The Overlooker (14 page)

The inspector took a seat on the edge of the settee, holding his cap in his hand. The usually stiff cushions buckled under his bulk.

‘Have you caught them? Did you find out what's going on in that house? Who's been making those phone calls?'

The inspector ignored him. ‘It has come to my attention that you have accosted a key witness in a police investigation . . .'

‘Accosted!'

Nick's hand flew instinctively to the bruise on his jaw.

‘It is my duty to inform you that if there is a repetition of this behaviour you may find yourself charged with obstructing the police.'

‘But we were the only ones who could identify her. I was trying to
help
.'

Inspector Harland rose. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss the matter further.'

Nick watched with disbelief as the burly officer strode to the front door.

From the window, he watched the inspector get into his car and reverse. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Geoffrey Banks was standing on his doorstep, watching the inspector's departure. From this angle, Nick could not tell whether his expression was triumph or gloom.

The hospital corridors were becoming familiar. He and Thelma threaded their way along to Haworth Ward.

To Nick's joy, the flowered curtains had been drawn back around Uncle Martin's bed. Even from the door he could see the old man's white head resting on the propped-up pillows.

Thelma hurried to greet her father.

A tall, grey-haired sister stopped her. ‘He had a little bit of a do this afternoon. But he's come round well. He's looking forward to seeing you. Don't tire him, though, will you?'

‘I won't.'

She almost tiptoed up to the bed. ‘What's this I've heard? They tell me you've been a naughty boy. And just when Nick and Suzie and Millie have come all this way to see you.'

‘Lot of fuss about nothing. I'm feeling grand.'

The words came out slurred. One half of his mouth was not moving.

Nick saw the man in the bed with a feeling of half recognition. Great-uncle Martin had been a big man. Above the bedclothes, the same large skeletal frame jutted from his striped pyjamas. But the flesh had collapsed on it. The old face had somewhat the air of a skull. One side of his face drooped.

But it was relief to find no tubes or wires connected to him.

Nick saw him struggle to form the mobile half of his face into a smile as his eyes sought Nick's.

‘You made it, then.' The voice was hoarse, but stronger now, the speech a little clearer. ‘Thelma said you were coming. And the children. Tom, is it? And . . .'

‘Millie. Yes. She came with us this afternoon, but the doctor was with you. We thought it best not to overload you with visitors this evening, after your little setback. But you'll meet the whole clan tomorrow. Tom's coming over from uni.'

Uncle Martin lay back. The eyes were sharply intelligent.

‘You're the last of the Fewings. Do you know that? It's not a common name round here, and I've no son to carry it on.' He patted his daughter's hand. ‘Thelma's a good girl, but I'm looking to you and your Tom. You're the future, when I'm gone.'

‘Dad! There's no call to talk like that,' Thelma protested.' You're good for a few years yet. We'll have you back home in no time.'

‘No point in fooling ourselves. I'm ninety-three. I've had a good innings.' Then the half smile broke through, twisting the living side of his face into cheerful wrinkles. ‘But I'm not giving up yet. I've told the doctor, I want to be sitting down to Thelma's Sunday dinner in my own house, come the end of this week.'

‘And you usually get what you want. You're a tough old bird.'

‘I didn't do twenty years as shop steward for nothing.'

They chatted for a while. Despite the old man's initial brightness, Nick could see that his energy was waning. He was sinking deeper into his pillows. The eyes were beginning to close.

Nick got to his feet. ‘I think we've tired you enough for tonight. We'll be back tomorrow, all four of us.'

The skeletal hand shot out and gripped his with surprising force.

‘There's something that's been on my mind. Before you came, I got Thelma to go up in the loft and bring me down a suitcase. There's a lot of old stuff in there. Things I haven't looked at in years. Family things.'

‘I know. We've seen it. But we haven't opened it,' he added hastily.

‘No good me hanging on to it, at my age. I was planning to give it to you when you came. But the way things are . . . I've told them I want to be home by Sunday. But, to tell you the truth, Sister pulled a bit of a face. I'm fighting, but I reckon it'll be touch and go. You go ahead and unpack it.'

‘Are you sure? Don't you want to wait and see if they let you home?'

‘Sunday's your last day, so Thelma tells me. You've a long drive south, so you'll not want to be setting off late. No, you have a good look at it now. I don't doubt you'll have things you want to ask me about the stuff inside. Best do it while you've got the chance. Likely I won't be here next time you come.'

‘Dad!'

Uncle Martin patted Thelma's hand. ‘The good Lord knows I've had my time and more. I'm ready.'

The half smile faded. The eyelids closed.

Nick stood looking down at the old man's quiet face for several moments. He closed his own hand over Uncle Martin's. ‘Goodnight,' he said softly. ‘We'll come again tomorrow. All of us. I promise.'

B
ack at the house, Nick felt the emotional impact of the day hit him. He felt suddenly weary. The confrontation with the Reverend Redfern, which now embarrassed him, his disastrous attempt to get the answers to his questions from the woman in Canal Street, Inspector Harland's warning.

Yet there had been one glimmer of hope. Today, he had rattled the anonymous caller.

He resisted the temptation to look at his phone again. He told himself he was being strong-minded.

‘Well, now,' Thelma said, ‘I don't know what you'll find in this old thing.'

The suitcase had once been a dark red. It was scuffed now, so that the buff papier-mâché from which it was made showed through in many places. The locks were tarnished. Nick eyed it with a hunger that surprised him. He thought the bizarre events of the last few days had driven the quest for his ancestors out of his head.

But, in spite of everything, there were reasons for optimism. Uncle Martin was improving. There had been an innocent explanation for that blue car. The police were definitely on the case. And he sensed a subtle shift of power between him and the menacing caller.

Thelma threw back the lid. ‘There you are! Goodness knows what you'll find in there. As far as I ever knew, it was just a lot of old papers.'

The first thing Nick's eye fell on was a wedding photograph. He paused on it. A bride with a veil fitting closely round her head, holding an enormous bouquet of chrysanthemums, her arm through that of a proud bridegroom with a moustache.

‘I recognize that. That's Granddad Fewings and Grandma. She used to work as a weaver. Must have been taken in – what – the twenties or thirties? My parents have got a copy on the sideboard.'

‘And there's
my
Dad.' Thelma pointed. ‘My, doesn't he look a handsome guy with a carnation in his buttonhole?'

Nick studied the faces of the family group. Great-uncle Martin had been a tall man, like Nick's own father. All these years, he had been insufficiently curious about these people. It had been just an old photograph in a silver frame in his parents' sitting room.

‘Do you know who all these people are?'

‘Some of them. That's your Great-aunt Ruth. You remember her. She was still alive when you used to come here as a boy.'

‘And you were a teenager riding a bicycle.'

‘Do you remember that time I'd lost my front teeth? My brakes failed and I ended up smashing into a stone wall at the bottom of the hill. I was more upset about the bike than my teeth at the time. But then, I grew up thinking everybody had false teeth by the time they were middle-aged.'

Beneath the photograph was a bundle of letters, tied with pink tape. They had an older look. The paper was soft, as if it might crumble at his touch.

He lifted them out carefully and eased the knot free. The first letter bore a single name in the top corner for an address.

‘Briershaw.'

‘Now that's real Fewings country,' Thelma exclaimed. ‘Before the family moved into town. You'll have passed the turning when you came up the dale on your way here. The old chapel at Briershaw, that's what they used to talk about. They were Baptists, our family, in those days. It's mainly been Methodists since. I've heard our Dad telling about Elijah Fewings who used to preach from his doorstep, with a Bible in his hand, before the chapel was built.'

Just for a moment, the image of the Baptist minister, Harry Redfern, flitted through Nick's mind. He pushed it aside.

‘How long ago was that?'

‘Search me. I'm not into this family history business. Just some old story got handed down.'

Nick examined the date on the first letter. ‘This says 1852. The Bootles, my grandmother's family, were already in town by then. But James was still a handloom weaver, and none of the children were in the mills.'

Suzie rustled through her family history files. ‘Here they are. I've got the 1851 census for the Fewings of Briershaw. Hey, look at this list of names! Enoch, Jephthah, Noah, Gideon, Esther.'

‘They were strong on the Old Testament, then.'

‘Like that man next door who keeps quoting the Bible at us,' Millie muttered.

Suzie read on. ‘They may not have moved into town yet, but they were cotton spinners and calico printers. The Industrial Revolution seems to have caught up with them, too, even out in the dales.'

‘Oh, yes,' Thelma said. ‘It wasn't just the towns. There was hardly a village round here that didn't have at least one mill. And where are they now?'

Nick turned the letter over. He felt a start of recognition. ‘This one is from Jephthah. Didn't you read out his name in the census?'

‘The cotton spinner?' Suzie asked.

‘It gives you a sort of shiver, doesn't it? He's down there in the statistics, along with the lists of all the other families in Briershaw. And I'm holding in my hand a letter he actually wrote. Suddenly he comes alive. He was a real person.'

‘So were they all, Dad,' Millie pointed out.

For a moment, Nick sat feeling the physicality of the paper in his hand, looking down at the rather large and scrawling signature of Jephthah Fewings.

Then he shook himself. ‘Well, we'd better have a look at what he says. It's addressed to . . .' he turned over to the first page, ‘Moses.'

‘He's not in this Briershaw census,' Suzie said, scanning the list.

‘He wouldn't be, would he, if Jephthah is writing to him?' Millie put in.

‘Good point. But I'm sure I've read his name somewhere.' Suzie ruffled through her papers. ‘Here it is. Yes, He was Jephthah's elder brother. He's down in the Briershaw Baptist Chapel records as born on sixteenth April 1825. They're not like the parish registers, which just tell you when the baby was baptized. This gives the exact date of birth.'

‘Well, they had to, didn't they?' Thelma pointed out. ‘Baptists don't baptize people till they're old enough to speak for themselves. It's generally when they're teenagers. But they still want to keep a record of the babies.'

‘So Moses left home.' Nick looked down at the letter in his hand. ‘The lure of the big town must have got to him.'

‘We can chase him up on the census lists for here. But I'll need to get on my laptop, if I can get a Wi-Fi link.'

Nick read through the first page of Jephthah's letter. ‘He starts with the usual exchanges. He hopes Moses' family are in good health, and gives news of the folks at home. He says Father is failing. Still getting about, but not as sharp as he used to be.
He wanders sometimes, though Mother, thanks be to the Lord, is in good heart
.'

‘So they had senile dementia in those days,' Suzie said.

‘Well, why wouldn't they?' Millie asked.

Nick turned the page. His attention sharpened. ‘Here, listen to this.
The bailiffs came yesterday because we had not paid our Easter dues. I think it shameful that half of Briershaw are godly Baptists, yet we must still pay tithes to the parish church. We refused, as did several other families. The bailiffs came when only Mother was at home. But they were mistaken if they thought she was a weak woman. She would not let them in nor take their writ. They were still on the doorstep when Esther came home from school. You know what a firebrand she is. She seized the writ out of the bailiff's hand and stuffed it down the back of his shirt
.'

‘Yay!' Millie cried. ‘Good for Esther!'

‘Hold on,' Nick said. ‘There's more.
But they came back that evening and found Father in the garden. He had not the wit to say no to them. He took their writ. So now we must face the expense of going to court, and if we do not they will seize our furniture and sell it to pay the dues, which causes me much indignation
.'

Millie broke into song. ‘
It's the sime the 'ole world over, It's the poor wot gits the blame. It's the rich wot gits the gravy. Ain't it all a blooming shame?
But you've got to give it to Esther. How old was she, Mum?'

‘Let's see. She was ten in 1851. So eleven. She wasn't in the mills like Millie Bootle, but still at school.'

‘I think she's terrific,' Millie said. ‘I'd like to have seen that bailiff's face when she stuffed his writ down his shirt.'