Mr Beavan appeared about five minutes later. He was a small, neat, grey-haired man with pinched cheeks and large bags under his eyes that gave him a sort of treeshrew-like appearance. He was wearing a Cadw guide pullover.
He was, he said, head of staff at Cosley Hall, and had been since 1987. He knew a thing or two about the place.
‘Ellie tells me you were asking about the family records. Papers, diaries, that sort of thing, was it?’
‘Especially concerning the Colonel,’ Toshiko replied.
‘Interested in old Joe are you? He was quite a fellow. India, the Far East, South Africa. He was under Baden-Powell for the Relief of Mafeking.’
‘We’d heard rumours,’ said Gwen.
‘What can you tell us about him?’ Toshiko put in swiftly.
‘Very much a principled man,’ Mr Beavan said, seriously. ‘Upright and convinced of his role as a defender of the realm and a protector of the people. He was astonishingly generous to the local community and the people who worked on his estate lands. I think he rather fancied himself as a local lord, ruling his demesne. Charmingly old-fashioned notion of the good old feudal system. Rose-tinted specs, I think, as was often the case in the late-Victorian age. Romantic dreams of a classical Britain that had never actually existed. He was very fond of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, funnily enough. Arthurian subjects.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Gwen lied.
‘Old Joe wasn’t the first in his family to feel that way,’ said Mr Beavan, warming to his theme. ‘His father and his grandfather both thought of themselves as border princes. As in the old days, along the Welsh Marches. Noble soldiers guarding the threshold between adjoining lands. The Colonel was very much taken with that notion.’
‘A bloke like him, then, usually leaves journals and diaries, doesn’t he?’ asked Gwen.
‘Well, we know a huge amount about his life and career. British Army records are fairly thorough. And his family business interests are well documented. Chamber of Commerce, the municipal archives.’
‘But personal stuff?’
‘Well, that’s why I pricked up my ears when I heard you’d been asking. There always had been suggestions that Colonel Joe kept quite extensive diaries, throughout his life, but we’d never found them. Then, quite by chance, about six years ago, one of the team turned up a bill of service in an old ledger of accounts, dated 1904. The bill related to a haulier, who had been employed to transport, um, ‘sundry personal items’ I think it said, all the way over to Long Marsh, just outside Manchester. It was very exciting.’
Gwen and Toshiko glanced at one another. ‘I can imagine,’ said Gwen delicately.
Mr Beavan smiled. ‘Ah, well, you see, the Colonel died in 1904. Cosley Hall was taken on by his son Ernest, and his widow, Francie, upped sticks and moved away. She went to live out her last remaining years with her own family, the Cassons, who owned Long Marsh. A little research suggests that she took many of her late husband’s most personal and private effects with her. Journals, for example.’
‘So,’ said Gwen, ‘Colonel Cosley’s stuff is at this Long Marsh place, then?’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Mr Beavan with another smile. ‘I wish it was that simple. If it was, I’d have popped over there myself long since to take a look. No, Long Marsh was shut up in about 1930. The Cassons lost a fortune, in the shipbuilding trade, I think it was. The family was ruined, anyway. Long Marsh swiftly fell into decay, got pulled down, and I believe there’s a cinema there now. Most of their possessions were sold against debt, but the contents of the library, and all the family papers, were gifted to Manchester Museum, where they remain to this day.’
‘On display?’ asked Toshiko.
‘No, no. Not at all. Uncatalogued in museum storage. I’ve known students and a couple of would-be biographers get a licence to trawl the catacombs. Thankless task. But the last one who did was Brian Brady, who’s working on a full biography. He pops in quite often, though he lives up in Manchester somewhere himself. He told me he’d found quite a lot of fascinating material. If you’d like his number…’
‘Oh well,’ said Toshiko, as they crunched back across the gravel to the SUV. ‘it was worth a try.’
Gwen pulled her phone and dialled the number Mr Beavan had given her.
‘You’re not serious?’ asked Toshiko.
‘Hang on,’ said Gwen, holding up her hand. She shook her head and lowered the phone. ‘No, I just got an answerphone.’
They got into the SUV. ‘You’d seriously go all the way to Manchester after some old diaries?’ asked Toshiko.
‘No,’ said Gwen. ‘That would be daft. I just wish it wasn’t the only lead we had. I hate going back to Jack empty-handed, especially when he’s told me I’ll be coming back empty-handed.’
Toshiko started the engine. ‘You do know that proving Jack wrong is not the primary objective of our work?’
‘Bugger. Isn’t it?’ said Gwen.
James looked up as Owen walked back into the care room.
‘Well? Am I ever going to play the violin again?’
‘Like Maxim frigging Vengerov, mate,’ said Owen. ‘Your unqualified diagnosis that you were OK was pretty much spot on. I’m not picking up anything this morning that gives me cause for concern.’
‘So I can get dressed and leave this room?’
‘Yup. Provided you take it easy. Really easy.’
‘OK.’
Owen turned to leave.
‘Hey,’ said James.
‘What?’
‘How thorough are those tests?’
‘What do you mean?’ Owen frowned.
‘How thorough are the tests you ran on me? On anyone in this situation?’
‘Scale of one to ten?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Six, seven,’ said Owen with a shrug. ‘I mean it’s a pretty good, cover-the-bases work-up, bloods and CAT, looking at the obvious. A thorough assessment.’
‘What would it pick up?’
‘What do you want it to pick up?’ Owen asked. He looked at James quizzically. ‘What is this? You’re freaking me out.’
James opened his mouth to reply then laughed and closed it again. He looked down at the floor, then back up at Owen.
‘What?’ asked Owen, in half-jokey frustration, shaking his hands in the air.
James pursed his lips. ‘Could you… could you run some more tests on me? More critical ones? More thorough ones?’
‘How much more thorough?’ asked Owen.
‘Scale of one to ten?’
Owen nodded.
‘What do you think?’ James asked.
Owen raised his eyebrows and whistled. ‘Shit. Why?’
James let out a long breath before replying, as if he was trying to make sure he was doing the right thing.
‘I think…’ he began. ‘Christ, I can’t believe it’s you I’m confiding in.’
‘Doctor-patient privilege,’ said Owen.
‘Yeah. Even so.’
Owen pursed his lips and pointed a finger in the direction of the door. ‘You want me to get Jack, then?’
‘No.’ James stood up. He paced for a moment. Then he sat down on the chair again. ‘No, not Jack. Not yet. I need you to help me with this, Owen. If it all comes up clear, Jack need never know. Nor Gwen. Just be our secret. You will then be permitted, from time to time, to take the piss out of me for being an idiot, and no one will ever know why.’
Owen frowned. He closed the room door, picked up another chair from the corner and carried it across to face James. ‘OK. You’re talking some fairly bonkers talk now. What’s going on?’
‘I’m scared,’ said James.
‘Of what?’ Owen asked him.
‘Myself,’ he said.
In the middle of the afternoon, after the lunchtime rush (though it wasn’t much of a rush at the Mughal Dynasty buffet lunch), Shiznay managed to sneak away as soon as she’d cleared the last of the dishes. People were busy elsewhere, with other things. Her mother had gone shopping to the garment market. Her father, as was his custom, was taking a slow hour to read the day’s paper before gearing up for the evening shift. He did this sitting alone in the restaurant with the radio on.