And, of course, I would never be able to rid myself of the image of that old man left to die in the road at Castle Dyke, his body broken by the cold, unyielding steel of a car that had come out of the night. Death was in the unreachable corners of my mind, and it would never be removed.
But as Rachel and I sat in silence together, I found my thoughts were no longer whirling in that pit of despair. Daylight had entered at last, and a little flicker of hope was spreading through my life. In the end, it had been Rachel who brought me that release — she’d been the only one who stood by me all along, in spite of everything that I’d done. And now I found that I felt no uneasiness about our companionship, no defensive urge to drive her away.
‘So Samuel wasn’t a Buckley at all,’ she said. ‘Now, that’s what I call a con.’
I realised that Rachel was sitting very close to me, her hand on my arm. She was completely at ease and comfortable with me on the old sofa in the untidy Victorian semi, with the carriage clock and the worn rug and the cabinet full of Wedgwood figurines. For the first time, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to be the last of the Buckleys, after all. But there had to be a clear understanding between us on one thing.
‘Not a Buckley?’ I opened my copy of The Three Keys and looked at the picture of Samuel on the inside of the dust jacket. Surely she could see the determined set of Samuel’s jaw, as well as the pain in his eyes? She must be able to understand that he was a man who’d sacrificed himself so that future members of his family could live in peace? So that we could live in peace.
‘No, you’re wrong there, Rachel,’ I said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Great-Uncle Samuel was the finest Buckley of them all.’
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my agent Teresa Chris and editor Ed Wood at Little, Brown for supporting this book, and all the readers who were willing to try something different. Thank you! My appreciation also goes to Lichfield International Arts Festival and renowned Lichfield bookseller Ralph James for the original inspiration and encouragement.
Drowned Lives is set in the late 1990s, which feels very much like a historical period due to the speed of changes in the last twenty years or so. As a writer, I’m particularly conscious of the changes in language. For example, the term ‘cellphone’ appears in this book. The word was in common use in the UK in 1998, and it wasn’t until the following year that we began to abandon the American term in favour of ‘mobile phone’. So, although I’m sure I’ll get emails from readers who pick up on the terminology, ‘cellphone’ is very 1990s. Likewise, the 18th century letters from William Buckley are as close to authentic as I can get them while still being intelligible for 21st century readers.
The Ogley and Huddlesford Canal and its proprietors in Drowned Lives are fictional, but a real-life restoration project is currently under way in the South Staffordshire area. Members of the Lichfield and Hatherton Canals Restoration Trust are working to re-open a seven-mile link between the Birmingham Canal Navigations and the Coventry Canaclass="underline" www.lhcrt.org.uk. This is a huge task for a group of volunteers. Their current Tunnel Vision fund-raising appeal, led by Poirot actor David Suchet, can be supported at Total Giving: www.totalgiving.co.uk/appeal/TunnelVision.