“Beechwood Bitter.”
Seymour half turned to rise to his feet, but the landlord evidently had guessed the course the conversation would take and was keeping a watchful eye. He nodded to Seymour and jerked his finger at the nearest pump, on which was written “Beechwood Bitter”. Seymour nodded, the landlord smiled and seized hold of a glass which he began to fill.
“You knew most of the people living here then?” he asked.
“Most of ‘em,” rejoined Wilkins. “Not many of ‘em ‘ere now, ‘cept me!”
“Did you ever come across anyone named Accrington, or Havering?”
“May have done, may have done,” answered the old man and Seymour cursed under his breath. This was going to be a long job that would take all bloody night. This was frustrating as he was anxious to get back upstairs; firstly so they could go out to dinner, and secondly because he was not only feeling peckish but in anticipation of a pleasant weekend in the country. Andrea had dressed to kill and he was experiencing strong desires in other directions as well. He wondered if it was the country air.
The fresh drink appeared before Wilkins, who eyed it approvingly. The young barmaid looked enquiringly at Seymour as he handed over the cash but he shook his head. He didn’t want to be sloshed to the eyeballs when he went back to Andrea.
“What were the names again?”
“Accrington and Havering,” Seymour repeated patiently.
The old man reached for the glass and slowly sampled it, he appeared to approve and began to drink it down. He downed half of it and wiped his mouth.
“Well, do you remember them at all?”
“Jus’ thinkin’,” said the old man bitingly. “The names do mean somethin’ … . . Accrington you said?”
“Yes, I did.”
More contents of the glass were despatched and Seymour ground his teeth as he realised that another pint of Beechwood Bitter was required, if not now then pretty soon. The money didn’t worry him, the old bugger could quaff double Scotches as far as he was concerned, but he didn’t want to sit here all night. The heat from the fire was another factor, Josh Wilkins might find the heat acceptable, maybe his blood was very thin, but Seymour was beginning to perspire freely and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.
He nodded to the landlord and another Beechwood bitter materialised at Wilkins’ elbow. He sampled the new glass, appeared to approve, and took a large swallow.
“Good stuff, this!” he announced.
“Really?” Seymour began to wonder how he could extract any information at all from this old man who was clearly milking it for all it was worth.
“Can you remember any families of those names?” Seymour asked.
The old man considered.
“I do remember a young chap named Accrington, had a carpentry business if I remember rightly.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” thought Seymour. He forbore to comment, not wanting to interrupt the flow.
“Not living here for long though, dunno where ‘e went.”
“Shit!” thought Seymour, realising he’d got nowhere at all, he could have told Wilkins that himself.
“What about Havering?” he asked.
“Farming family, they were from Haddenham way. They sold up in the 1930’s and moved west. Dunno where they went.”
He finished the glass and placed it down on the table, picked it up again and looked meaningly at the bottom of it.
“No!” thought Seymour. “I’m not falling for that one again.” He made to rise to his feet.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Wilkins,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.” This was the overstatement of the year as far as he was concerned.
“Jus’ a minute, I think I can remember . . let me think now …!” and Seymour realised that his exasperation had provided him with a weapon as the old man saw the prospect of more Beechwood bitters disappearing into the blue.
“Are any members of the same family still around here?”
“Nope!” Wilkins shook his head, and his hand clutched his beer glass. “Accrington and his missus were a one off, they lived here for a few years and that was it. They weren’t from around these parts, not that I knows of.”
“Still no further,” thought Seymour ruefully, but one point did appear to be clarified. There was no history of anybody named Accrington in the area apart from the one family.
“A mate of mine might know more,” Wilkins went on. “I’ll ask him - will you be in tomorrow?”
Seymour ruminated that it would hardly be worth it, the bloody pub would probably be out of beer by then if Wilkins stayed here until closing time. And his mate, which would most likely be that other bloodsucker Cuddeston, would probably be here as well demanding his cut of the products of the Chiltern Brewery. But it was clear the old man wasn’t going to concede any more information, not tonight anyway.
“I may be, maybe not,” he answered shortly, giving an answer in Wilkins’ own vein. He wondered whether to pursue it any further, but he was now sweating even more profusely from the fire, and he was beginning to experience a sensation of claustrophobia. He just had to get away from the fire and this old man and the odour of peppermints and stale beer.
“Thanks anyway,” he said, nodded, rose to his feet and left. The old man looked as if he was going to have another inspiration of memory, but Seymour had had enough.
He stamped angrily up the stairs and knocked at their bedroom door. Andrea opened it and he stumped in and flung himself on the bed.
“Fuck!” he said feelingly
“That’s a good idea.” Andrea said, and he became aware she was in her dressing gown, and that there was a tray of sandwiches, a coffee pot and some unopened beer bottles on it as well. “What do you want to do, eat first or . . what?”
“What?” he replied. “Oh! What for sure!”
Half an hour later they attacked the beer and sandwiches, Andrea asked what he had found out.
“Bugger all!” he said angrily. “The old bastard, if he knew anything at all, just wasn’t forthcoming unless I kept plying him with beer. I’d just about had enough, and he stank like hell as well, I never ever want to see or taste another peppermint!”
“No worries about the beer, the company will pay for it.”
“That wasn’t the point, he was just playing me for all he could get and he was getting it, up to a point. I just didn’t like being strung along. Then I rebelled and got out.”
“So you’ve had a wasted journey?”
“Looks
