LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

in Seymour’s direction but otherwise he made no sign. He looked up slowly and quizzically as Seymour stood before him on the other side of the small table.

      “The old bastard!” thought Seymour. “He’s playing innocent, I reckon this is going to cost me!”

      “Good evening! Josh Wilkins?”

      “That’s me,” the old man looked up and then his eyes strayed down to his half empty glass. Seymour was tempted to offer a full glass straight away, but then decided against it. He didn’t want to surrender too easily, if he plied him with drinks right away he could find himself buying all night.

      “Mind if I join you?”

      “Free country,” said the other.

      Seymour sat down and perceived this was not going to be easy. He had the feeling that any information would have to be dragged out on the sharp end of a filled pint pot! Josh Wilkins could be anything over 80 years of age, he would have to be if he possessed an intimate knowledge of the denizens of the village in the 1920’s. What hair he had was white, he was bald but had a tuft of hair in the front and middle of his head which he had allowed to grow and then combed back across his bald pate. His face was wizened and had many brown patches on it, his eyes were pale blue and rheumy. He was wearing a very old coat, buttoned up despite sitting close to the fire, the top button had been replaced by a large safety pin. He smelt of peppermints.

      “You’ve been living here for many years, I understand,” hazarded Seymour.

      “Quite a few.”

      “You’d have known many people who lived here way back, even just after the Great War?”

      “Maybe.”

      Seymour decided against beating about the bush and tried to come straight to the point.

      “Some members of my family used to live around here, about 1920 onwards.”

      The old man raised one eyebrow as he looked at Seymour, then his hand reached out to his beer glass and he drained what was left. Seymour sighed, he had been intending to leave the plying of drinks until the conversation was more advanced, but his hand was being forced.

      “What’s your poison?” he asked.

      “Beechwood Bitter.”

      Seymour half turned to rise to his feet, but the landlord evidently had guessed the course the conversation would take and was keeping a watchful eye. He nodded to Seymour and jerked his finger at the nearest pump, on which was written “Beechwood Bitter”. Seymour nodded, the landlord smiled and seized hold of a glass which he began to fill.

      “You knew most of the people living here then?” he asked.

      “Most of ‘em,” rejoined Wilkins. “Not many of ‘em ‘ere now, ‘cept me!”

      “Did you ever come across anyone named Accrington, or Havering?”

      “May have done, may have done,” answered the old man and Seymour cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long job that would take all bloody night. This was frustrating as he was anxious to get back upstairs; firstly so they could go out to dinner, and secondly because he was not only feeling peckish but in anticipation of a pleasant weekend in the country. Andrea had dressed to kill and he was experiencing strong desires in other directions as well. He wondered if it was the country air.

      The fresh drink appeared before Wilkins, who eyed it approvingly. The young barmaid looked enquiringly at Seymour as he handed over the cash but he shook his head. He didn’t want to be sloshed to the eyeballs when he went back to Andrea.

      “What were the names again?”

      “Accrington and Havering,” Seymour repeated patiently.

      The old man reached for the glass and slowly sampled it, he appeared to approve and began to drink it down. He downed half of it and wiped his mouth.

      “Well, do you remember them at all?”

      “Jus’ thinkin’,” said the old man bitingly. “The names do mean somethin’ … . . Accrington you said?”

      “Yes, I did.”

      More contents of the glass were despatched and Seymour ground his teeth as he realised that another pint of Beechwood Bitter was required, if not now then pretty soon. The money didn’t worry him, the old bugger could quaff double Scotches as far as he was concerned, but he didn’t want to sit here all night. The heat from the fire was another factor, Josh Wilkins might find the heat acceptable, maybe his blood was very thin, but Seymour was beginning to perspire freely and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.

      He nodded to the landlord and another Beechwood bitter materialised at Wilkins’ elbow. He sampled the new glass, appeared to approve, and took a large swallow.

      “Good stuff, this!” he announced.

      “Really?” Seymour began to wonder how he could extract any information at all from this old man who was clearly milking it for all it was worth.

      “Can you remember any families of those names?” Seymour asked.

      The old man considered.

      “I do remember a young chap named Accrington, had a carpentry business if I remember rightly.”

      “Now we’re getting somewhere,” thought Seymour. He forbore to comment, not wanting to interrupt the flow.

      “Not living here for long though, dunno where ‘e went.”

      “Shit!” thought Seymour, realising he’d got nowhere at all, he could have told Wilkins that himself.

      “What about Havering?” he asked.

      “Farming family, they were from Haddenham way. They sold up in the 1930’s and moved west. Dunno where they went.”

      He finished the glass and placed it down on the table, picked it up again and looked meaningly at the bottom of it.

      “No!” thought Seymour. “I’m not falling for that one again.” He made to rise to his feet.

      “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Wilkins,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.” This was the overstatement of the year as far as he was concerned.

      “Jus’ a minute, I think I can remember . . let me think now …!” and Seymour realised that his exasperation had provided him with a weapon as the old man saw the prospect of more Beechwood bitters disappearing into the blue.

      “Are any members of the same family still around here?”

      “Nope!” Wilkins shook his head, and his hand clutched his beer glass. “Accrington and his missus were a one off, they lived here for a few years and that was it. They weren’t from around these parts, not that I knows of.”

      “Still no further,” thought Seymour ruefully, but one point did appear to be clarified. There was no history of anybody named Accrington in the area apart from the one family.

      “A mate of mine might know more,” Wilkins went on. “I’ll ask him - will you be in tomorrow?”

      Seymour ruminated that it would hardly be worth it, the bloody pub would probably be out of beer by then if Wilkins stayed here until closing time. And his mate, which would most likely be that other bloodsucker Cuddeston, would probably be here as well demanding his cut of the products of the Chiltern Brewery. But it was clear the old man wasn’t going to concede any more information, not tonight anyway.

      “I may be, maybe not,” he answered shortly, giving an answer in Wilkins’ own vein. He wondered whether to pursue it any further, but he was now sweating even more profusely from the fire, and he was beginning to experience a sensation of claustrophobia. He just had to get away from the fire and this old man and the odour of peppermints and stale beer.

      “Thanks anyway,” he said, nodded, rose to his feet and left. The old man

Скачать книгу