went round to speak to them all and she just couldn't understand. Everybody knew then that she was going to get the house, and the money was going to be divided among the daughters, who got a bit more than the sons, so what was eating each of them? And what made it stranger was that they'd seemed to be getting on better in the last months of their father's life, so what had gone wrong?”

“I'd never heard that they'd been getting on better.”

“Probably because it didn't last. I had it from Caroline Sowden, who was a little mate of mine—still is, in a way. Caroline Chaunteley she is now—daft name. Everyone treats her like she isn't all there, but she's not so green as she's cabbage-looking.”

“I'd forgotten that expression,” said Merlyn, smiling. “But did it really apply to Caroline?”

“Did, and still does. I knew her then because she'd come to Congreve Street now and then, maybe with a message from her dad. But he was also my doctor. He and Marigold had a big house and surgery overlooking Kirkstall Abbey, and I'd sometimes see her and have a chat with her there. She told me at the time that there'd been a family meeting at their house, and others at the houses of her aunties and uncles. Emily was there, Paul, even Rosalind's father, as well as the Sowdens.”

“Not Clarissa or Gerald?”

“Not so far as I know.” She shook her head. “No one would ask Gerald if they hoped to have any sensible discussion.”

“No,” agreed Merlyn. “But if it was some kind of peace conference, you'd have expected Clarissa to be at the heart of it.”

“That's true. But we don't know it was anything like that. Anyway, whatever it was was going on, they were back to normal by the time of the funeral. Paul for one stormed out, and all the rest could hardly bring themselves to talk to one another. It was something Clarissa just couldn't understand.”

“Did she ever talk about it later?”

“Not for ages. But once, maybe two or three years ago, it came up in conversation, and she just said: ‘I never understood that, not for years.' I was going to ask what had been behind it, but I looked at her and her eyes had that shut-down look they sometimes had, and I kept my mouth buttoned. I had to do that quite often, working in Congreve Street.”

“You're thinking of Grandfather Cantelo and his young girls, aren't you?” asked Merlyn. He thought immediately he had made a mistake. She was too old to discuss something like that readily. She merely tightened her lips.

“Least said, soonest mended. I didn't know anything except the odd rumor, and I don't know any more now. But it was an enormous embarrassment for the family, and I'd be willing to bet the older generation was planning to do something about it.”

“I talked about that with Mr. Featherstone.”

“Is that Clarissa's solicitor?”

“Yes. One of the possibilities the younger generation of the family seem to have discussed was to have him declared mentally incapable of handling his own affairs.”

“He wasn't,” said Renee Osborne in a downright manner. “I saw him regularly at that time. He was a bit funny—embarrassing, like—but he was perfectly clear in his mind, and particularly so about money.”

“That's what I thought. Nobody mentioned him being senile when I started to visit, which was not long after he died.”

“I bet they didn't mention him and the young girls either.”

“No, that's true. They didn't.”

“In some people's mind the two things went together: one was proof of the other. But in any case they would never have dared to try to get him certified—that was the expression we used in my day. Even the strong ones—Emily, Hugh, Clarissa—they never stood up to him, especially not face-to-face. They didn't have the guts when things came to a head. Even if they'd sent a solicitor along to assess his mental state, there'd have been the devil's own bust-up, and they'd probably all have been out of the will altogether. Because if the solicitor wasn't bent, there was no way he could have declared old Merlyn barmy.”

“Which still leaves us with the question of why the Cantelos were meeting secretly together.”

“Hmmm. Well, you won't get anything out of the older generation, since it's something they've kept secret for twenty-odd years. You might try the next generation.”