Blakiston nodded. He poured the tea. Then he began to talk.
He was fifty-eight years old. He had been living in Cardiff ever since he had left Saxby-on-Avon twelve years ago. He’d had family here; an uncle who owned an electrical shop, not far away, on the Eastern Road. The uncle was dead now but he had inherited the shop and it provided a living – at least, for the sort of life he led. He was on his own. Fraser had been right about that.
‘I never actually divorced Mary,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why not. After what happened with Tom, there was no way the two of us were going to stay together. But at the same time, neither of us was ever going to get married again, so what was the point? She wasn’t interested in lawyers and all that stuff. I suppose that makes me officially her widower.’
‘You never saw her again after you left?’ Pünd asked.
‘We stayed in touch. We wrote to each other and I called her now and then – to ask her about Robert and to see if there was anything she needed. But if she’d needed anything, she would never have asked me.’
Pünd took out his Sobranies. It was unusual for him to smoke when he was working on a case but nothing about the detective had been quite the same recently and Fraser had been desperately worried since he had been taken ill in Dr Redwing’s surgery. Pünd had refused to say anything about it. In the car, on the way here, he had barely spoken at all.
‘Let us go back to the time when you and Mary met,’ Pünd suggested. ‘Tell me about your time at Sheppard’s Farm.’
‘That was my dad’s place,’ Blakiston said. ‘He got it from his dad and it had been in the family for as long as anyone can remember. I come from a long line of farmers but I never really took to it. My dad used to say I was the black sheep, which was funny, because that’s what we had – a couple of hundred acres and lots of sheep. I feel sorry for him, looking back on it. I was his only child and I just wasn’t interested so that was that. I’d always been good at maths and science at school and I had ideas about going to America and becoming a rocket engineer which is a bit of a laugh because I worked for twenty years as a mechanic and I never got any further than Wales. But that’s how it is when you’re a kid, isn’t it. You have all these dreams and, unless you’re lucky, they never amount to anything. Still, I can’t complain. We all lived there happily enough. Even Mary liked it to begin with.’
‘In what circumstances did you meet your wife?’ Pünd asked.
‘She lived in Tawbury, which was about five miles away. Her mother and my mother were at school together. She came over for lunch one Sunday with her parents and that’s how we met. Mary was in her twenties then and as pretty as you can imagine. I fell for her the moment I saw her and we were married within a year.’
‘And what, I wonder, did your parents make of her?’
‘They liked her well enough. In fact, there was a time when I would say everything was pretty much perfect. We had two sons: Robert first, then Tom. They grew up on the land and I can still see them, racing around, helping my dad when they got back from school. I think we were probably happier there than we ever were anywhere else. But it couldn’t last. My dad was up to his eyes in debt. And I wasn’t helping him. I’d got a job at Whitchurch Airport, which was an hour and half away, near Bristol. This was the end of the thirties. I was doing routine maintenance on planes for the Civil Air Guard and I met a lot of the young pilots coming in for training. I knew there was a war on the way but in a place like Saxby-on-Avon it was easy to forget it. Mary was doing jobs in and around the village. We were already going our separate ways. That’s why she blamed me for what happened – and maybe she was right.’
‘Tell me about your children,’ Pünd said.
‘I loved those boys. Believe me, there isn’t a day when I don’t think about what happened.’ He choked on his words and had to pause for a moment to recover. ‘I don’t know how it all went so wrong, Mr Pünd. I really don’t. When we were up at Sheppard’s Farm, I won’t say it was perfect but we used to have fun. They could be right little sods, always fighting, always at each other’s throats. But that’s true of any boys, isn’t it?’ He gazed at Pünd as if needing affirmation and when none came he went on. ‘They could be close too. The best of friends.
‘Robert was the quiet one. You always got the impression that he was thinking about something. Even when he was quite young, he used to take himself off for long walks along the Bath valley and there were times we’d get quite worried about him. Tom was more of a livewire. He saw himself as a bit of an inventor. He was always mixing potions and putting things together from the insides of old machines. I suppose he might have got that from me and I’ll admit he was the one I used to spoil. Robert was closer to his mother. It was a difficult birth. She nearly lost him, and when he was a baby he had all sorts of illnesses. The village doctor, a chap called Rennard, was always in and out of the house. If you ask me, that’s what made her so overprotective. There were times when she wouldn’t let me come near him. Tom was the easier boy. I was closer to him. Always, him and me …’
He took out a packet of ten cigarettes, tore off the cellophane and lit one.
‘Everything went wrong when we left the farm,’ he said and suddenly he was bitter. ‘The day that man came into our life, that’s when it began. Sir Magnus bloody Pye. It’s easy enough to see it now and I wonder how I could have been so blind, so stupid. But at the time what he was offering seemed an answer to our prayers. A regular salary for Mary, somewhere to live, nice grounds for the boys to run around in. At least, that’s how Mary saw it and that’s how she sold it to me.’
‘You argued?’