‘You think he might have been murdered?’ I said.
Rachel nodded. ‘I think it’s very likely. I think he stumbled on proof of a conspiracy to defraud the company, and he spoke up like the honest man he was. What did he say in his letter to Wheeldon? “I found it necessary to condemn what they have done as deficient both in honesty and good business. By so doing I have raised a Nest of Hornets about me.” He just didn’t realise what danger he was putting himself in. Or perhaps he knew that too, but had to do it anyway. Maybe he felt responsible.’
Well, maybe. But it wasn’t as if there was any concrete evidence that William Buckley had been murdered. How could there be?
And then the front page of the Lichfield Echo caught my eye, the headline about human remains unearthed during excavations at Fosseway Wharf. ‘Police say the body has not been identified and may have lain undiscovered for some time.’ Did ‘for some time’ mean centuries rather than months?
‘That’s it for now,’ said Rachel, closing her notebook.
‘I need to get my head round all this.’
‘You know, Chris, this could be what Samuel was aiming to prove all along — he wanted to clear his ancestor’s name, prove that William Buckley was murdered.’
‘Perhaps. Let me think about it for a bit.’
She nodded, resignedly. ‘No problem.’
I cast around for another subject to distract my thoughts, which were getting bogged down in the barrage of information and the sudden possibilities that had opened up.
‘How was Miss Saigon, by the way?’ I said.
‘Brilliant.’
‘And the matinee of Cats?’
‘Great.’
‘I’ve heard performers dressed as cats pop up among the audience and you can end up with one of them on your lap or something.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said vaguely.
‘And did you?’
‘What?’
‘End up with one on your lap?’
‘Not really. What else has been going on while I’ve been away? Did you go and see Godfrey Wheeldon?’
I shrugged mentally, noting that she was the one now changing the subject. If she didn’t want to talk about the musical she’d gone to see, it didn’t matter. I was only making polite enquiries. I’d expected her to be full of the subject.
So instead I told her about Godfrey Wheeldon, neglecting to mention the presence of Laura.
‘He sounds a sweet old man.’
‘Sweet? I suppose so.’
But Rachel was impatient. She didn’t want to talk about Cats or Godfrey Wheeldon.
‘So come on, what do you feel about it all now? Do you still believe that William Buckley was a crook?’ She was leaning close to me over the papers, and I straightened up suddenly, feeling the beginnings of cramp in my legs from kneeling on the floor.
‘According to history, he was.’
‘But what do you feel? This was one of your ancestors. What does your heart tell you?’
‘Well...’
‘Samuel didn’t think he was guilty.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You can tell by the way he writes. Read between the lines.’
‘But there’s no evidence of anything else,’ I insisted. ‘Not in the manuscript.’
‘I’m not so sure. There are the letters. If you put them side by side with the manuscript, I think they tell a different story.’ She thrust a transcribed letter at me. ‘Read again what he writes to Reuben Wheeldon. This man was in trouble.’
‘Look, I know all about money troubles. If William Buckley siphoned off a bit of cash from the canal company to solve his own short-term problems, I’ve got every sympathy. I need money too. If it wasn’t for Great-Uncle Samuel’s ridiculous legacy, I wouldn’t be touching this project with a barge pole.’
Rachel snorted again. ‘I don’t believe it’s just the money. You’re family, Chris.’
‘Family? None of these people really means anything to me. Not William Buckley, and not Josiah. Not even Samuel. I didn’t know any of them. And if it comes to that, my own parents and grandparents leave a lot to be desired, judging by the way they kept things from me.’
Rachel looked at me as if I was a backward child. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you knew them or not, or if you hated them. They’re still your family. You carry their genes, you’re made up of the same chromosomes. You might reject them intellectually, but it isn’t physically possible to deny the connection. And it certainly isn’t possible emotionally.’
‘What have emotions got to do with it, for God’s sake?’
She didn’t answer. She had that sceptical look on her face again.
‘You’re involved with these people, Chris. You’re involved, whether you like it or not.’
I opened my mouth to argue, but she was already on her way out of the door, back to number four. Her back was held rigid, as if she’d spoken the last word on the subject.
Damn the woman for being right.
35
So I bit the bullet. I phoned the police station and reported that I might have some information on the body found at Fosseway Wharf. After a moment on hold, I was asked to come straight in to the station and ask for DS Graham. Of course it would be him.
I was put back in the same interview room where I’d made my statement about Samuel’s death. At least this time I had the attention of someone more senior. Did this mean that Graham was taking me seriously?
‘Mr Buckley. You’re getting quite a regular customer, aren’t you?’
‘Not out of choice, I promise you.’
‘Have you got over the attempted burglary? Did our chap come round to take fingerprints?’
‘Oh yes, you’ve gone through all the motions.’
‘And the lady, your neighbour? I hope she’s recovered from her ordeal.’
‘She’s quite well.’
‘She seems a useful sort of neighbour to have. It’s nice when you get on well with your neighbours.’
‘I came about the body that was found at Fosseway,’ I said.
‘Ah yes. An interesting case.’
‘I wondered if you’d established the cause of death?’
‘Well, we don’t normally give out such information. But we’ve recently released details to the press, so I suppose I can tell you. First of all, we’re fairly certain the remains are those of an adult male.’
‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’ I blurted.
‘Well, hold on,’ said Graham, looking at me curiously. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time.’
I forced myself to appear relaxed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
He looked happier. ‘Well, we may know a bit more when the forensic anthropologist has finished his work. But one thing is clear. The back of the victim’s skull had been smashed with several heavy blows. Then his body was concealed in a heap of lime, which must have preserved it for a while. It looks as though the lime was never moved. There were the remains of some wooden barrels nearby too.’
‘A forensic anthropologist? I know there are all sorts of specialities these days, but I’m not sure what that one involves.’
‘Oh, we call him in when it’s a question of old bones. You see, there was nothing left but a skeleton. We’re talking about an ancient crime here. Two hundred years, by initial estimates.’
I felt nervous, and had to swallow rapidly before I said: ‘I think I know who it is.’
‘I thought that might have been what you were getting to. You have some information for us?’
‘Well, it’s more of a deduction.’
‘Deduction?’
‘I’ve been putting two and two together. And I think the remains you found may be those of one of my ancestors.’