The Skeleton Man

‘That was it. I thought about going into the village to try and find her but it was late by then and dusk was falling. I could see lights down on The Dring where the dance was on, people out in the street, music. The last thing young people want to see when they’re enjoying themselves is a dog collar.’

Dryden nodded. ‘Did you see anyone else that night, before you left?’

‘A few. As I said, we had this little party, well a few drinks, for the sidesmen, the organist, the women who helped with the old people’s club, and the ringers, of course – those that were left and still sober. And my wife went down to the almshouses to bring Joyce Crane up – she was ninety then. We would have brought the others up, the men, but they were already in the inn. Free beer, you see. Our invitation was not the first on the list of attractions.’

Dryden nodded.

Lake raised a finger to his lips. ‘And Magda.’

‘Magda Hollingsworth?’ Dryden could see her now, bent over her diary, setting down the story of the girl who’d threatened to kill her baby.

‘Yes. I remember because I told the police, when they got in contact later after they found she was missing. I said she’d had problems with depression and suchlike but that I never thought she’d harm herself. But I saw her that last night, yes, walking out along Church Street, out of the village, towards Telegraph Hill. That was later – just before eight, just before I went down to the garage.’

‘Was that unusual, to see her out there?’

‘No. Magda was a great walker, which caused a bit of a scandal – I mean talk about narrow-minded. They said it was gypsy blood, that she couldn’t bear to be inside a house for long. Rubbish! That woman loved her home. I think it was losing it that broke her. She’d often go up there and sit by the water tower with a book – another dangerous eccentricity in Fen eyes, I’m afraid. My wife liked her, said she really cared about the place, the village community. But she was a bit much for most people – ankle bracelets, that kind of thing. They thought of her as a gypsy. And you couldn’t say a lot worse than that in Jude’s Ferry.’

Lake held up a hand, aware he’d gone too far. ‘She had friends in the village, good friends. Not everyone tried to cast her out. Bob Steward – one of our churchwardens – used to work for the water board, it was his job to check the tower every week and the water quality. He’d often find her up there on the grass, enjoying the solitude. I told her once that if she really wanted peace and serenity she could always sit in the church.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t work.’

Suddenly there was a wave of screaming from the surf and they both stirred, as if wakened from a sleep. Dryden switched tack. ‘And Peter Tholy – he was a friend of George, wasn’t he? Did you help him with his immigration request?’

‘Yes. I was amazed he did that, a lot of people were.’

‘Why?’

‘Just so timid. He was eighteen then, perhaps nineteen, and I really don’t think he’d been out of the village but to go to school. But I guess he trusted George, and there was nothing for him here. I did warn him, you know. I said I was an immigrant too and it wasn’t all bold new horizons.’

Dryden nodded. ‘Nobody else in his life?’

Lake shook his head. ‘I knew the family actually, going back a couple of years – his mother went out first to Australia after she remarried. Callous woman, she wanted a new life and I don’t think she was particularly bothered if Peter followed her out or not. And there was Broderick, Colonel Broderick, he’d given Peter work and was genuinely concerned for his future I think. A glowing testimonial and references certainly – even if he was a bitter man.’

‘Bitter?’

‘I don’t know much – they were Methodists and worshipped in Whittlesea. But the marriage had failed and the son, the only child, had very much sided with the mother over the years. He visited, in fact he was often here in the holidays, but you could tell they didn’t hit it off. So I guess Peter helped fill the gap.’

‘So Peter’s father, then? Dead?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Many years before, long before I came to the Ferry in ’82. Farm labourer like his son. They were poor, genuinely poor. Those houses along the far side of The Dring were slums. The father had been married before and there were children from that marriage, I think. Anyway, complicated, if not by Fen standards. So plenty of mouths to feed and not much by way of a wage. Incredible, isn’t it? People used to stop and take pictures of those cottages, Americans mainly, come to see the church. That’s the problem with rural poverty, of course, it’s invisible. But it’s just as nasty as any ghetto. A little Soweto on Whittlesea Mere.’

‘Did you hear from him, from Peter?’

Lake leant back on his elbows. ‘Yup. I got cards from Peter and he made contact with the church in, er… now, where was it? Fremantle, I think. Yes, he was studious at keeping in touch, Christmas cards, that kind of thing. At least for the first few years.’

Dryden nodded.