The Tiger in the Well, Page 4

"The register of marriages is all I want," said Sally. "For 1879. Mr Murray, what sort of parish is this? Is it a settled kind of place?"

  "Very mixed. There is a small congregation - too small. There's a lot of movement in and out. People are restless these days; they don't stay in the place where they were born. In my last parish - in the country - I could walk through the village and name everyone I saw, and all their family, and tell you everything there was to know about them. I can walk the streets of this parish all day and hardly see a face I know."

  "Your predecessor, Mr Beech - did he retire?"

  There was a silence. "Why do you ask?" he said.

  "I wanted to ask about a marriage that took place here in 1879. If it's in the register, I wanted to ask him if he remembered it."

  "I see. Well, yes, he is retired now. I'm afraid I can't give you his address."

  "Can't?"

  "I don't know it," he said shortly. "If you wish to see the register, you'd better come into the church."

  He stood up and opened the door. She followed him out of the Rectory and through a rank, dusty garden to the side door of the church.

  In the grey afternoon light and the musty smell of the vestry, he took a pile of books out of a cupboard and put them on a table for her.

  "The Register of Marriages is what you want," he said, showing her a wide green book with that title on the cover. "This has been in use here since 1832. Every marriage solemnized in this parish is recorded in here. What was the date you wanted?"

  "1879," she said. "January. Are there many marriages taking place here, Mr Murray?"

  "Two or three a quarter. Not many, I suppose. Here we are."

  He handed her the open book. There were two printed forms on a page, with space to fill in the details of each marriage. For the first one on that page, she saw, the groom had not been able to write, and had signed with a shaky X. His wife's penmanship was not much firmer.

  She looked at the second: and there was her name.

  On January the 3rd, 1879, Arthur James Parrish had married Veronica Beatrice Lockhart. She caught her breath involuntarily, and then controlled herself and read on. The ages of Parrish and herself were simply recorded as Full, but that was standard practice, as she saw from the other entries. His Rank or profession was given as commission agent, and they both apparently resided in the parish of Southam. Under the column for Father's name and surname, hers was blank apart from a line drawn across it, as was the entry for her father's rank or profession. His father, apparently, was called James John Parrish, and he was a clerk.

  "Is there no record of anyone's address?" she asked. "Not even the witnesses?"

  "None at all. That isn't recorded."

  "So these witnesses could come from anywhere? Do you recognize their names?"

  The witnesses' names were given as Edward William Sims and Emily Franklin. Mr Murray looked briefly and shook his head.

  But there was no doubt of her handwriting. That was her signature, or an extraordinarily good imitation. They'd have had to get hold of a legal document from somewhere, since she normally signed herself Sally; but it was her V, her B, her swift, untidy Lockhart. The rest of the writing, apart from Parrish's, was in the hand of the Reverend Mr Beech.

  "Is there any way in which an entry like this could be tampered with?" she said.

  "Tampered with?"

  "Well, forged. I mean, could someone put in a fake entry for some period in the past?"

  "Impossible, I should say. They're consecutive, after all. Entries have to be made at the time of marriage - and you'll see they're all numbered. This one is marriage number 203, for instance. Number 204 took place in - let me see - the following March. No, they couldn't be put in out of sequence, if that's what you mean. If you wanted to put in a fake record for 1879, say, it would have to be done at that time."

  "Are there any other records?"

  "I have to inform the local registrar every quarter about the marriages which have taken place. I send off a form like this -" he showed her a slip of paper - "with all the details from the register. From there - well, I don't know what happens, to be frank. Occasionally they query one if there's been a mistake, a word left out or an inconsistent spelling, so someone must be checking them. Presumably they send them on to Somerset House."

  Somerset House in London was where the General Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages was kept. She was going to go there next, but she knew what she'd find.

  "I see," she said. "Well, thank you, Mr Murray. I'll just make a copy of this one, if you don't mind."

  She copied the form in full; it didn't take long. He waited near by and anxiously put the books away when she'd finished.

  "The previous incumbent, Mr Beech," she said, "is there anyone in the parish who might know where he's gone? Your servants, for instance?"

  He looked uncomfortable, and more austere than ever.

  "The Rectory staff are all, how shall I say, all new," he said. "The previous cook-housekeeper left before I arrived, and Mr Beech did not keep a carriage, so there was no groom. There was a female servant who left shortly after I came. I had to give her notice. I don't know where she went."

  "What about the churchwardens? Isn't there anyone who could tell me where he is now? Would the Bishop know?"

  "I. . . To be frank, Miss Lockhart, the affairs of the parish were not in good order when I came here. Mr Beech had not been well for some time. I think that whatever your inquiry may concern, Mr Beech - wherever he may be - is not likely to be able to help."

  "I don't understand," she said. "Do you mean he's still unwell? Mr Murray, my reason for asking is desperately serious. The last thing I want to do is persecute Mr Beech, but if I could speak to him -"

  "Miss Lockhart, I don't know where he is, and I very much doubt whether anyone else in the parish does either. As for the Bishop -" He shrugged. "Inquire by all means. Are you -" He looked at the cupboard where he'd put the registers. "Are you implying that these records are not accurate? Your question about tampering with them - that's a serious matter."

  "I agree," she said. Could she tell him? He might know more than he was willing to tell without knowing her reasons. On the other hand, could she trust anyone? "It's very serious. I can't say any more at the moment, but if I could find Mr Beech, he might be able to help me enormously."

  He looked at her steadily, his eyes dark in his cadaverous face, his expression ungiving. Then he turned away and held open the door.

  She stood up to go. He locked the vestry behind her, and they shook hands and parted in silence.

  Before the train left for London, Sally had time to try something else. She made her way to the main post office and asked for the chief clerk.

  He came to the counter; Sally would have preferred a private interview, but the man looked impatient. She stood between a man handing over a large parcel and an elderly lady buying some penny stamps and said, "I'm trying to trace someone who lived in Portsmouth three years ago. Is there any chance he might have left a forwarding address, do you think? His name is Beech. The Reverend Mr Beech, of Southam Rectory."

  The clerk sighed. "Doubt it, miss. D'you want me to look?"

  "Yes, I do. That's why I asked."

  He gave her a sour look and vanished into a room at the back. The lady buying stamps moved away and a man took her place and bought a postal order. When that transaction had finished, the clerk came back.

  "No record of any Beech," he said. There was a glint of watery triumph in his eye at being able to disappoint her so easily.

  "Thank you," she said, smiling sweetly to disconcert him, and turned away.

  As she left the post office, she felt a hand on her sleeve.

  "Oh, miss, excuse me, but -"

  It was the old lady who'd been buying stamps.

  "Yes?" said Sally.

  "I couldn't help overhearing, and perhaps I shouldn't interfere, but I was a parishioner of Mr Beech's, and if you're looking for him. . ."

 
"I am! Oh, I'm glad you overheard. Do you know where he is?"

  The old lady looked around and then leant a little closer. Sally smelt the lavender-water on her, and the mothballs on her fur stole.

  "I believe he's in prison," she whispered.

  "Really? But why?"

  "I can't tell you exactly, because I don't know. And Heaven knows I would hate to malign a poor gentleman who had fallen into temptation, but the truth will out. I left the congregation of St Thomas's a year or two before he was . . . removed, but you know one hears things. . . He always struck me as a nervous gentleman. No family - a bachelor - and one doesn't like that in a clergyman somehow. He didn't seem at all a well man during the last year I attended his church, and, you know, when the hand that gives you the Communion wafer shakes quite so much, it disturbs one's thoughts, d'you see. . ."

  "And you think he's in prison?" Sally prompted.

  "Well, one hears things - of course, one wouldn't want to credit everything one was told, but he did leave so suddenly, and one heard that the church authorities had kept it out of the newspapers, but my good friend Miss Hyne has a second cousin in the Home Office, and though he didn't of course say what he knows, he did leave her with little doubt that Mr Beech was now in prison."

  "How extraordinary," said Sally. "But what was he accused of?"

  "Ah, as to that, one could not say. But there's no doubt that the church silver (and of course some of it was the gift of the Crosse family, magnificent vessels) had been sadly depleted - one looked for the appearance of that beautiful chalice in vain - and one could not help drawing certain conclusions."

  "I see," said Sally. "Well, thank you very much, Mrs. . ."

  "Miss Hall. Are you a stranger in Portsmouth?"

  Sally got away from the old lady as politely as she could. She was inquiring on behalf of a missionary society, she said; Mr Beech had once expressed an interest in their activities, and as she had happened to be in the vicinity. . . No, it was very kind, but she wouldn't take tea with Miss Hall, as she had a train to catch. Thank you, thank you, goodbye.

  So, she thought, as the train steamed through the Hampshire countryside under the pale autumn sunshine: a vanishing clergyman, who might or might not be in prison, and an incontrovertible entry in a Register of Marriages. Someone must have planned this a long time ago: before Harriet was even born, in fact. Someone had woven a net around her so carefully that she'd never suspected it, and then had waited for the best possible moment before tugging it swiftly tight.

  Her hand felt for the squat shape of the pistol in her bag, and then she thrust it away. Not yet. Get someone in my sights first, she thought; I don't even know what Parrish looks like.

  But how chilling it was to find that invisible net around you, and how easy it would be, faced with evidence like that marriage register, to slip little by little into believing that it was true: that she really was married, and had lost her memory. . .

  Margaret Haddow climbed the stairs to Arthur Parrish's first-floor office, rehearsing her story. Sally's situation was scarcely credible, but Sally was a vastly less conventional young lady than Sally herself thought, and Margaret, in her brisk dry way, was extremely fond of her.

  She knocked; was admitted; and shortly afterwards sat down in a tidy little office across a desk from Mr Parrish himself.

  He was a neat man, with neat black hair and a neat little moustache. Dapper was the word for him, thought Margaret, except that there was a disconcerting stillness in his eyes and a greediness about the mouth. Not a hint of vanity, though he was conventionally handsome enough. His suit was dark, his collar starched, his cravat sober, and the three rings that sparkled on his fingers were no more than many men wore at that time.

  Margaret took it all in, trying not to stare. "Mr Parrish, do you take commissions in America?" she began.

  "Anywhere in the world," he said. "What did you have in mind?"

  "I've got a cousin in Buffalo. In New York State. He wants to set up in business as an importer of fine china, and he's asked me to see about getting him some samples from the best manufacturers and sending them across to him. . ."

  Mr Parrish jotted down some notes with a silver pencil.

  "Most of these firms have their own agents," he said. "Your cousin will be competing with established networks of salesmen, you know that, don't you?"

  "He was hoping to specialize in the finer items, I think, from the more artistic manufacturers. But I know nothing about china, Mr Parrish, and nothing about business. What would be the best way to proceed?"

  He put the pencil down and explained that her fictitious cousin's best bet would be to write to the companies he was interested in and introduce himself, offering his services. He, Mr Parrish, could certainly supply a list of names and addresses, and if desired, buy and dispatch a sample from each firm for her cousin's inspection.

  She was impressed. He was brisk and business-like, and the advice he gave was sound. There was nothing to indicate that as a businessman he was anything but honest.

  She thanked him, asked a couple of further questions to reinforce her story, and then said she'd write to her cousin and see what he said.

  Then, as she stood up to leave, he startled her.

  "By the way, Miss Haddow," he said, "please assure my wife that she won't get anywhere by sending you to spy on me. All right? You understand? Of course, if you really have got a cousin in Buffalo who wants to deal in china, I can help you, by all means. Would you like me to proceed in the way I described? No? I thought not. Well, remember what I said."

  She found herself speechless. Her face flaming, she looked down into his hard eyes for a moment more, and then turned on her heel and left.

  "I didn't see anything useful at all," she told Sally later on, over the tea-table at Orchard House. "I feel such a fool. He knew who I was from the start; and I thought I was being so clever. . ."

  Harriet was upstairs in the bath, and soon, when Sarah-Jane had put her to bed, Sally would go up and spend a little time with her, making up stories or singing nursery rhymes. For the moment, she and Margaret were alone, and the kettle hissing on the hearth and the occasional clop of hoofs on the road outside the front gate were the only sounds. Sally usually liked to watch the light fading from the garden, but she'd drawn the curtains early tonight; it looked less like light fading than like darkness gathering, and she wanted to keep it out.

  There was a knock, and Ellie came in to remove the tea things. She was a steady, pleasant girl, who'd worked for the Garlands when they lived in Bloomsbury, before the fire in which Frederick had died. She'd recently become engaged to the local doctor's groom, so she'd be leaving. Sally was pleased for her, but sorry to be losing her.

  A thought occurred to her as she handed Ellie her cup and saucer.

  "Ellie," she said, "how many people knew that Mr Webster and Mr Jim were going to be away?"

  "What, people in the town, miss? I should think most people that knows 'em. It wasn't a secret, as you might say."

  "Have you told anyone where they were going?"

  "Only Sidney, miss. My intended. Have I done wrong, miss?"

  "No, not at all. But is there anyone who knows, for instance, that they're way off in the jungle now? Have you talked about Jim's latest letter, for example?"

  "Well, only Cook, I should think, miss. I can't remember really. Oh - now wait a minute. That letter with the ink that'd run - that last one - you remember, miss, you said it must have fallen in the Amazon. You read me what he'd writ, all about shrunken heads and that, and how he said him and Mr Webster would either come home in a ship or in a cardboard box. That made Cook laugh, that did. She said if they sent his shrunken head home, she'd hang it up over the stove to keep the flies off the meat. Anyway, miss, we was talking about this in the kitchen, and the knife-man was there. He joined in as well; we had a right old laugh. I know you shouldn't laugh at that really, but Mr Jim would laugh more than anyone."

  "Of course he would. Who'
s the knife-man?"

  "I forget his name. Cook might know. The old knife-cleaner, when he gave up last year, this feller came along instead. He comes once a month to sharpen the knives and scissors and all that, miss. But it's a funny thing. . ."

  "What's funny, Ellie?"

  "Well, he don't go to Doctor Talbot's. Sidney says old Mr Pratt, the old knife-cleaner, he still calls there. But he doesn't come here any more; this new man does. Very friendly, ever so interested in everything, and he does a good job too. I mean, old Mr Pratt, he was ever so slow. I don't think Cook would've told Mr Pratt not to come any more, she wouldn't do that, but it was just that this new man knocked one day and said Mr Pratt had had to give up, and did we want his trade. Have I done anything wrong, miss?"

  "Of course not, Ellie. When's he due to come again, do you know?"

  "He came last week, so he won't be back for a while now. He doesn't come regular, he just calls every month or thereabouts."

  "Next time he comes, could you let me know without telling him? Just come and find me and tell me he's in the kitchen."

  "Right you are, Miss Lockhart. I'll remember."

  She gathered up the tea cups and plates and left.

  Margaret said, "A spy then."

  "It sounds like it, doesn't it?"

  "D'you think you ought to go to the police?"

  "They'd laugh, Margaret. Where's the crime? Don't forget, this man's married to me, or so they'd think. He's probably got every right to spy on his wife."

  "Well, your solicitor then. Tell him."

  "Yes, I'll do that," said Sally. "I suppose that might help."

  Shortly afterwards, Margaret left for the station, and Sally went up to Harriet. They had an extra long time together. Sally held her close and sang her all the nursery rhymes they could remember, and then offered to play a special game Harriet played with Bruin, but only Jim could play that properly; so Sally blew out the candle and lay on the bed in the dark while Harriet snuggled down beside her, and made up a story about Jim and Uncle Webster in the jungle. It was a poor, thin thing; she knew she hadn't a tenth of Jim's imagination. But it seemed to make Harriet happy as they lay in the dark together.

  Chapter Four

  THE TAX-COLLECTORS

  Before she went, Margaret had said to Sally, "There was one thing. It's probably meaningless. But there are two offices at Parrish's, an inner one where he works and an outer one you go through to get to him. There were two clerks in the outer one and a lot of files and reference books and all the sort of clutter you might expect - except that it wasn't clutter, you know, it was almost crazily tidy. Well, as I came out, there was a third man in there with the two clerks - he looked like a rent-collector, he had a little leather bag. I was so furious with myself, I didn't really take in what they said, and they stopped talking when I went through anyway, but I thought I heard the rent-collector man say, That'll do for the bleeding Jews, then, eh? or else, That'll bleed the Jews, then, eh? That's all I heard. I've only just remembered."