Becwethan (The Leopold Dix Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  Becwethan

  By Mark McTighe

  Text copyright ©. 2013 Mark McTighe

  All Rights Reserved.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Leopold Dix Series:

  Becwethan

  Wass

  Table of contents

  Family Tree

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  Family Tree

  Relationship to the principal character, Leopold Dix

  Lucian Dix – Father - Deceased

  Emily (Von Arx) Dix – Mother – Deceased

  Rufus Dix – Son

  Fran – Ex Wife

  Remy Von Arx – Grandfather - Deceased

  Luke Von Arx - Great Uncle – 85 yrs old – Brother of Grandfather

  Janine Von Arx – Great Aunt – 93 yrs old – Sister of Grandfather

  Marc Von Arx – Uncle – 73 yrs old – Mother’s Brother

  Mattieau Von Arx – Uncle – 72 yrs old – Mother’s Brother

  Raphy Von Arx – Cousin – 45 yrs old – Son of Uncle Marc

  Pierre Von Arx – Cousin – 38 yrs old - Son of Uncle Marc

  Catherine Von Arx – Cousin – 38 yrs old – Daughter of Uncle Mattieau

  Remy Von Arx – Cousin – 48 yrs old – Son of Uncle Mattieau

  Pascoe Von Arx – 26 yrs old – 2nd Cousin – Son of Cousin Raphy

  Dominique Von Arx – 22 years old – 2nd Cousin – Daughter of Cousin Remy

  ONE

  Four years of inane conversation with the sandwich lady and I’d blown it in four words.

  “Are you alright Tess?”

  “Not really” she said, bringing the basket of sandwiches closer. “I found blood in my stools this morning”. I felt my hovering hand withdraw from the basket but forced myself to pick up a lamb and apple sandwich and blueberry flapjack.

  “Oh” I said. I mean what are you supposed to say? A wave of sickness passed over me and stayed for a week.

  I felt exactly the same way now, sitting in the waiting room of Smedley Smithers and Fowley in readiness for the reading of my mother’s will. I had an overwhelming feeling that I was about to discover something equally unpalatable; some dark secret from her past. That was the primary reason for the sickly nerves. ‘Stop hyping yourself up’ I thought, but the fact that she had always refused to talk about her past, her brothers, her parents fed the paranoia.

  The Victorian building, constructed of yellow London stocks weathered to a warm mixed grey, had charm. But the waiting room had seen better days. I don’t think it could have been decorated since the smoking ban. The custard coloured ceiling was surely not a colour choice but the effect of years of nervous clients puffing away. The grandfather clock struck 2.00. That left 15 minutes for Rufus to join me. ‘Yeh.... what were the chances of that....? Less than 20%, 10%’ I thought. He was supposed to be providing the moral support. Those 15 minutes passed so slowly, as if custard had found its way from the ceiling and into the mechanism of the clock, the viscous liquid transforming each minute into three. My heart was in a state of palpitation and I was beginning to sweat; an unattractive and uncomfortable shirt sticking kind of sweat.

  At precisely 2.15 a tall skinny elderly man appeared in the waiting room. His sallow cheeks, slight stoop, and shuffling walk an indication that he rarely ventured outside.

  “Mr Smedley” he exhaled, offering me his pale, bony rheumatic hand. The handshake.... A shocker, I’d have called it a finger grab, closing his fingers rapidly onto mine, gripping the knuckles and releasing fast; odd and uncomfortable.

  “This way please” his lips barely moving as he turned and left the waiting room. Following his black barathea suit into the office I could see the thinning of the fabric on the elbows and trousers. The suit was seriously old and, with the advent of central heating, unnecessarily thick. ‘Perhaps it provides skeletal support’ I smiled to myself. He was a relic standing in a 1940’s museum piece but in this setting I found it oddly comforting.

  I began to wonder how many times Mr Smedley had done this. He must have seen it all, grieving widows, excited acquaintances, the relieved and even the overjoyed. He probably knew how people would react within a few seconds of his unwelcoming knuckle grip. “Please make yourself comfortable” he said gesturing towards an upright leather and wood office chair. It was one of those chairs that you rarely see in normal life, built to withstand an air raid, a leather seat with a back like a staircase balustrade, a wood turner’s exhibition piece. The wood was almost ebony black, but where the arms had paled with use the oak grain was visible. I sat in the chair feeling about as comfortable as a condemned man.

  “Shall we begin?” He enquired.

  “Yes, I was rather hoping my son would join us, but, well that’s sons for you I guess”. I was tense, volunteering too much information and filling the silence of the room. This was Mr Smedley’s domain, he cleared his throat not once but three times, then took control.

  “Can you confirm that you are Leopold Dix of 225 Stewart Road, Wimbledon, and son of Emily Von Arx Dix?”

  “Just Leo will do fine”. I passed all the appropriate paperwork over the desk, the paperwork that had been requested in the letter from Smedley Smithers and Fowley two weeks previous. I was left holding their original letter. It was only then that I noticed just how heavy the paper stock was. It was barely marked despite having spent those weeks with me. The type face...courier; the same as you’d find on an old typewriter, and low and behold the paper was a sort of custard colour. Perhaps this was their corporate colour after all.

  “Good, so we can begin”. Mr Smedley stood up and walked over to a desk in the corner of the room; picked up a brown manila folder and two box files. It was like bursting a bubble. I hadn’t really taken in the room but as he moved to the corner I realised I was in a very large room indeed. I was sitting central to the office at a small meeting table; his desk was tucked into a darker area, huge, antique, red leather top, and tidy, very tidy. A Bakelite plaque bearing the name Mr A Smedley sat perfectly symmetrical at the front. The dark panelled walls of the room gave it a sombre feeling of tradition. A hat and coat stand behind the wooden panelled door supported a black umbrella and dark mid length coat. Three of the walls carried prints of London and the large Victorian windows threw a welcome light into one end of the room. As Mr Smedley returned to his seat he slid a single sheet of A4 out of the manila folder. At once I recognised my mother’s exact handwriting.

  “I have a letter from Emily Von Arx Dix addressed to you Mr Dix. Everything in that letter is self explanatory. These two files detail all the deceased estate. I now propose going through these papers in some detail.” Suffice to say I left the offices of Smedley Smithers and Fowley some 3 hours later. One thing you co
uld never do was accuse Mr Smedley of not being thorough. Rufus had pulled another no show, and I had some seriously unexpected news to tell.

  TWO

  From the reception of Smedley Smithers and Fowley to the road outside was all of 20 metres, but in those few metres I travelled forward a full 50 years. It was the closest thing to time travel that I had ever experienced. I left the solicitors with rather more than I came, an inheritance, a puzzle and two box files full of my mother’s papers. I hailed a black cab.

  “Stewart Road, the Wimbledon Park one please.” As we set off for South London the taxi driver fell into his usual questioning routine. But I didn’t want to talk; I needed to read my mother’s letter again and study the pictures.

  “Actually, change of plan, can you just drop me at the junction of Sydney Street and the King’s Road”. I wandered down the King’s Road past the registry office and made a beeline for Picasso’s. I was in need of some food, coffee and a table.

  My mobile had been off for the day, so when I fired it up there were the usual rake of apologetic texts from Rufus, and numerous call attempts from colleagues.

  “Coffee, scrambled eggs and two extra rounds of toast,” I hadn’t eaten all day and probably blurted it out rather too energetically. The Italian waitress gave me a filthy look and chose to ignore me for a few long minutes. She reappeared after a while, notepad in hand, having taught me a lesson in restaurant etiquette, inquiring in a soft voice; “would you like to order something now?” I could see her point, so ordered this time in something just more than a whisper. I ran off a quick text to Rufus.

  “There r strange goings on in grandmother’s will, meet me tonight, at home, txt if u can’t make it”. I knew some of the texting shortcuts, but it was always a marvel to me when Rufus could text me a fairly long story in about 16 characters. The coffee came, it was good, and I pulled out the letter to study it in more detail.

  The paper was good quality, not the virtual cardboard rigidity of Smedley Smithers and Fowley’s paper stock, and had a subtle lavender colour with a watermark; it was odourless; written with a fountain pen in the simple, exact, French Script so distinctive of my mother. She was seventy five when she died, but her handwriting had remained youthful. The letter was dated 7 December 2009, eight months before she had died and exactly one year ago today; my birthday. Spreading the letter out and smoothing it down I re-read it slowly and deliberately, imagining the smile on her face as she put pen to paper:

  Dear Leopold,

  7 December 2009

  It will come as a great surprise to you that my father’s home, uninhabited since his death in 1971 forms a part of my will. I know how much you love a mystery, but you must take great care not to rake up the past. My cottage and the rest of my belongings I have left to you except my book collection which I leave to Rufus.

  Love always and forever

  Emily x

  There were direct contradictions to what I had been told, and there was obvious goading in the line ‘take great care not to rake up the past’. This had been done on purpose, she wanted me to investigate, and she wanted me to reawaken the past.

  “Scrambled eggs and two extra rounds of toast” was whispered in my ear, as the waitress decided to see the funny side of it. Perhaps I looked like a heavy tipper.

  I pulled out a pen and notepad and started to structure my thoughts, looking for the inconsistencies and surprises. The letter had said that my grandfather had died in 1971. Well this was news to me. I’d always been told he died in 1963 when I was nearly one. Eight years of life unaccounted for, and never a reason to meet. Yet he had chosen to give this home to a daughter he never saw, guilt perhaps, looking for forgiveness? For what? The questions were starting to pile up like the empty dishes on my table, and I needed more room to open the box files in my possession, to see if more sense could be made of matters. I finished up at Picasso’s and gave a sizeable tip to the smiling waitress; who bade me farewell at the top of her voice. ‘Off home’ I thought, ‘let’s see what progress can be made before Rufus arrives; he’s just going to love the book collection, I can just picture his expression’.

  THREE

  Rufus arrived with the subtlety of the proverbial bull in a china shop. First the handlebar of his bike nearly punched a hole in the window; the lock virtually ripped out of the front door, which he tried to push open before he’d unlocked it; then to cap it all his back pack sent the picture hanging in the hallway into the living room. It even seemed that I was being blamed for the final disastrous act.

  “Shit dad, why’d you go and hang that god awful picture in the hall way. It’s just asking to be knocked off the wall”. “Fuck, I’ve got glass in my foot” followed a few seconds later. I mean why would you take your shoes off just after you’d shattered glass all over the floor? A beaming face appeared at the doorway. “Gottcha, come on not even I’m stupid enough to take my shoes off in this bomb site. Don’t you ever clean up around here?” Guilt and remorse never featuring in his psyche. “Oh and happy birthday” followed as an appeasing afterthought.

  “Well now you know what to get me for my birthday, a new picture frame. I’ll just get the dust pan and brush; can you dig out the vacuum?”

  “No worries”, Rufus’s stock reply to everything was thrown back at me. He always added a sort of Australian accent to make it even more irritating.

  He pushed his large frame into the cupboard under the stairs to retrieve the vacuum, more expletives followed as the vacuum got stuck, released fast and smashed him in the shin. Finally, as he brought the vacuum out of the cupboard he cracked his head.

  “Come on dad, I’ve been here five minutes and you’ve not told me a dickey bird.”

  “Probably got something to do with the havoc you’re wreaking. Let’s clear up this mess, then I’ll show you everything I’ve got. It’s all in the kitchen.”

  I returned the picture; glass free, to the wall. It was one of my favourites. The two of us, unshaven, dirty, and ferociously happy. We’d just climbed the Matterhorn and were having a well deserved beer in the first bar we could find in Zermatt.

  Looking at Rufus now, in the narrow entrance hall of my small Edwardian terraced house I realised just how big he had become. He was a hulking great 21 year old; madly passionate about climbing, biking, and any outdoor physical pursuit that meant he didn’t have to find a proper job. I thought he should follow me into the police force, possibly the army, but I couldn’t pin him down. At 6ft 4” and 210 pounds he was a little heavy for a climber, but all the extra bulk was in muscle. Whilst appearing clumsy on the ground he was grace itself on a rock face.

  Order restored we moved through to the kitchen. “Put the kettle on and there should be some chocolate. I just need a second to get these photos in sequence”. Rufus did as he was told and returned to the table with two steamers and a bar of Lindt. He’d poured my tea into the one broken mug in the house; a half pint Union Jack with no handle. “Where did you find that?” I shook my head, “thought I’d chucked it ages ago”. I tipped the steamer into a usable mug.

  As I threw the Union Jack into the bin Rufus uttered another one of his favourite sayings; “more hole than sole man”. This was a principle he applied to life in general. That is; don’t throw away your socks until there is ‘more hole than sole’. He would apply the same principle to all possessions; in essence, use it until it’s knackered and then use it some more.

  It had been dark outside for sometime; the table beautifully illuminated by my dilapidated but original 1960’s Angle poise; I began....“It’s been a good day, I think. At least all the loose ends of grandmother’s estate have been tied up”.

  “But what about the text you sent me?”

  “I’m coming to that. The estate has been sorted but some serious questions have been raised.” I spent the next ten minutes taking Rufus through the day’s activities, the visit to Mr Smedley, the letter and his book collection.

  “Where am I going to keep all the books?
And how many are there now?” Rufus enquired.

  “I think it’s approximately two thousand”.

  He shook his head in disbelief and horror; “mum hates clutter........ seems to be going through a white wall kind of phase. Can I leave them at grandmother’s cottage or are you selling it?”

  I hadn’t thought about my ex wife for a while, but the thought of Rufus turning up with a couple of thousand old books did make me chuckle to myself. “You can leave them at the cottage, it’ll give me something to read when I go up there; no plans to sell for the moment; I’m just going to let the dust settle for a bit”.

  At last, and to Rufus’s great relief, I told the story that I had been able to piece together from the two box files. “The letter was grandmother’s way of introducing the content of these files” I began, moving the chocolate wrapper and mugs off the table. “The major anomaly is the date that her father Remy died. We can see the house was transferred to Emily Dix on 20 April 1971 following the death of Remy on 19 January 1971.” I was now in full investigation mode, working a system I had used for the last 20 years. The people were no longer related to me, I was dealing with facts. Rufus sat remarkably still, occasionally nodding or chirping in with a ‘no worries’.

  “We have letters, written in Remy’s native French, one a year from Remy to Emily, each dated on her birthday, 3 June. The letters begin in 1963 and as you’d expect the last one was sent in 1970. We know that Emily emigrated from Switzerland to the UK in 1962, she was pregnant and her husband was dead.” The fact that the baby was me and the dead husband my father didn’t even register in my voice. I placed the letters in the corner of the table. “The letters follow the same pattern, a couple of them were almost identical, date excepted, Remy wishes Emily a happy birthday, asks after the health of the baby, latterly child, and asks to see her. The last two letters, 1969 and 1970, express great sorrow and ask for forgiveness. So putting the letters aside, the first major contradiction in our family history would seem to be; that Remy did not physically die in 1963, as we have always been told, he was only dead to Emily.” I paused for a slurp of tea. “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves but, the death of her husband and subsequent move to England, coupled with these last two letters indicates a total breakdown in the relationship with her father, and blame, blame for what? ......Possibly for the death of my father, your grandfather. Forty seven years of blame in her life, that’s tough for anyone.”