The Fifth Identity. Ray CW Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ a phone call for you, Mr Seymour.”

      “For me?” Seymour was startled. It must be Fillery, nobody else knew he was there.

      “I’ve put it through to the telephone box over there,” mine host pointed to the corner of the room. “It’s Jim Cuddeston, you wanted to speak to his father.”

      “Oh Christ!!” thought Seymour, another sodding bloodsucker! This would be another bloody beer buying session for absolutely nothing. He stood up and said “Thanks!” and headed for the telephone booth.

      “What is it?’ asked Andrea when he returned.

      “His father says he can see me this morning,” said Seymour thoughtfully. “Not in the pub here, but in his own home, he can’t get out of the house right now. I’m not so sure about it, it could be another waste of time.”

      “But you said you’d go?”

      “Well, I guess I don’t have any option. I see no point in seeing him and was tempted to tell them to get stuffed, but I could hardly justify it to Rod when we get back, could I?”

      “When do we have to go?”

      “11 o’clock. You said ‘we’. Do you want to come as well?”

      “There’s nothing else to do here, we’ve got to vacate the room at 10 o’clock and I can’t go anywhere else,” said Andrea. “I could always sit in the bar with your friend Josh Wilkins and ply him with drinks.”

      “Ah! I see your point. Alright, we’ll see our next scrounger at 11 o’clock.”

      “You’d best take a bottle of something.”

      “Waste of good liquor, but I guess a bottle of Scotch will always go down well.”

      Seymour walked up the garden path to the cottage carrying his brief case, in which reposed a bottle of Teachers Scotch. He didn’t want to enter the house carrying it in full view, he felt if he did that his bargaining counter would have been prejudiced immediately.

      The door opened as they reached it, and a blonde haired young woman stood there, dressed in jeans and a gleaming white blouse. She looked to be in her early twenties, and greeted them both with a friendly smile.

      “Mr Seymour?”

      “Yes.”

      “Please come in, I’m Alison Cuddeston, you’ve come to see my grandfather haven’t you?”

      Seymour signified that he had, he felt slightly mollified as the house looked to be well maintained, the young woman was well dressed and certainly worth a second look, while the dark-haired, bespectacled middle aged man who greeted him at the end of the hallway was casually but smartly dressed, and shook his hand warmly.

      “Jim Cuddeston!” he introduced himself. “Can we offer you both a coffee?’ he asked, whereupon Andrea leapt in and accepted the offer before Seymour could refuse.

      “That would be very nice,” she said, and cast a meaningful glance at Seymour as if to say: ‘don’t be churlish!’

      “Alec Cavendish mentioned you wanted to speak to my father about someone who lived here in the early 1920’s, is that correct?”

      “Alec Cavendish?” for a moment he was thrown by the name then realisation dawned, that must be the landlord at the hotel. “Oh…yes…that’s right!”

      “Good, my daughter Alison will deal with the coffee,” said Jim Cuddeston. “If you’d both like to come through to the sun room at the back, Dad’s waiting for you. He won’t be able to get out of his chair, the op only took place a few days ago, but he’s interested to see you, he likes talking about old times.”

      “That’s an improvement on the other old bastard!” Seymour thought darkly as he recalled Josh Wilkins. Then he felt a momentary shame as he realised he was pre-judging Sam Cuddeston. Damn it! He hadn’t even seen the old man yet!

      The sun was shining brilliantly through the side window and the transparent roof of the sun lounge at the rear of the house. The transparent roof had a greenhouse effect and there was a marked rise in temperature as Seymour and Andrea walked through the door. Most of the seating was facing the rear window, the garden fell away from the rear of the house and there was a panoramic view across the fields at the back of the house.

      An elderly man was sitting in one of the chairs, he was wearing a track suit and there was a pair of crutches by the side of the chair. He turned as they entered and gave them a welcoming smile.

      “Sorry I can’t get up,” he said. “Take a seat.”

      He extended his hand and as Seymour advanced to take it in a firm grasp he noted that the other had a pair of twinkling eyes, a full head of white hairs while his face was marked by laughter lines. He had time to reflect that Cuddeston was an improvement on Josh Wilkins.

      “Good view from here,” observed Seymour.

      “One of the best,” smiled Jim Cuddeston, and pointed to a tractor moving across the field in the distance. “Sitting here, Dad can see Jack Robertson driving his tractor across that pasture and ploughing it. Jack’s the son of one of his old mates. Dad says he never could plough a straight furrow!”

      Seymour grinned at that.

      “You’re an old ploughman yourself, eh?’ he asked.

      “I got by,” said the old man. “Jack’s improved with the passing of the years.”

      He caught hold of one of the crutches that was trying to respond to the force of gravity and propped it more securely.

      “You’re making enquiries about families living here in the 1920’s I understand?” he said.

      “Yes, two families, Accrington and Havering,” replied Seymour.

      “Hmmm! Yes, the two names do ring a bell, the Havering family came from over Stoke Mandeville way, they used to run a small-holding and sell vegetables. Then in the 1940’s, late 1940’s that is, after the war, they had to sell up because of the suburban spread as the land was wanted for building. Damned shame, it was good land, but after that they disappeared, don’t know for sure where they went afterwards. Probably London somewhere, though I did hear they could have gone south of here, maybe Quadford.”

      Seymour had his notepad out and jotted down those details.

      “Who are you enquiring about, specifically?”

      “John Accrington,” Seymour replied. “He was born about 1924, the son of Janet Accrington neé Havering and Arthur Accrington, he was said to have been born in this area.”

      “John Accrington eh? What was he to you.”

      “Oh, a relative of the family I’m researching, they all were.”

      “Are you saying you’re descended from him?”

      Seymour suddenly had a suspicion that the old man was ahead of him somehow, he was about to take the easy way and confirm his descent from СКАЧАТЬ