Authors: Reginald Hill
Must sign off now. Almost time for the cold ham. Take care. Sorry you're not here. Love to Alexander. Your loving cousin a bit removed,
Rod.
'Come ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you . . .'
I hope the preparation's a bit better than yours was, Dad, thought Lexie Huby, sensitive, as she had learned to be from infancy, to the rumbles of volcanic rage emanating from her father's rigid frame. She had giggled when Mr Thackeray had told her about Gruff-of-Greendale but she had not giggled when she broke the news to her father that night.
'Two hundred pounds!' he'd exploded. 'Two hundred pounds and a stuffed dog!'
'You did used to make a fuss of it, Dad,' Jane had piped up. 'Said it were one of the wonders of nature, it were so lifelike.'
'Lifelike! I hated that bloody tyke when it were alive, and I hated it even more when it were dead. At least, living, it'd squeal when you kicked it! Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! You're not laking with me are you, Lexie?'
'I'd not do that, Dad,' she said calmly.
'Why'd old Thackeray tell you all this and not me direct?' he demanded suspiciously. 'Why'd he tell a mere girl when he could've picked up the phone and spoken straight to me? Scared, was he?'
'He were trying to be kind, Dad,' said Lexie. 'Besides, I were as entitled to hear it as you. I'm a beneficiary too.'
'You?' Huby's eyes had lit with new hope. 'What did you get, Lexie?'
'I got fifty pounds and all her opera records,' said Lexie. 'Mam got a hundred pounds and her carriage clock, the brass one in the parlour, not the gold one in her bedroom. And Jane got fifty and the green damask tablecloth.'
'The old cow! The rotten old cow! Who got it, then? Not that cousin of hers, not old Windypants and her useless son?'
'No, Dad. She gets two hundred like you, and the silver teapot.'
'That's worth a damn sight more than Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! She always were a crook, that one, like that dead husband of hers. They should've both been locked up! But who does get it then? Is it Keech? That scheming old hag?'
'Miss Keech gets an allowance on condition she stays on at Troy House and looks after the animals,' said Lexie.
'That's a meal-ticket for life, isn't it?' said John Huby. 'But hold on. If she stays on, who gets the house? I mean, it has to belong to some bugger, doesn't it? Lexie, who's she left it all to? Not to some bloody charity, is it? I couldn't bear to be passed over for a bloody dogs' home.'
'In a sense,' said Lexie, taking a deep breath. 'But not directly. In the first place she's left everything to . . .'
'To who?' thundered John Huby as she hesitated.
And Lexie recalled Eden Thackeray's quiet, dry voice
. . . 'the rest residue and remainder of my estate whatsoever whether real or personal I give unto my only son Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby present address unknown . . .
'She's done what? Nay! I'll not credit it! She's done what? It'll not stand up! It's that slimy bloody lawyer that's behind it, I'll warrant! I'll not sit down under this! I'll not!'
It had been an irony unappreciated by John Huby that in the old church of St Wilfrid, what he
had
sat down under was a brass wall plaque reading
In Loving Memory of Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby, missing in action in Italy, May 1944.
It was Sam Huby, the boy's father, who had caused the plaque to be erected in 1947. For two years he had tolerated his wife's refusal to believe her son was dead, but there had to be an end. For him the installation of the plaque marked it. But not for Gwendoline Huby. Her conviction of Alexander's survival had gone underground for a decade and then re-emerged, bright-eyed and vigorous as ever, on her husband's death. She made no secret of her belief, and over the years in the eyes of most of her family and close acquaintances, this dottiness had become as unremarkable as, say, a wart on the chin, or a stutter.
To find at last that it was this disregarded eccentricity which had robbed him of his merited inheritance was almost more than John Huby could bear.
Lexie had continued, 'If he doesn't claim it by April 4th in the year 2015, which would be his ninetieth birthday, that's when it goes to charity. There's three of them, by the way . . .'
But John Huby was not in the mood for charity.
'2015?' he groaned. 'I'll be ninety then too, if I'm spared, which doesn't seem likely. I'll fight the will! She must've been crazy, that's plain as the nose on your face. All that money . . . How much is it, Lexie? Did Mr sodding Thackeray tell you that?'
Lexie said, 'It's hard to be exact, Dad, what with share prices going up and down and all that . . .'
'Don't try to blind me with science, girl. Just because I let you go and work in that bugger's office instead of stopping at home and helping your mam in the pub doesn't make you cleverer than the rest of us, you'd do well to remember that! So none of your airs, you don't understand all that stuff anyway! Just give us a figure.'
'All right, Dad,' said Lexie Huby meekly. 'Mr Thackeray reckons that all told it should come to the best part of a million and a half pounds.'
And for the first and perhaps the last time in her life, she had the satisfaction of reducing her father to silence.
'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. . .'
Ella Keech's gaze was not in fact focused on some beatific vision of an ascending soul, as Mrs Windibanks had theorized. Myopic she was, it was true, but her long sight was perfectly sound and she was staring over the clerical shoulder into the green shades of the churchyard beyond. Money and descendants being alike in short supply, most of the old graves were sadly neglected, though in the eyes of many, long grass and wild flowers became the lichened headstones rather more than razed turf and cellophaned wreaths could hope to. But it was no such elegiac meditation which occupied Miss Keech's mind.
She was looking to where a pair of elderly yews met over the old lychgate forming a tunnel of almost utter blackness in the bright sun. For several minutes past she had been aware of a vague lightness in that black tunnel. And now it was moving; now it was taking shape; now it was stepping out like an actor into the glare of the footlights.
It was a man. He advanced hesitantly, awkwardly, between the gravestones. He wore a crumpled, sky-blue, lightweight suit and he carried a straw hat before him in both hands, twisting it nervously. Around his left sleeve ran a crape mourning band.
Miss Keech found that he became less clear the closer he got. He had thick grey hair, she could see that, and its lightness formed a striking contrast with his suntanned face. He was about the same age as John Huby, she guessed.
And now it occurred to her that the resemblance did not end there.
And it also occurred to her that perhaps she was the only one present who could see this approaching man . . .
'. . the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen.'
As the respondent amens were returned (with the London Lomas party favouring a as in 'play' and the Old Mill Huby set preferring
ah
as in 'father') it became clear that the fellowship of the newcomer was not so ghostly as to be visible only to Miss Keech. Others were looking at him with expressions ranging from open curiosity in the face of Eden Thackeray to vacuous benevolence on the face of the vicar.
But it took John Huby to voice the general puzzlement.
'Wha's yon bugger?' he asked no one in particular.
The newcomer responded instantly and amazingly.
Sinking on his knees, he seized two handfuls of earth and, hurling them dramatically into the grave, threw back his head and cried, 'Mama!'
There were several cries of astonishment and indignation; Mrs Windibanks looked at the newcomer as if he'd whispered a vile suggestion in her ear, Miss Keech fainted slowly into the reluctant arms of Eden Thackeray, and John Huby, perhaps viewing this as a Judas kiss, cried, 'Nah then! Nah then! What's all this? What's all this? Is this another one of thy fancy tricks, lawyer? Is that what it is, eh? By God, it's time someone gave thee a lesson in how decent folks behave at a funeral!'
So saying, and full of selfless eagerness to administer this lesson, he began to advance on Eden Thackeray. The lawyer, finding himself in the Court of Last Resources, attempted to ward him off with the person of Miss Keech. Side-stepping to get at his proper prey, John Huby's foot found space where it looked for terra firma. For a second he teetered on one leg; then with a cry in which fear was now indistinguishable from rage, he plunged headlong into the open grave.
Everyone froze, then everyone moved. Some pressed forward to offer assistance, some pressed back to summon it. Ruby Huby leapt into the grave to succour her husband and landed with both knees in his kidneys. Eden Thackeray, no longer needing Miss Keech for aegis, released her and was then constrained to grab her again as she too started the easy descent into the pit. The vicar stopped smiling comfortingly and Rod Lomas looked across the grave, caught Lexie Huby's eye, and laughed aloud.
Gradually order was restored and the unquiet grave emptied of all but its proper inmate. It was only now that most of those present realized that at some point in the confusion the catalystic stranger had vanished. Once it was ascertained that the only permanent damage was to John Huby's blue serge, Miss Keech, still leaning heavily on the arm of Eden Thackeray, signalled that the obsequies were back on course by announcing that a cold collation awaited those who cared to return with her to Troy House.
Walking away from the graveside, Rod Lomas found himself alongside Lexie Huby. Stooping to her ear, he murmured, 'Nothing in Aunt Gwen's life, or her fortune for that matter, became her like the leaving of it, wouldn't you say?'
She looked at him in alarmed bewilderment. He smiled. She frowned and hurried on to join her sister who glanced back, caught the young man's eye, and blushed beneath her blusher at his merry respondent wink.
Chapter 2
The facade of the Kemble was a mess. To rescue the old theatre from Bingo in these hard times; to renovate, refurbish and restore it; to divert public money and extort private sponsorship to finance it; these had been acts of faith or of lunacy depending on where you stood, and the division in the local council had not been on straight party lines.
But the will had been great and the work had been done. Creamy grey stone had emerged from beneath a century of grime and Shakespeare's numbers had triumphed over the bingo-caller's.
But now the huge eye-catching posters which advertised the Grand Opening Production of
Romeo and Juliet
had been ripped down, and what caught the eye now were aerosoled letters in primary colours taking stone, glass and woodwork in their obscene stride.
GO HOME NIGGER! CHUNG = DUNG! WHITE HEAT BURNS BLACK BASTARDS!
Sergeant Wield took a last look as he left the theatre. Council workers were already at their priestlike task of ablution, but it was going to be a long job.
When he got back to the Station, he went to see if his immediate superior, Detective-Inspector Peter Pascoe, was back from the hospital. Long before he reached the inspector's door, a dull vibration of the air like thunder in the next valley suggested that Pascoe was indeed back and was being lectured, doubtless on some essential constabulary matter, by
Superintendent Andrew Dalziel Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID.
'The very man,' said Dalziel as the sergeant entered. 'What odds is Broomfield giving against Dan Trimble from Cornwall?'
'Three to one. Theoretical, of course, sir,' said Wield.
'Of course. Here's five theoretical quid to put on his nose, right?'
Wield accepted the money without comment. Dalziel was referring to the strictly illegal book Sergeant Broomfield had opened on the forthcoming appointment of a new Chief Constable. The short list had been announced and interviews would take place in a fortnight's time.
Pascoe, slightly disapproving of this frivolity when there was serious police business toward, said, 'How was the Kemble, Wieldy?'
'It'll wash off,' said the sergeant. 'What about the lad in hospital?'
Pascoe said, 'That'll take a bit longer to wash off. They fractured his skull.'
'The two things are connected, you reckon?' said Dalziel.
'Well, he
is
black and he
is
a member of the Kemble Company.'
The attack in question had taken place as the young actor had made his way to his digs after an evening out drinking with some friends. He'd been found badly beaten in an alleyway at six o'clock that morning. He could remember nothing after leaving the pub.
The trouble at the Kemble had started with the controversial appointment of Eileen Chung as artistic director. Chung, a six-feet-three-inch-tall Eurasian with a talent for publicity, had gone instantly on local television to announce that under her regime, the Kemble would be an outpost of radical theatre. Alarmed, the interviewer had asked if this meant a diet of modern political plays.