SIX

PENSFORD—JANUARY

At 7.15 a.m., the first Saturday of the New Year was unattractive. He had decided to forego the annual First XV v. Second XV fixture. He would be missed as prop forward but it was time for new blood, anyway, in the First. Alistair Duncan stepped out of the cottage into the frozen darkness of the gravelled yard. The Stag greeted him like a freezing envelope and he was glad of his first stop at the Swan at Shaftesbury for breakfast. Sleet spattered the windows. Perhaps this was better than a ten-thirty kick-off.

In the warmth of the hotel dining-room and well breakfasted, he called for a second pot of coffee from the fresh-faced young waitress.

“Have you worked here long?”

“Well Sir, not as long as some, mind. P’raps a year,” she replied in a Hardy accent.

“I suppose you get to know the guests?” The girl blushed slightly. She was unsure as to where the question was leading.

“You’d remember a guest who stayed here regularly?” He prompted.

“I expect so, Sir.”

“Roger Goodhart?”

“Oh yes! I liked him. Nothing flashy. Nothing …” She paused and coloured again. “Nothing suggestive. You know—some of these salesmen.” She lowered her heavy eyelids and nervously brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her apron.

“Quite, quite,” he reassured her, looking as fatherly as possible behind his pipe. The girl didn’t look at the fatherly act. Secretly she was rather struck with him.

“Are you a friend of his, sir?”

“I suppose I am really. I’m his solicitor. He had a car accident and has lost his memory. I’m trying to retrace his movements.”

“Oh dear! He’s not bad, is he sir?” There was a quaver.

“It’s too early to say. Now, he doesn’t know and can’t tell me, but I think he had his accident just after he last left here.”

“Tell you what, sir. I’ll get the register.” Her homely figure disappeared towards Reception. “Here it is.” She pointed to an entry. So … his client had stayed at the hotel on the night before the accident. The young girl’s eyes were slowly filling with tears as she realised the implication. He held out his handkerchief. She shook her head.

“No. It’s alright, thank you. He’s not very bad, is he sir? He had such lovely children. He showed me a photograph.”

“I don’t know yet,” Duncan lied to avoid further distress. “But there’s no need to be upset. What time did he usually have breakfast?”

“7.45 a.m. Regular as clockwork. Bit of a joke it was. Finished by eight-fifteen and out by eight-thirty.”

“Did he ever have a hangover?”

“Never, sir!” The girl was shocked. “He were old-fashioned—some’d say shy.”

“Thanks. You’ve been most kind.”

“Will Mr Goodhart be coming again?”

“Not as often as before, I’m afraid.”

Having stopped briefly at Old Bosham for lunch, he reached Hastings in mid-afternoon. He knew that his hotel overlooked the Channel, for he had booked a room with a sea view. “Tudor Arms!” The neon sign flickered through the snow-filled sky. He parked near the main entrance. Bags in hand he pirouetted clumsily through the revolving door and awoke several elder statesmen, who had been asleep since the fall of the last Government. They stared at the snow-covered Yeti, who had intruded upon them so rudely. Probably a Socialist—damn him! Heads shook before falling back to deepest slumber.

In his room the steam from his socks rose from the front of the single-bar fire. It was like a scene from Coronation Street. A black-and-white T.V. set, which had certainly seen Stanley Matthews’ Cup Final, took an age to warm up. Duncan stood by the window to survey the view. The sea, although only a hundred yards away, was an almost invisible backcloth to the blizzard. An occasional glimpse of leaden seas seemed poor reward for the inflated price of the room with sea view. With a sigh he turned away.

“Might as well have saved my money, Eddie,” he commented to Eddie Waring, whose distinctive voice suddenly warmed through the T.V. set. It’s a funny thing being a solicitor, travelling round on your own, he thought. You get to talking to T.V. sets.