The Fifth Identity. Ray CW Scott
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He had the feeling that the old man was testing him out. This elderly gentleman seemed to have more about him than Josh Wilkins and Seymour had already taken a liking to him.
“No!” he shook his head. “Not descended from them. They are what you might call collateral lines.”
“Yes, they would have to be,” the old man looked at Seymour, and his eyes indicated that he seemed to be aware there was more to it than mere family research. Seymour raised one eyebrow and then the old man’s face broke out into a smile.
“By collateral, you mean …what?’ he asked.
“Well,” Seymour paused as he thought about it. He had heard his cousin Mark use the expression frequently when he had been showing Seymour his research files on the Seymour family. “It means other lines from which you are not directly descended, like from cousins or siblings of your grandparents, that sort of thing.”
“Are you related to this family?”
Again Seymour felt the old man was way ahead of him. He decided to come clean, and shook his head.
“No, I’m researching on behalf of someone else,” he said, and was thankful that in an earlier comment he had mentioned that John Accrington was a relative of the family he was researching. A question of semantics, but the old man seemed to know something.
He was also aware that Jim Cuddeston was still in the room. He had said nothing, leaving all the talking to his father.
“Who are you?” Sam Cuddeston finally asked.
“I’m Rex Seymour.”
“No. What are you?” said Sam Cuddeston. “I’ll tell you one thing, you’re ex-army.”
“How did you … … ? Ah! The tie.” Seymour looked down at his own shirtfront.
“Maybe; but it sticks out a mile. Did a bit of time myself in the last lot, Middle East and Italy, Eighth Army under Montgomery,” the old man smiled. “But I know the name Accrington, not only from here. Are you involved with the man who died recently, the industrialist?”
Seymour found he was smiling, and nodded. He had already cast his eye around the room and had noted that there were copies of recent newspapers. They were of the ‘heavy’ broadsheet type, the Daily Telegraph and the Independent, newspapers that would have probably reported the activities of the computer market quite frequently in their scientific and computer pages.
“Yes.”
“You haven’t answered my first question.”
“Which was?”
“What are you? You’re ex-Army, but what are you now?”
“I’m working for John Accrington’s solicitors, I work for a security firm in London.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We’re trying to find family members.”
“Why are you …? Oh I see. Beneficiaries.”
“Something like that,” Seymour felt uneasy, this old boy seemed to be all about and very aware of what was going on.
“And you’re saying that this was the same John Accrington who came from here?”
Seymour pursed his lips and shrugged.
“No, not necessarily, but we have a birth certificate that does indicate that.”
“Can I see it?”
Seymour rummaged in his brief case and produced the folder containing a photocopy of the birth certificate and handed it over. Sam Cuddeston reached for his spectacles and perused it, then nodded.
“That’s the John Accrington I knew,” he said finally. “He and I used to play together around here, with a few others who aren’t with us any longer. We went to primary school together, got into a few scrapes - scrumping apples and suchlike.”
He smiled at the memories, and then shook his head sadly. He then looked afresh at the certificate.
“But there’s something very strange here,” he said finally. “Very strange indeed.”
“Strange?” Seymour was curious. “What’s strange about it?”
“The Accrington family moved away from here when John was about …what? Maybe he was aged 9 or 10. Went to a village not far away, not sure exactly where, but within the county, somewhere north of Aylesbury. Arthur, his father, was a carpenter, ran his own business, nothing elaborate, more of what used to be called a journeyman, he travelled around doing odd jobs.”
“So they did live in this village?”
“Yes, they did. Arthur Accrington had a small workshop in his back garden and worked from there. But it was a cottage tied to the main estate around here, Arthur Accrington got it when he was doing a lot of work under contract for the estate. But then the estate took on a carpenter as an employee so Arthur didn’t have enough work, not from the estate anyway, and the cottage was up for grabs as well. So he moved away to where they were building housing estates, quite a few were being built after the war in the 1920’s, and the trend accelerated in the 1930’s, houses went up everywhere.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“No, not exactly, I did have the occasional contact with John through the mails, I think it was Kimpton way. I met him once in Aylesbury in the market square, we were both about 10 then.” He looked at the birth certificate and shook his head in puzzlement. “But this seems to be the John I knew. How did you come by this?”
“We found it in his personal effects.”
“Definitely the industry man?” the old man probed. “That’s the one who’s just died?”
“Yes,” Seymour was becoming intrigued. When he walked in he thought he would be the one asking the questions.
“Well, I repeat, there’s something screwy here…just a minute, this certificate was produced in the late 1940’s.”
“Well, apparently that’s not unusual if someone mislays a certificate, it happens.”
“Yes, but how often does someone ask for a certificate of a dead person?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that…a dead…what? What was that?”
“This certificate is the John Accrington I knew, and liked. For a few years we were good mates. But the Accrington family was involved in a motor car accident somewhere near Aylesbury about 1936, I think it was in Kimpton. As far as I knew they were all killed in the crash!”
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