The Vivero Letter. Desmond Bagley
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flipped his hand. ‘In here! I wasn’t here at the time, but Harry said he heard the whole thing. He was having a drink with Bob at the time.’
I said, ‘Do you know this American?’
‘I don’t think so. We get a lot of Yanks here – you run a place as old as the Cott and you’re on the culture circuit. But we didn’t have any Americans staying here just then. We have one here now, though; he arrived yesterday.’
‘Oh! What kind of an American?’
Nigel smiled. ‘Oldish – about sixty, I’d say. Name of Fallon. He must have a lot of money, too, judging by the telephone bill he’s run up. But I wouldn’t say he’s a suspicious character.’
‘Getting back to Hannaford and the other Yank,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’
‘There’s nothing more to tell. Just that the Yank wanted to buy the tray – that’s all Harry said.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘He’ll be in soon, as like as not, for his midday pint. He usually comes in about now. Do you know him?’
‘I can’t place him.’
‘All right,’ said Nigel. ‘When he comes in I’ll tip you the wink.’
The sandwiches arrived and I took them to a corner table near the fireplace. When I sat down I felt suddenly tired, which wasn’t surprising considering I’d been up all night and subject to a hell of a lot of tension. I ate the sandwiches slowly and drank some more beer. I was only now coming out of the shock that had hit me when I found Bob, and it was beginning to really hurt.
The pub started to fill up and I saw one or two faces I knew, but no one bothered me, although I intercepted some curious glances from eyes that were quickly averted. But there’s a basic decency among countrymen which forbade them overt curiosity. Presently I saw Nigel talking to a big man in tweeds, then he crossed to me and said, ‘Hannaford’s here. Want to talk to him?’
I looked around the crowded bar. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t here. Have you a room I can use?’
‘Take my office,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I’ll send Harry in after you.’
‘You can send a couple of pints, too,’ I said, and left the bar by the back door.
Hannaford joined me in a few minutes. ‘Main sorry to hear about Bob,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Many’s the laugh we’ve had here. He was a good man.’
‘Yes, Mr Hannaford; he was.’ It was easy to see the relationship between Hannaford and Bob. When a man is a regular caller at a pub he strikes up an easy and casual acquaintanceship in those four walls. More often than not it goes no further than that and there may be no meeting outside the pub. But for all that there need be no shallowness to it – it’s just uncomplicated and friendly.
I said, ‘Nigel tells me there was an American wanting to buy the tray from Bob.’
‘That there was – and more’n one. Bob had two offers to my knowledge, both from Americans.’
‘Did he? Do you know anything about these men, Mr Hannaford?’
Hannaford pulled his ear. ‘Mr Gatt was a real nice gentleman – not at all pushy like a lot of these Yanks. A middle-aged man he was, and well dressed. Very keen to buy that tray from Bob was Mr Gatt.’
‘Did he offer a price – a definite price?’
‘Not straight out he didn’t. Your brother said it was no use him offering any price at all until he’d had the tray valued, and Mr Gatt said he’d give Bob the valuation price – whatever it was. But Bob laughed and said he might not sell it at all, that it was a family heirloom. Mr Gatt looked mighty put out when he heard that.’
‘What about the other man?’
‘The young chap? I didn’t relish him much, he acted too high and mighty for me. He made no offer – not in my hearing – but he was disappointed when Bob said he wasn’t set on selling, and he spoke pretty sharpish to Bob until his wife shut him up.’
‘His wife!’
Hannaford smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t swear to that – he showed me no marriage lines – but I reckon it was his wife or, maybe his sister, perhaps.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘That he did. Now, what was it? Hall? No, that’s not it. Steadman? Nooo. Wait a minute and I’ll get it.’ His big red face contorted with the effort of remembering and suddenly smoothed out. ‘Halstead – that was it. Halstead was the name. He gave your brother his card – I remember that. He said he’d get in touch again when the tray was valued. Bob said he was wasting his time and that’s when he lost his temper.’
I said, ‘Anything else you remember about it?’
Hannaford shook his head. That’s about all there was to it. Oh, Mr Gatt did say he was a collector of pieces like that. One of these rich American millionaires, I expect.’
I thought that rich Americans seemed to be thick on the ground around the Cott. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
Hannaford rubbed his jaw. ‘Let me see – it was after they printed about it in the Western Morning News; two days after, to my best recollection. That’ud make it five days ago, so it was Tuesday.’
I said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hannaford. The police might be interested in this, you know.’
‘I’ll tell them all I’ve told you,’ he said earnestly, and put his hand on my sleeve. ‘When’s the funeral to be? I’d like to be there to pay my respects.’
I hadn’t thought of that; too much had happened in too short a time. I said, ‘I don’t know when it will be. There’ll have to be an inquest first.’
‘Of course,’ said Hannaford. ‘Best thing to do would be to tell Nigel as soon as you’re sure, and he’ll let me know. And others, too. Bob Wheale was well liked around here.’
‘I’ll do that.’
We went back into the bar and Nigel caught my eye. I put my tankard on the bar counter and he nodded across the room. ‘That’s the Yank who is staying here now. Fallon.’
I turned and saw a preternaturally thin man sitting near to the fire holding a whisky glass. He was about sixty years of age, his head was gaunt and fleshless and his skin tanned to the colour of well worn leather. As I watched he seemed to shiver and he drew his chair closer to the fire.
I turned back to Nigel, who said, ‘He told me he spends a lot of time in Mexico. He doesn’t like the English climate – he thinks it’s too cold.’
IV
I spent that night alone at Hay Tree Farm. Perhaps I should have stayed at the Cott and saved myself a lot of misery, but I didn’t. Instead I wandered through the silent rooms, peopled with the shadowy figures of memories, and grew more and more depressed.
I was the last of the Wheales – there was no one else. No uncles or aunts or cousins, no sisters or brothers – just me. This echoing, empty house, creaking with the centuries, had witnessed a vast procession down the years – a pageant of Wheales – Elizabethan, Jacobean, Restoration, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian. The little patch of England around the house had been sweated over by Wheales for more than four centuries in good times and bad, and now it all sharpened down to a single point – me. Me – a grey little man in a grey little job.
It wasn’t fair!
I found myself standing in Bob’s room. The bed was still dishevelled where I had whipped away the blankets to cover him and I straightened it almost automatically, smoothing down the counterpane. His dressing-table was untidy, as it always had been, and stuck in the crack up one side of the mirror was