Part 14 (1/2)

'Research is the quest for truth,' he said with a faraway look in his eyes that Ace found disturbing and yet rather pathetic. 'I can understand that. This way, young lady.'

He led her to the church, opening the main wooden door with a big iron key about as long as Ace's arm. Once inside, he tapped a code into an electronic pad. Ace found the mixture of old and new amusing.

'A shame we have to keep the house of G.o.d like a bank vault,' said Baber. 'But there are some valuable things in here. And young people are always so keen to desecrate.

Present company excepted, I'm sure.'

'Times change,' she said.

'Indeed,' nodded the man, switching on some lights. 'But G.o.d doesn't. And people think that makes him irrelevant, but actually that makes him more relevant than ever. It's old fools like me who get in the way.'

Ace couldn't believe that this was the same glacier-cold man as she had seen the day before. She followed Baber into the vestry, a musty, dank room than contained a single writing desk and a hard-backed wooden chair. 'Not a very comfortable place to do the Lord's work,' he said, with what pa.s.sed for a smile. 'Many of the older parish records were destroyed in a fire during the 1830s,' the vicar continued, dragging a heavy oak chest towards the desk. 'The burning of stubble has always carried risks. However, some material was salvaged, and there are a great many other doc.u.ments.

Some school records were donated to us during the 1960s.

They're all in here.' Baber opened the chest, and the damp smell hit Ace like a punch.

'Phew,' she said waving a hand under her nose. 'What a pong!'

The vicar departed with a smile, muttering something about lunch and the s.h.i.+pping forecast.

The chest was, indeed, a treasure trove. Had Ace's real purpose been straightforward historical research then she would have been busy. But since she was looking for something unusual, and she had no idea of what that might be, her search became a random trawl through registers, lists of landowners, and miscellaneous school records. She settled down to read a log of school punishments for the year 1907.

It seemed the village lads had been regularly caned for a bewildering range of 'crimes'. 'Bad boys'.' she exclaimed, her finger running over 'insolence', 'tampering with the school clock' and 'kicking a hedgehog'.

'Serves you right, Wally,' she said, noting that Walter Smith got two strokes for booting the defenceless creature. Then she thought of him, knee-deep in the mud of Pa.s.schendaele, screaming as sh.e.l.ls exploded around him, and she dropped the book back into the chest.

Finally, Ace found something pertinent to her own interest in the village. It was an enormous ledger with rich, cream-coloured paper and thin, almost faded, gold edging. It crackled with imagined importance.

The book was some kind of census of the last few years of the nineteenth century and the first five decades of the twentieth. There was another volume beneath detailing the previous fifty years. As Ace read she found a year-by-year record of all of the people in the village, grouped together into families, with brackets indicating links that became more and more intertwined as the years rolled on. There were columns listing dates of birth, christenings, marriages, and deaths and, at the end of each yearly page, a note, in neat copperplate script, of the total village population. There were 506 people in 1894, 507 in 1895, 506 in 1896. Ace turned another handful of pages: 499 in 1917 (well, Wally and his mates were all away getting themselves shot in Europe, weren't they?), 504 in 1918, 507 in 1919 (wasn't there a great flu about then that should have made the population decline, not increase?). Ace reached the 1930s: 510 in 1936, 508 in 1937...

Ace heard the sound of footsteps moving quietly in her direction, and turned, startled.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Thomas Baber, almost dropping the tray and gla.s.ses he was carrying. 'I thought all this dusty work might be making you thirsty. Lemonade?'

Ace chuckled. 'Thank you,' she said. 'That's well thoughtful of you, Vicar.'

Baber came across to the desk and set the tray down, looking over Ace's shoulder at the ledger.

'Oh, I see you've found the parish population record.' He walked towards a small cupboard by the door and pulled out a similar-sized ledger, but this time the cover was newer, with fewer spots of mildew and damp. 'This is the most recent volume, begun by my late grandfather in 1954, continued by my father, and now by me. The record has much less relevance in these days of information superhighways and such technical nonsense, but I carry it on. I'm mindful of the importance of tradition, aren't you?'

'Sure,' said Ace, taking a grateful drink from her lemonade.

'Tell me, Vicar, what's the current population of the village?'

'About five hundred,' said Baber casually. Then he set the book down and checked on the most recent page, right towards the back. 'It was actually 513 on the thirty-first of December last year, but a couple of people have left the village since then. Why do you ask?'

'No reason,' said Ace quickly. 'Just curious. There was one other thing I was wondering.'

'Yes?'

'There are columns in these records for births, christenings, marriages and deaths. And there's also one other column. It hardly seems to be used, except every couple of years there's a date next to one of the names.' She pointed to the 1937 entry in her hand. Like here: Grace Partnoll, first of July 1937.What's all that about?'

'That column refers to people who have left the village for one reason or another. If you look at the next page you'll see it says that Miss Partnoll is no longer part of the village list.'

'Oh yes,' said Ace, flicking over the page. 'So it does...' She stood to give the vicar back his gla.s.s, glancing at the newer volume that he held. 'Has somebody just left?' she said, pointing to that day's date on the page, partly obscured by Baber's thumb.

'Yes indeed,' said the vicar. 'Mr and Mrs Tyley informed me just this morning that young William has left the village to go to London.' He sighed. 'Such a debauched place.'

'I come from London,' said Ace sharply, not sure if she was being insulted or not. She pointed to the small wooden cupboard which had contained the up-to-date register. 'I noticed when you got the new ledger out, it looked like there were some old photographs in there, too. May I have a look?'

'No, you may not,' said Baber, suddenly stiffening. 'I'm afraid that I really haven't the time to show you those.

Anyway, they're family heirlooms, and have no relevance to your researches. And now...' He looked at his watch. 'I must ask you if you would be so good as to allow me to lock up.'

Ace shrugged, and closed the ledger, placing it carefully back in the chest. 'Thanks for your time,' she said.

'I hope you found what you were looking for,' said Baber, seemingly torn between hustling Ace from the church and maintaining a show of being the genial host.

'I've certainly got a few leads worth pursuing,' said Ace with a wicked grin, trying to remember the last time she had broken into a church.

The radio was turned up much too loud, but at least it rendered the taxi driver almost inaudible.

'Many people have accused you of pursuing vendettas, of concentrating on individual troublemakers at the expense of wider police work.' The female interviewer's voice was breathy and forward, obviously used to chasing after the stray morsels dropped by politicians and film stars.

'No, no,' responded the man, his slow, deliberate voice oozing cool authority. 'That would be unfair. You see, what you've got to realise, especially in Liverpool, is that one or two people do do account for ninety per cent of the crime. It's a proven fact. To call them ”troublemakers” makes it sound like they're teenagers who play their music too loud. In actual fact, I want to pursue the ringleaders, the kingpins, the drug barons, all the way into prison. And, if you've heard complaints, let me suggest to you that they're from the families of these thugs, not from the decent, law-abiding people of Merseyside.' account for ninety per cent of the crime. It's a proven fact. To call them ”troublemakers” makes it sound like they're teenagers who play their music too loud. In actual fact, I want to pursue the ringleaders, the kingpins, the drug barons, all the way into prison. And, if you've heard complaints, let me suggest to you that they're from the families of these thugs, not from the decent, law-abiding people of Merseyside.'

'If I can put another commonly expressed concern to you,'

continued the interviewer, 'it's that you enjoy a high public profile, and -'

'Enjoy is not the right word,' interrupted the guest. 'I've never sought the interest of the media, but I've always been happy to respond honestly when asked about any subject.'