‘The clothes he’s wearing are right for 1761,’ Paloma said. ‘They’ve deteriorated badly, as you’d expect.’
‘Can I see them? Did you take a picture?’
‘The police photographer did,’ Diamond said. ‘He took plenty, but I don’t have them on my phone, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Peter’s phone is used for phoning and nothing else,’ Paloma said.
‘Could I get to see the clothes? Where are they now?’
‘In a lab with the bones,’ Diamond said. ‘A forensic anthropologist is doing the autopsy.’
‘Right now, as we speak?’
‘In his own good time. He’s in no hurry.’
‘I’d love to get some pictures for the book.’ Understandably she was already thinking ahead.
‘I expect it can be arranged after the inquest.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Can’t answer that. It’s up to the coroner. I’m not deliberately putting barriers in your way, Estella. You’ve been helpful to us and I’d like to return the compliment. It’s just that we have to go through the legal hoops.’
‘How could he possibly have ended up there?’ she said, still grappling with what she’d heard. ‘I’ll have to come up with a theory.’
‘You and me both,’ Diamond said. ‘I thought of one just now when you were talking about the Papjoy woman. It almost made sense of her refusing to sleep in a bed all those years.’ He outlined the substitution trick with the body to save Beau Nash from being buried as a pauper. ‘She hid the corpse in Twerton and couldn’t find a way to give him a decent burial, so she vowed to sleep on straw as long as he remained above ground. Plausible?’
‘Barely,’ Paloma said.
‘Like a penance.’
‘I know what you mean, but it’s unlikely and anyway we know it didn’t happen. The woman who was there at the death was a different character altogether.’
‘The terrifying Mrs. Hill?’
‘You need a whole new theory for her.’
‘More’s the pity.’
The main course was put in front of them. Suspicious of what he was about to eat, Diamond prised the Cuban sandwich open and discovered layers of ham and roast pork, mustard and pickles in a goo of cooked cheese that formed strings.
‘Wishing you’d ordered the blazing bird?’ Paloma said.
‘This’ll see me right.’ He reached for the jug, his thoughts cascading like the water filling his glass. ‘How about this for Mrs. Hill? We know the estate owed her money and she wasn’t likely to get any preference over all the other creditors. She decided on extreme measures.’
Paloma was quick to see the point. ‘Holding the executors to ransom? She was in a position to do it, I’ll grant you.’
‘The body was lying in state in the house four days,’ Diamond went on, liking this better than his Papjoy theory, ‘so she had time to plan. On the evening before the funeral she removed the corpse from where it had been on view and paid a carter to transport it to the secret address at Twerton. She told George Scott she wanted a written undertaking that the £250 bond would be honoured in full or the grand funeral wouldn’t take place. She was banking on him paying up to avoid a scandal. But he called her bluff and refused, figuring that she wouldn’t want to be exposed as the grasping woman she was. He arranged for the empty coffin to be filled with sand and driven in state to the Abbey.’
‘So poor Beau Nash was left to rot in the Twerton house?’ Paloma said. ‘This is more believable.’
‘It would explain why Scott despised her so much,’ Diamond said. ‘What do you think, Estella?’
‘I’m still coming to terms with the idea that he wasn’t buried,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how shocked I am. Years of researching and writing a biography brings you close to your subject and you get emotionally attached to them — even someone as flawed as the Beau.’
‘He’ll be given a decent burial now,’ Diamond said.
‘He would have hated being exposed by the media as some kind of relic. I know I must use the images and publish them, but it feels awfully like a betrayal.’
‘It’s your duty to tell it as it is,’ Paloma said.
‘If it is,’ Diamond said.
5
No one ever asked why he was called Tank. It wasn’t the name he was born with. And it wasn’t a joke name. You didn’t joke with Tank. But that wasn’t because he was built for battle and crushed everything in his path. Actually he was a small man. He didn’t get into fights at all. The only tank-like qualities he had were to do with his personality. People learned not to oppose him. You didn’t want him coming at you because you knew from one look at him that he had plenty of firepower, not often used, but always ready.
He was the leader, no argument.
He must have picked his name for himself. He picked names for everyone else in the squat and they learned to live with them. In most cases they were a good choice. Like Headmistress.
In what she called her dullsville years, Headmistress had never felt comfortable with her given name. She hated all the informal versions of Margaret. In her schooldays she’d been called Marg, Maggie, Meg, Peg or Peggy, so it came as a relief when Tank decided on her first day in the Twerton squat that she was none of these.
‘Headmistress.’
‘D’you mean me?’
‘You can share with Joke and Cat.’
Simple as that.
He must have discovered she’d done some supply teaching, but it wasn’t mentioned. Later she learned that anyone joining the squat was vetted as seriously as if it was the secret service, so he must have found out. Her main concern at the time had been whether Joke and Cat were safe to share a room with. They were fine. Joke snored sometimes and Cat had a thing about fresh air and wanting the window open even on the coldest nights but if that was a hardship, bring it on. In her goosedown sleeping bag Headmistress was laughing.
Altogether, nine people and a dog had shared the Twerton gaff while it was supposed to be empty and condemned. As Tank, the most experienced squatter, had wisely pointed out, demolition orders are never straightforward if landlords are involved. There is always scope for appeals. He’d done his homework as usual, studied the Housing Act, checked the ownership with the Land Registry, and found that more than one foreign owner had an interest in the same terraced block. Good for two years was Tank’s prediction and he’d been proved right.
Unfortunately two years soon pass. The notice of demolition had been served and the squatters had hung on until the heavy machinery had rumbled up the street. Then they’d boxed up their belongings and got out. Five of them had heard of a squat in Frome and moved off there. The others pinned their hopes on Tank. He made no promises, but he disappeared for a couple of days. All he would say to the others was that he was making searches. It sounded like the jargon solicitors used to justify themselves when people were buying houses.
Headmistress had a friend in Oldfield Park who took pity and allowed her to bed down in her flat for one night on the strict understanding that it couldn’t become a permanent arrangement. She tried to negotiate a second night, but the friend wasn’t happy that Headmistress had brought Tank’s dog with her. That night had to be spent squeezed in with Cat in the back of Joke’s van. Joke gallantly passed the night in the driver’s seat with the greyhound curled up beside him.
Next morning Tank called the three of them for a meeting at the Temple of Minerva in the botanical gardens in Victoria Park. A good choice, because although the building was open on one side it had a roof and they managed to keep dry on a wet summer’s day. Evidently Tank had been sleeping on the wooden bench the last two nights.