At the front door, Reverend Hinchcliffe greeted him stiffly. When Billy had telephoned him earlier, he had expressed reluctance about a meeting, and now, on his front door step, his beaming smile faded as soon as Billy announced himself.
'Come in. I'm sorry, but I don't much welcome this meeting, young man,' he said, noting Billy's apologetic shrug.
Trapped in his studious gaze, Billy waited nervously, unsure what he should do next. The heavy lead glazed door clattered shut behind him, setting the vicar walking into the heart of his house. Billy followed along a wide entrance hall paved with mock mediaeval tiles.
'I can only give you a few minutes. Tomorrow is Sunday. However, I'm not sure I can fill even a few minutes, knowing as little as I do of the events you described to me on the telephone.'
'It's very nice,' said Billy.
The vicar peered at him over gold wire framed spectacles. 'What is?'
'Your house - it's very nice. It must be very old. It's just like my school.'
Reverend Hinchcliffe was in his late fifties, tall and slim. He had the bearing of a military man. His bald, freckled head seemed too large for his body. His face was cherubic with cheeks that seemed to be saving food for the winter. His small mouth had probably smiled so much professionally, that it could no longer relax. It smiled now, even though the vicar was far from happy.
'It was built about 1885. So, not that old really: though the architect clearly wanted people to think it was. It implies authority I suppose. You can be forgiven for being fooled.' He led Billy into a large room full of clutter and papers. Books lay around everywhere, some open facing up with pebbles weighting down their pages, some open face down, others stacked with book marks poking out of them. 'My study; it's rather untidy I'm afraid. Mrs Corbert never comes in here; not that I forbid it. The good woman simply refuses to enter. She tells me I'm hopeless - beyond care.' He sighed and looked about the room as if trying to remember why he was there. 'So, what can I do for you, Master – err - William Perks?'
'I was wondering, sir, what an editor does.'
Reverend Hinchcliffe looked surprised, and inflated his cheeks briefly, as if playing a trumpet. 'Well that's an odd thing to ask. Why is it so important to you?'
'You were the editor of Mrs Loveday's book. I wondered what that means.'
'Still am, my boy. I haven't finished. Mind you I don't suppose I ever will now.'
'Why not?' asked Billy.
'I enquired at the police station,' said the vicar shaking his big freckled head. 'They say the house was cleared and all the papers and things destroyed – burned. The manuscript was in four notebooks. I had edited three of them already, but I've not even begun the fourth. Never will now. There's no point without the others.'
'You have a fourth notebook?' gasped Billy.
The vicar eyed him curiously. 'Yes, why do you ask? Have you seen the others?'
'I have them,' said Billy. 'They were going to be burned, but I saved them.'
The vicar's cherubic face seemed to test several expressions before settling for quiet satisfaction. 'I think you and I should have some tea, or perhaps you'd like cherryade?' he said, suddenly warming to his visitor.
'Cherryade, please.'
'Mrs Corbert is not here so we must fend manfully.'
Billy took this to mean that he should follow the vicar to wherever fending manfully was to take place. It turned out to be a large kitchen whose dark walls were hung with pots, pans and strange gadgets, which to Billy looked like instruments of torture.
'Nip, snip, shorten, liquidise, rephrase, smooth out, annotate, discard, rearrange, check, rectify, strike out, revise,' said the vicar, delivering cherryade with all the sombre ceremony of communion wine. 'The editor's role. I read and ask myself, is this comfortable? Does it sit well? Is it true to the truth as I know it?'
Billy watched him and listened intently, then downed his cherryade in one.
'People can be funny about the truth,' said the vicar, tapping the side of his nose with a finger. 'Truth and roses have thorns about them – eh?'
Noisily hoovering the last dregs of cherryade, Billy dismissed the vicar's question and dived in with one of his own. 'Did you ever mention her memoirs to Mr Pearce? D'you know - him at the chemists?'
The vicar smiled, his head nodding as if on springs. 'Ah ha! Mr Pearce,' he sang quietly, pacing his gloomy kitchen and stirring his teacup. 'You know what the Greeks said? "Truth lies at the bottom of a well." Believe me, Billy, there are many who would want it to be left there.'
………
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Billy sulked like a coiled hosepipe. It was the last Saturday before Whitsuntide. The city's pavements were bustling and his mother had bustled him on to them. They alighted from the tram at the Cathedral and dodged past the Cutlers' Hall into the crowds of shoppers. Unnoticed, the tramp followed them. For over an hour, he watched as Billy trailed sullenly behind his mother from store to store.
Billy was taking part in, what he hoped, was the last expedition to be togged out for Whitsuntide. He was struggling to be on his best behaviour. He needed to keep his mother sweet, because this year, he was desperate for long trousers. He should be out of shorts by now. He was no longer a little kid. Nothing must upset her and ruin his chance of getting them. His pals had been strutting about in longs for almost a year. He would die of shame if he did not get them too.
He needn't have worried. At Stewart and Stewart's, opposite the Peace Gardens, the young salesman was pushing long trousers. His faultless line in sales chat and flattery, so impressed Mrs Perks, that Billy was blazored and flannelled by an expert in record time. Pink and flustered, Mrs Perks thanked the young man and paid for the long trousers. Billy's heart was singing. With new, manly garb in paper bags, he skipped out of the shop and followed his mother.
As they battered through the crowds of shoppers on The Moor, Billy's path was suddenly barred. He peered over his packages into a pair of startled eyes set in a grimy, scarred face. A grubby tramp in an old RAF greatcoat and balaclava stood before him, seemingly frozen in panic. His face looked oddly familiar, even allowing for the scars.
Billy clumsily stepped right to get round him. The tramp moved to his left at the same moment, and the pair jinked to and fro, like clumsy dancers, until the man broke away and ran off through the crowd. He headed for a fence made of old doors and floor boards that surrounded a bomb crater where a department store had once stood. Finding a loose board, he squeezed through and vanished. Billy ran to the fence and bobbed along it, peering through splintered gaps and old keyholes, down to the rubble and slimy green water in the bomb crater. There was no sign of the tramp.
'Come back here, I don't want you getting lost,' his mother called testily. 'And don't get those parcels on that mucky fence. For goodness sake, have you no sense at all?'
He rejoined his mother, his head alive with questions. A shiver of unease shook him. Since getting off the tram, he'd felt as if he was being followed. Was it the tramp? Was this the man, whom Sergeant Burke had said, was sleeping in the tunnel? He remembered the old cardboard box of belongings and the newspaper cutting about Annabel Loveday. Had they belonged to this man? If so what was his connection to Annabel? Had he killed her? It was obvious he had recognised Billy, otherwise why had he looked so shocked, and run away like that? Who was he?
Yvonne had said she'd seen a tramp watching them at the greenhouse. Kick Morley was certain he had. But who was he, and why was he following them? Billy knew he would have to find out. Again he regretted that he had not taken more notice of the things he had found in the tunnel. Was one of the medals he had seen a DFM? He hadn't a clue. How can you find out what a DFM looks like? He didn't know. Do medals have labels on the back of them to remind people which is which? "This is your Victoria Cross, this is your DFM." He did not know. Detectiving, he told himself ruefully, involved more brains and hard work than he had expected.
'Do they have medals in the museum Mam? C
an we go?'
'Don't be stupid.'
*
They found the photograph pinned to the MOM board. Kick had been the first to see it when he had arrived at the greenhouse. 'I didn't touch it, because – err … '
The others waited, wondering what gem of forensic science he was about to reveal.'
'... I don't know why.'
'It looks like some fly boys playing cards,' said Yvonne, not touching it either.
'I've seen it before,' Billy told them. 'It was in the tunnel.'
'Does it say who they are?' Yvonne asked, plucking it from the board.
'No, I looked when I was in the tunnel,' said Billy.
'Well it does now,' Yvonne told him. 'Bob Hinchcliffe, Tommy Loveday, Frenchie Cadell, Noll Pearce and Willy Glover, nineteen forty-one. It says Charlie Leedham took it.
Billy grabbed it and read, flipping several times from the faces in the photograph to the names pencilled on its reverse. 'Bob, that must be Robert Hinchcliffe, the vicar's son. He look's just like him.'
Kick and Yvonne leaned in to see the face in the photograph. 'That's Pearce, Yvonne said pointing. 'Noll must be his nick name. I don't know the others.'
'Me neither,' Kick said.
'I think I do,' Billy said cryptically. 'That one there might be the tramp.' He pointed to a face in the photograph, then flipped it to read the name. 'Frenchie Cadell.'
'Frenchie Cadell. I've never heard of him.'
'Well it looks a bit like him, but he's different here - all cleaned up like that. He's got burn scars now and he's scruffy.'
Yvonne, pointed to the two remaining laughing faces. 'If it is him, does that make this one Willy Glover, or ..?'
'So which's Tommy Loveday?' Kick interrupted.
'I don't know, but if I'm right about the tramp, Tommy must be one of these two.'
'I thought he might be in it – the tramp. I thought it might prove it was him that's been sleeping in the tunnel.'
'Is he helping us?' asked Yvonne. 'I mean, he's given us this photograph, and he even gave us their names on the back. He must be helping us.'
'It looks like it, but why?' asked Kick.
Billy sighed gloomily. 'I've gotta go. My curfew's coming up.'
*
Invisible in the gloaming and the flaking wreckage of an old garden shed, the tramp watched the friends file out of the greenhouse. Meeting Billy in the town centre had been a close call - a bad mistake. He would have to be more careful. It was not yet time. They mustn't know him yet. There were still too many unanswered questions.
*
As Billy rounded the corner of his house his mother appeared and grabbed him by the shoulders. Shoving him firmly against the house wall, she began brushing down his jacket and smoothing his hair with her palms. Then, glancing shiftily at the house window, she spat on her handkerchief and began wiping his face with it. 'The Vicar is here,' she hissed. 'He wants to talk to you. We're Catholics, Billy - for God's sake. What will Father MacDonagh say if he finds out? What've you done now?'
With difficulty, balancing cup, plate, paper serviette and a pyramid of scones, the Reverend Hinchcliffe rose from his chair as Billy was ushered into his presence. 'Billy, my dear chap. I hope you don't mind me coming like this,' he apologised, trying to ignore the excited little dog bouncing around Billy's legs. 'I waited until I thought you would have eaten, but I'm told your father is working nights. I do apologise, do you mind me coming when he's not here?'
Catching the bouncing dog and easing it under the table, Billy shook his head. 'I'm glad, sir. It's very nice to see you.'
'More tea, vicar?' asked Mrs Perks.
Billy giggled and couldn't stop. "More tea, vicar," was a family in-joke used by his mother, should Billy or his father accidentally burp. Realising her error, Mrs Perks was herself now fighting not to join her son in nervous giggling.
The vicar was puzzled, but delighted to be among such cheerful people. 'Yes please,' he enthused, 'but – err - no more scones I think.'
After tea and pleasantries, Reverend Hinchcliffe at last broached the topic that had brought him. It was no surprise to Billy, but his mother listened intently, her jaw sagging occasionally as her young son thrust and parried with the vicar on seemingly equal terms.
'The other three books are safe, Sir,' Billy assured the vicar. 'I swear it. And when we know who killed Mrs Loveday, I promise you I will give them to the police, but not before. If I did it now they might just throw 'em away because they don't think she was murdered.'
'But my dear young friend, I've read them, and I can assure you they do not suggest a killer, nor even vaguely a possible motive.'
'You read them before they had pages torn out?'
'Ah yes, the pages torn out. Well - oh dear – that is a shame of course.'
'Book three has pages missing; possibly something about a Distinguished Flying Medal. They missed a word or two. Can you remember what it said?'
The vicar shuffled, clearly discomforted by the question. 'I must ask you to believe me, Billy, it is not what you're looking for.'
Billy had found pencil and paper. 'Can you say what it said?'
'I must be going. I have much to do. It's a big day tomorrow - a very big day.'
'Does it say anything about lies and a medal? Does it mention Mr Pearce?'
'It is not what you're looking for Billy, I can assure you. That is all I will say. Now I'd like you to return the books to me for safe keeping. They belong together.'
'He can't,' said Billy's mother, her sudden interjection surprising the vicar. 'I'm sorry Reverend, but my son can't do that. They were about to be burned, but he saved them. I'm sure you'll agree, upon reflection, that he is their rightful custodian, until he hands them over to the police. He's made it quite clear that he values and respects them. I think you and I can both feel that they are safe. However, perhaps you'll agree that the fourth book, which you have, should join the others?'
Brilliant, thought Billy. Go for it Mam.
The vicar frowned thoughtfully and studied his shoes. His small, pursed mouth seemed to be chewing some of the food Billy suspected he kept in his cheeks. Silence hung on the air. 'I can't quite do entirely that,' he said, straining to be agreeable. 'But you are right, Mrs Perks. The books should be given to the authorities, but not until we know they will be protected. I give you my firm promise to protect the fourth book.'
Billy sagged, disappointed, and tossed his paper and pencil aside. His mother seemed satisfied and began rescuing the vicar from his teacup and plate.
*
Marlene Sparkes tilted her nose and sneered loftily as she approached Billy outside the pikelet shop. 'I'm reporting you to the Co-op committee,' she said sourly. 'You've no right using Co-op property for your silly games. That cash carrier is not a toy. You could have broken it.'
'You mess with it,' Billy huffed. 'I've seen Doctor Hadfield send you love letters.'
Marlene blushed and shuffled on her high heels. 'That was business. Anyway, here's your key, and don't let me catch you fooling with it again. You need to learn how to behave, you do. You and our Yvonne are making us a laughing stop.'
'Stock. It's a laughing stock, not a stop. Trams have stops not laughs.'
Marlene gaped at him, her expression mixing alarm and revulsion, as if he were sloughing off his skin. 'You're weird, you are, Billy Perks,' she said with a shudder. 'Well anyway don't do it. You'll just get into bother. I've told Fergal not to encourage you.'
'Fergal?' hooted Billy.
'It's Doctor Hadfield to you. And you needn't think he'll be helping you anymore, not if he knows what's good for him.'
It was easy to guess what potent influences Marlene could bring to bear upon a spirited young man like Doctor Hadfield, Fergal. Her threat was not an empty one. It seemed more than likely that the forensic advice and adult access that the Doctor had provided would come to an abrupt end. Billy's face darkened with disappointment. Marlene shrugged, concerned to see his
response. 'Well really Billy, you'll just get into trouble, or be disappointed in the end,' she cooed, as if doing him a big favour. 'Oh, and there are no photographs of the wound. So you can forget that too.' She spun on her tottering heels and swished away, honey coloured curls tossing on coral pink padded shoulders.
*
Whitsuntide: first to Mass at Saint Joseph's, then down South Road to Saint Mary's to join the proddys at their whit-walk. Youth bands tuned up, smart Alecs played bits of Colonel Bogey until clipped on the ear by a scoutmaster. Huge, silken banners were unsheathed from storage and hoisted in the breeze. Shimmering tapestries of saints and martyrs, billowing proudly, cracking their gold tasselled cords like whips until brought under control. Solemn faced men slotted banner poles into shiny leather holsters, as the parade noisily jostled into place. Pretty little girls, the annual crop of May Queens, Rose Queens and Sunday School Queens, appeared in their regalia to head the march, their sheepish maids of honour and blushing page boys, shepherded into place to carry colourful trains of made-over curtains and ribbons. Then the bands struck up, uncertainly at first. They chased one another for a bar or two, before falling into key and tempo, as the parade moved off.
Billy swung his arms, tripping into step behind a particularly asymmetrical troop of the Boys' Brigaders. It was more of a stroll than a march. Along the way, folk gathered on the pavements, waving and clapping. Billy cheerfully acknowledged them and pulled back his shoulders in proud imitation of the be-medalled old soldiers up front. Occasionally people stepped off the kerb and joined in, others dropped out after a token few hundred yards. Box Brownies snapped, and whistles sounded amid the cheers of friends honouring friends.
Arnold Pearce was amongst them, gaily clapping like the rest until he spotted Billy. Then his face darkened. Beneath his new blazer and long trousers, Billy shivered, eyeing Pearce warily. Suddenly he lost sight of him and spun round searching the happy faces, but he was not there. Stretching up he searched around from one side of the road to the other, until he sensed him at his shoulder.
'You've got some explaining to do, my lad.'
'What d'yer mean?'