Dryden nodded.
Lake raised a finger to his lips. ‘And Magda.’
‘Magda Hollingsworth?’ Dryden could see her now, bent over her diary, setting down the story of the girl who’d threatened to kill her baby.
‘Yes. I remember because I told the police, when they got in contact later after they found she was missing. I said she’d had problems with depression and suchlike but that I never thought she’d harm herself. But I saw her that last night, yes, walking out along Church Street, out of the village, towards Telegraph Hill. That was later – just before eight, just before I went down to the garage.’
‘Was that unusual, to see her out there?’
‘No. Magda was a great walker, which caused a bit of a scandal – I mean talk about narrow-minded. They said it was gypsy blood, that she couldn’t bear to be inside a house for long. Rubbish! That woman loved her home. I think it was losing it that broke her. She’d often go up there and sit by the water tower with a book – another dangerous eccentricity in Fen eyes, I’m afraid. My wife liked her, said she really cared about the place, the village community. But she was a bit much for most people – ankle bracelets, that kind of thing. They thought of her as a gypsy. And you couldn’t say a lot worse than that in Jude’s Ferry.’
Lake held up a hand, aware he’d gone too far. ‘She had friends in the village, good friends. Not everyone tried to cast her out. Bob Steward – one of our churchwardens – used to work for the water board, it was his job to check the tower every week and the water quality. He’d often find her up there on the grass, enjoying the solitude. I told her once that if she really wanted peace and serenity she could always sit in the church.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t work.’
Suddenly there was a wave of screaming from the surf and they both stirred, as if wakened from a sleep. Dryden switched tack. ‘And Peter Tholy – he was a friend of George, wasn’t he? Did you help him with his immigration request?’
‘Yes. I was amazed he did that, a lot of people were.’
‘Why?’
‘Just so timid. He was eighteen then, perhaps nineteen, and I really don’t think he’d been out of the village but to go to school. But I guess he trusted George, and there was nothing for him here. I did warn him, you know. I said I was an immigrant too and it wasn’t all bold new horizons.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Nobody else in his life?’
Lake shook his head. ‘I knew the family actually, going back a couple of years – his mother went out first to Australia after she remarried. Callous woman, she wanted a new life and I don’t think she was particularly bothered if Peter followed her out or not. And there was Broderick, Colonel Broderick, he’d given Peter work and was genuinely concerned for his future I think. A glowing testimonial and references certainly – even if he was a bitter man.’
‘Bitter?’
‘I don’t know much – they were Methodists and worshipped in Whittlesea. But the marriage had failed and the son, the only child, had very much sided with the mother over the years. He visited, in fact he was often here in the holidays, but you could tell they didn’t hit it off. So I guess Peter helped fill the gap.’
‘So Peter’s father, then? Dead?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Many years before, long before I came to the Ferry in ’82. Farm labourer like his son. They were poor, genuinely poor. Those houses along the far side of The Dring were slums. The father had been married before and there were children from that marriage, I think. Anyway, complicated, if not by Fen standards. So plenty of mouths to feed and not much by way of a wage. Incredible, isn’t it? People used to stop and take pictures of those cottages, Americans mainly, come to see the church. That’s the problem with rural poverty, of course, it’s invisible. But it’s just as nasty as any ghetto. A little Soweto on Whittlesea Mere.’
‘Did you hear from him, from Peter?’
Lake leant back on his elbows. ‘Yup. I got cards from Peter and he made contact with the church in, er… now, where was it? Fremantle, I think. Yes, he was studious at keeping in touch, Christmas cards, that kind of thing. At least for the first few years.’
Dryden nodded.
‘But he never mentions George, which is odd now I think of it.’
‘Not so odd if George’s skeleton was hanging in Jude’s Ferry all the time,’ said Dryden.
A cloud crossed the coast, the temperature dropping suddenly, and as the rain began to fall the screams of little children filled the afternoon air.
27
They drove back south in silence, Humph lost in the vocabulary of a Faroese banquet, Dryden massaging his battered skull. As they reached Ely the sun finally broke through the mist and lit the cathedral’s lantern tower, the damp lead of the vast roof steaming in the sudden warmth. Dryden leant his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. Fred Lake had complicated the mystery of Jude’s Ferry to the point where Dryden found it hard to see any truth clearly. Where were the remains of Kathryn Neate’s child? Had she killed him in a bout of depression after the birth? Whose bones had been robbed from the Peyton tomb? And what of the empty grave in the cellar? Had George Tudor’s act of compassion in comforting his cousin cost him his life?
Dryden checked his watch: 5.20pm. The early editions of The Crow would be printed by now and sometimes the delivery vans dropped some off in the Market Square, offering the paper’s loyal readers the chance to read tomorrow’s newspaper. The square was still crowded with market stalls, and a children’s roundabout played an annoying tune at the wrong speed. Skeg’s trestle table was on his pitch beside the Big Business tea bar, but there was no news paper seller and no Crow, just a pile of Cambridge Evening News’ and an honesty box, although his dog lay tethered to one of the tea-bar tables. Dryden walked briskly to The Crow’s offices but there was no sign of any papers there either, and Jean was placating a gaggle of keen customers who’d turned up to get first look at that week’s small ads.
Dryden jumped the stairs to the empty newsroom and logged on to check his e-mails. The US Peytons had been in touch.
Dear Mr Dryden,
Thank you for your e-mail – yes, we had been informed, but nevertheless what distressing news! As you may know, the society paid for the removal of the family remains in 1990 but we were unable to transfer the memorial and statuary due to the intervention of English Heritage. In retrospect we consider this decision was short sighted and ill advised. I thought you might like to know that we are reapplying to have the monument moved now – I attach the documentation – and have instigated legal proceedings against the Ministry of Defence for compensation. We hope to have the tomb fully restored in its new position at St John’s, Boston, Lincolnshire. Our own architect and restorer, who visited the original site in 1989, estimates the costs of removal and restoration at $360,000. We are reconstructing our website on St Swithun’s to accommodate an appeal form and this will be up and running by the end of the month. We hope your readers will be generous in their support.
Yours faithfully
John Peyton Speed
PS. I can’t resist a bit of personal history, if you’ll forgive me, Mr Dryden. My mother was a Peyton and was able to trace her lineage back to Sir Philip Peyton, one of the part owners of the Providence, the ship which made a landfall in Virginia in the third season after the arrival of the Mayflower. Sir Philip’s branch of the family had several manors in eastern England – including Nornea Hall at Jude’s Ferry – now lost of course but which stood on the site of Orchard House in the village. If you look carefully at the gardens you can still see the ditch which formed the moat. My wife and I had a most wonderful visit to the site in 1985. One of the truly memorable moments of our lives.