The Lock

Chapter 1

Fine silver wire gleamed in the sunlight as deft fingers wound it around a barbed hook. A twist of feather, coloured thread, a second plume to form a crest. The water was lazy and still around the old narrowboat, the late June afternoon hot and languid, as Perry Beck tied off the fly. He laid it carefully aside, to start on another.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up.

"They say you can open locks."

A girl. Pale, nervous, wearing one of the local school uniforms. She stood on the bank, hesitating to come closer to the young man sitting on the deck.

It was bad enough when word got out, but for a kid to know? Perry said nothing. He reached for another hook and some blue thread. His hands started to wind it around, forming a perfect thin, tiny spool. He needed something to do with his hands. They were restless.

"You have to help me. It's my stepmother. She's going to murder my dad."

There was a sob in the girl's voice and it jarred with the heavy haze of the day. Cow parsley grew thick on the banks, everything was overgrown following the wet of spring and the heat of early summer. Lank, dank, the willows trailing in the water. Perry wanted his peace back. It was the fear in the child's voice that did it. It disturbed him.

"You need the police, then."

He tried to look back down at the fly but his eyes flicked back up and he saw her bite her lip. Saw the desperation there.

"She's got a box. I know she writes stuff in it. A journal, letters. I know it's in there. She wants to kill him, she really does. She only married him for his money. I hate her. I need to get in the box so I've got proof. No one will listen to me otherwise."

It was a child's story, a fantasy. A locked box hiding secrets. A hated stepmother. But the distress was real.

Still Perry said nothing and the girl was silent for a moment, trying to win his trust. "My name's Rose. My dad's Arthur Stanton. He runs the brewery. Please. You're the only one who can help me."

Perry knew of him, of the brewery anyway. He didn't want to feel sorry for the girl but he did.

"I can't help you, Rosie. It's for the police, a matter like that."

She stopped for a moment, looking at him in despair. Not more than twelve, he thought. Too young to have her head filled with fears like this. You run along, he wanted to say.

But then she turned suddenly and left. Rose of the speedwell-blue eyes. Perry wished she had never come, because then he wouldn't have to feel like he had failed her.

"You couldn't do me a favour, could you Perry? I've lost the key to the cashbox and I need to pay wages. Ray's got a spare somewhere but he's not due back for hours."

Perry was sitting at the bar in the Boatswain a couple of days later. It was still early evening and most of the regulars weren't in yet. Late sun streamed in a warm gold beam across the back of the bar, making the bottles and optics shine like a row of potions. The smell of old wood, stale cigarettes and the soft treacly malt of old beer infused the public saloon.

Mary, the publican's wife, pushed a black metal box towards him. She tucked back a strand of fair hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were pink from hauling a crate up from the cellar. Perry would have carried it up for her if she'd asked.

"Drinks on the house if you can get into it, Perry. You'd save me a lot of bother."

Perry regarded the lock, a typical thing of its kind. He delved into his pocket and drew out a short length of wire, about half an unbent paperclip. He reached for the box and quicker than a key could have been turned, clicked it open and pushed it back to Mary.