‘The man you heard...?’
‘Yes, terrible cough he had. Terrible. I heard him quite clearly, right the way up to the top level.’
‘The police said there was a witness.’
‘Not me, anyway. Not really. There were a few people who appeared after the accident — not that they could do much to help the old chap. Though, now you mention it, there was a woman standing over on the corner there at the time. Maybe she saw what happened. I don’t know if the police ever spoke to her.’
My next stop was the County Record Office, located on the upper floor of a library building in The Friary, which had once been the Friary School.
I climbed the stairs and pushed through double doors into a large room lined with shelves. Microfiche machines stood at one end, and an assistant was dealing with an enquiry at a desk near the door. There were one or two people sitting at tables or using the machines, but the room was almost empty. Walking past the enquiry desk, I found a series of shelves down one wall marked ‘Local Studies’, and located a section devoted to waterways history.
Since I was taking a logical approach to the problem, the first thing to do was check Great-Uncle Samuel’s facts. If I did this at every step of the way, I’d feel much more confident that I was on the right track, that Samuel wasn’t just sending me down a blind alley.
The formal notification of Samuel’s funeral had arrived that morning. It gave no hint of the novel occasion that Mr Elsworth had forecast, except that on Wednesday the funeral procession would leave from the Red Lion Inn at Hopwas, instead of from Samuel’s home at Whittington, as would have been normal. Somehow, the black-edged card made my errand seem more urgent. I felt as though I ought to begin my project before Samuel had completely departed. I had to grab the baton he’d offered me before it vanished from sight into the great black hole that was the past.
The Local Studies Library and County Records Office seemed like a good place to make sure the background of William Buckley was accurate. Presumably William was some sort of very distant relative, six generations away at least. Samuel had considered him important, though. He’d thought William Buckley and the year 1800 were where it all started, or where it all finished — his thinking seemed confused on the point. Samuel had at least given me the opportunity to start at the beginning, and move forward in time. I could establish that I was building on firm ground before I began to construct the House of Buckley.
My knowledge of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal was confined to the present and the recent past — it had never occurred to me to research beyond its closure in the 1950s. But according to Samuel’s manuscript, William had been the resident engineer on the canal scheme. At some stage, he’d vanished under suspicion of corruption and embezzlement, leaving behind his wife and young son. My ancestor had evidently been a notorious crook. So what was the mystery?
As I scanned the shelves, I quickly identified a couple of books that had chapters on the history of local canals, and I took them with me to one of the tables in the middle of the room. I pulled out my notebook and pen and began to take notes as I turned over the pages.
But I’d hardly begun to write when a presence loomed over my shoulder. It was the librarian from the desk, a tall woman with an overly large nose and her hair permed into short, tight curls.
‘Excuse me, are you looking for something?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Something on local canal history.’ I indicated the two books, to show her that I’d found something and therefore didn’t need any help at the moment.
‘These tables are reserved for people who book them for researching the archives,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to move over here.’
She ushered me towards a smaller table at the side, where some of the space was taken up by microfilm machines. Behind me, she straightened up the chair I’d vacated, pushing it exactly into line with the others at the row of empty tables. I almost expected her to disinfect it.
‘I’m afraid you’re not allowed to use a pen in here,’ she said, as I settled down again. ‘Only pencils.’
She offered me half a pencil, about three or four inches long, and I obediently put my pen in my pocket. Presumably I had the look of a book vandal who’d scrawl obscene messages in the pages. Maybe I would too, once her back was turned.
‘And could you sign your name in the book at the desk, please.’
‘I take it I’m breaking all the rules,’ I sighed, as I began to get up.
‘As long as you do it before you leave,’ she said. And the look in her eye suggested it wouldn’t be any too soon as far as she was concerned.
Finally, I was able to continue my notes, switching from blue ballpoint in mid-sentence to grey lead pencil. I’d have to be sure to transcribe my notes onto the computer before they faded out of existence. And I’d have to be careful not to press too hard. I couldn’t afford to break the point, as I certainly wouldn’t dare go to the counter to ask for another pencil. There was bound to be a rule against it.
I found references to the origins of the Ogley and Huddlesford, and to some of the people who’d been behind the scheme — the Reverend Thomas Ella, Daniel Metcalf, and the Nalls. There were also those whose conduct was said to have brought the canal company into disrepute. Two men had been transported to Australia for theft when money was found to be missing from the company’s accounts. But the resident engineer, William Buckley, had evaded justice for his suspected crimes.
The information tallied with what Great-Uncle Samuel had written. One of the books quoted several times from the Assembly Minutes of the Ogley and Huddlesford Canal Company. I took these assemblies to be a sort of Annual General Meeting. A footnote told me that the minutes were kept in the County Record Office, having been transferred there from the British Transport Historical Records. Unlike some of the other canal companies in the West Midlands, the more detailed minutes of the monthly committee meetings were missing.
I eyed the dragon behind the desk speculatively, then looked at my watch. It would have to wait for another day anyway. I handed in my pencil and signed my name in the book, so that I could be identified if any obscene graffiti came to light. The air on the outside of the double doors felt much fresher.
Back home in Stowe Pool Lane, I pulled out Great-Uncle Samuel’s files and stacked them on my desk. The pile looked daunting, like a notorious Himalayan peak not to be tackled without a base camp and a team of Sherpas.
Nervously, I put aside the blue folder, which contained the unfinished manuscript. What was in the box file? Letters, among other things. Two of them, bound in string and written on thick, yellowing paper. The writing was difficult to read, and was beyond my patience to decipher. They really needed transcribing. In fact, there was a whole load of stuff here that ought to be put into proper order before I could begin to make sense of it. I needed some help.
There was only one place I could go. I tucked the file under my arm. Then I looked at the long wooden box and remembered Rachel’s offer to clean it up. I picked that up as well, went out of the front door and walked round to number four.
Rachel looked a little less pleased to see me than usual. She was wearing a huge, baggy sweater and black leggings, with her hair scraped back off her face, as if I’d caught her doing a spring clean or a bit of DIY.
‘Hello, number four,’ I said.
‘Oh, Chris.’
‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’