Country Pursuits

by Jo Carnegie

  They crept down the stairs, Devon still hiding behind Nigel, his hands clawing at Nigel’s pyjama sleeves. ‘Ouch, let go,’ Nigel whispered angrily. ‘I can’t move with you clamped on me like a baby koala!’ As they reached the bottom, Devon reluctantly prised himself off and reached out to flick on a light switch. ‘Don’t do that!’ hissed Nigel. ‘We don’t want to warn them we’re coming!’

  ‘Yeah, or maybe we’ll be able to see when they come for us,’ said Devon unhappily, his hand dropping away from the wall.

  They were half-way down the corridor, heading towards the back of the house and the kitchen. The only sound to be heard was the ‘tick tock’ of the grandfather clock in the hall, cutting through the air with a sinister precision. Devon could taste the rank, bitter flavour of fear invading his mouth. What were they going to encounter? Was it going to hurt them? Just when his life had turned around as well. He stifled a sob.

  They had nearly reached the kitchen when another low howl came out of the darkness. ‘No way!’ Devon murmured. ‘I am outta here!’ But Nigel’s hand had closed on his arm like a vice. The two men tentatively rounded the corner and stared through the kitchen doorway.

  The sight that greeted them was more horrifying than Devon could ever have imagined. A tall, large apparition swathed in white was standing in the middle of the room. Instantly aware of their presence, it slowly swivelled round, but in the inky darkness Devon couldn’t make out any features, human or otherwise. Then it started to glide silently towards them, one claw-like hand stretched out, searching, grasping . . . Beside him, Devon could feel Nigel rooted to the ground in shock. As if independent of his body, Devon’s fingers started frantically scrabbling for the light switch by the doorway.

  The figure was mere feet from them now, and Devon could smell an acrid, damp decaying smell. The stench of death, perhaps, as though it had been lying in a grave for a long, long time . . .

  Devon couldn’t stand it any longer. He let out a terrified, high-pitched scream just as his fingers finally found the switch and flooded the room with light.

  The apparition blinked, and then said crossly, ‘What the dickens do you think you’re doing creeping up like that? Almost gave me a bladdy seizure!’

  Standing in front of them was no headless ghost or machete-wielding burglar. Instead they were confronted with the bizarre sight of a wild-haired old man dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt. His white hair and beard were yellowed around the edges and clearly hadn’t been washed for some time. The man glared at them as he ran a gnarled hand across a red, beaky nose criss-crossed with broken veins.

  Devon gaped as the man nonchalantly wiped his hand on his gown. ‘Who the bleedin’ ’ell are you?’ Devon spluttered. ‘And what the ’ell are you doing in my house?’

  Despite his ragged appearance, the old man had a commanding air. ‘So you’re the new owner, are you?’ he asked in a crisp, well-spoken voice. ‘Don’t think much of the way you’ve decorated the place.’

  Devon was lost for words. ‘Who are you?’

  The man drew himself up straight. ‘Sir Jonas Winterbottom,’ he said proudly.

  Nigel, still silently rooted to the spot, thought the name rang a bell. What was that story Angie Fox-Titt had told him at the Hallowe’en party? ‘ “Mad Dog” Winterbottom?’ he asked uncertainly. ‘Killed a grizzly with your bare hands on a hunting trip to Alaska, and once fought off a ship of pirates while sailing a yacht single-handedly round the Pacific Ocean?’

  The man smiled, revealing a ghoulish set of broken teeth, and winked at them. ‘At your service.’

  Devon gazed at this strange, fearsome-looking creature and then back at Nigel. ‘Am I missing something here?’ he asked in astonishment.

  It was all coming back to Nigel now. ‘Sir Jonas “Mad Dog” Winterbottom is a bit of a local legend around here,’ he explained. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but as legend goes, your father, Sir Percy Winterbottom, built Byron Heights at the end of the nineteenth century. Jonas was quite the adventurer and the apple of his father’s eye,’ he told Devon. Jonas beamed happily at them. ‘But after an unfortunate, er, diving accident in Peru was it?’ Nigel looked at the old man questioningly.

  ‘Bog snorkelling,’ Jonas replied darkly.

  ‘Sorry, bog snorkelling,’ apologized Nigel, ‘Jonas came back a different man. He shunned all contact with society and went to live in a cave somewhere round the Malvern Hills.’ He turned to the wild-looking old man. ‘But you were meant to have died, no one’s seen you for years!’

  Jonas tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘People don’t know where to look, do they? And I don’t like people looking. I’ve been living quite happily in the cellar here for a while now, with no one bothering me. Until you two moved in.’ He glared at them.

  ‘So that’s where all the food keeps going!’ exclaimed Nigel. ‘I thought Devon was having secret midnight pig-outs.’

  Jonas looked slightly bashful. ‘My knee’s playing up these days, I can’t get out poaching as much as I used to.’

  Devon was staring at him. ‘The howling, is that you?’ he said faintly.

  ‘Keep banging my shinbones on your damned furniture!’ said Jonas. ‘Bladdy stuff everywhere.’

  ‘What about the scratches on the skirting boards?’ asked Nigel. ‘The ones the Rodent-Kill man found months ago?’

  ‘Ah yes, that was where I stashed my tobacco behind one of them and made rather a mess getting it out. I’m quite handy with a plane,’ Jonas offered. ‘I can always sand it down for you.’

  Nigel wondered if a Candid Camera crew were going to pop up at any second. Was this really happening? They’d had this strange, aristocratic tramp living in the house for God knows how long? How could they not have noticed?

  ‘Keeping your friend up, are we?’ remarked Sir Jonas cheerfully. It had all proved too much for Devon. Nigel turned to find the pop star slumped on the floor in a dead faint.

  Chapter 61

  LIKE A LOUD, imperious knock on the front door, 10 December arrived. The auction for the Meadows would take place at eleven o’clock. That morning, the entire Standington-Fulthrope clan made their way over to Bedlington together, Caro and her parents in Clementine’s mud-splattered Volvo estate, while Camilla and Calypso followed behind in Camilla’s Golf GTI.

  Camilla had only just taken the ‘Young Farmers Do It In Combine Harvesters’ sticker off the back window. It had been there so long, she’d almost stopped seeing it, until Calypso let out a big ‘Urgh!’ as they climbed in. ‘Like that is so sad, I’m not going anywhere until you get rid of it.’ As Camilla acquiesced and peeled off the offending item, it seemed a symbolic gesture. That part of her life was a long distant memory now. Big, boorish Angus, the many nights out with his ruddy-faced friends as they joked about sheep-shagging and drank their bodyweight in cider, and all those cold, windy weekends sitting in the car watching tweed-attired men grouse shooting.

  Now she was with Jed. As Camilla thought of what he’d been doing to her the night before a delicious thrill flickered up her spine. She’d had a few boyfriends before Angus, but never a lover like Jed. He was so in control and yet gentle at the same time. Teasing her to the brink of orgasm until she could bear it no longer, and then thrusting masterfully until she cried out his name over and over. Camilla was getting hot and bothered at the memory of it. She sighed happily.

  ‘Oh, try not to be nervous, Bills,’ said Calypso, sitting in the passenger seat. She’d misinterpreted her sister’s lusty exhalation for one of anxiety. ‘It’s all going to be fine. Granny Clem spoke to Humphrey from the council again this morning. It looks like only Sid Psycho and us are putting in anything in the way of substantial bids. And this Humphrey thinks Sykes won’t go higher than ten mill. The bloke’s known for being a wheeler dealer and never pays top whack for anything. We are, like, so going to walk it.’ She patted her sister’s knee reassuringly.

  Camilla blushed guiltily. Here they were, on the most important day in Churc
hminster’s history and she was fantasizing wildly about Jed’s manhood. She chided herself. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Muffin,’ she told Calypso, flicking on the indicator and turning left into the town hall’s car park.

  The car park was packed with vehicles. Every resident from Churchminster, and indeed half the county, seemed to have turned out. As they walked over to the hall they saw Humphrey and his po-faced cronies from the county council, along with someone from the Land Registry. It was unheard of at a land auction around these parts for so much to be at stake – and for so much money – and there had been ominous mutterings that this was the shape of things to come. There were even a few photographers and reporters milling around outside the entrance. The fate of Churchminster was still very big news, especially after the press surrounding the vicar’s supposed murder, and the far more cheerful publicity surrounding the ball and Harriet’s reappearance.

  Clementine led her family inside, ignoring pleas from the assembled press for a quote or picture. There was hardly a seat left, but Angie and Freddie waved them up to the front where they had saved some places. It was a rather dreary, grey room. The central heating had broken down and it was bitterly cold inside. Most people were still muffled up in their coats and scarves. It seemed an incongruous backdrop to the enormous amounts of money that would shortly be thrown round the room, thought Clementine, as she walked down the aisle.

  ‘Feeling confident, old girl?’ Freddie asked as she sat down next to him.

  ‘As much as I let myself,’ she confided. ‘I keep thinking we’ve miscounted the final amount and it’s been a horrible mistake!’

  Angie leaned over him. ‘£16.6 million, there’s no mistake about that,’ she whispered happily. Clementine looked around, there did seem to be a positive atmosphere in the air, the expectant faces and excited chatter of a battle already won.

  Despite her naturally cautious nature, Clementine began to relax. She hadn’t seen any sign of Sid Sykes yet. ‘Maybe he’s had second thoughts and decided not to turn up,’ she said to Tink, who was on her other side.

  No such luck. At 10.59 a.m. Sid Sykes sauntered in, accompanied by two bull-necked henchmen who made the Kray twins look inoffensive. He was dressed in a cheap-looking shiny grey suit, and gold rings and chains flashed at his hands and neck. As he took a seat across the aisle he flashed Clementine an oily grin, revealing yellow rodent-like teeth. She managed to nod at him frostily. Why did he feel the insufferable need to always look so pleased with himself? Just then the land auctioneer, a tall, stern-looking man in a brown suit, stood up behind his wooden desk at the front of the room and shouted for quiet.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ he announced. ‘We are here today for the sale of land commonly known as the Meadows. The highest bid is final – no cheques or IOUs.’ He allowed himself a slight smile as his joke received a few titters. The auctioneer continued. ‘Let’s have a good, clean auction. No heckling or time-wasters please. Right! The guide price is eight million pounds.’ There were a few sharp intakes of breath. ‘Show your hands, please, ladies and gentlemen.’

  As Angie was used to attending auctions in her line of business, she was the one putting her hand up to bid for Churchminster. The committee members sat around her like an impenetrable wall. It felt reassuring and gave them all strength. A surprising number of hands shot up with hers at first, including that of a well-known Cotswold businessman who owned a string of luxury health clubs, and a noisy, well-dressed American Angie had overheard talking about building a rehab centre for the rich and famous. ‘Kinda the country equivalent to the Priory,’ he had announced, puffing on a giant cigar. Clementine’s heart sank; maybe there were more contenders in the running than they thought.

  Her fears were short-lived. As soon as the bids reached twelve million, most of the interested parties shook their heads and dropped out. It was just Churchminster and Sid Sykes left.

  Suddenly, events took a worrying turn. According to the information they’d been given, Sid Sykes should have dropped out long ago. But as soon as Angie put her hand up, he was right on her tail, outbidding her and flashing obnoxious, secret smiles back at his henchmen. The price carried on climbing. And climbing. When it reached £14.2 million, Clementine shot an anxious glance at Humphrey. This wasn’t supposed to happen! To her great concern, he was looking distinctly unsettled as well. Catching her glance he shrugged uncomfortably and dropped his eyes to the ground.

  The bidding had now reached a staggering fifteen million pounds. The room was utterly silent, everyone watching with bated breath as the two sides slugged it out.

  ‘Do I have fifteen million?’ asked the auctioneer.

  Angie tentatively put her hand up, but no sooner did she, than Sykes shot his in the air. It was starting to feel like he was playing a game with them.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Calypso whispered to Caro. ‘That’s the maximum it’s meant to go for. We’re going to run out of money soon!’ Caro shook her head in confusion.

  Now the bidding crept up by a hundred thousand at a time. By the time they had reached sixteen million pounds, even the auctioneer was starting to sweat.

  ‘Sixteen million, do we have any takers for sixteen million pounds?’ he said, as he if couldn’t quite believe the amount.

  Sitting ramrod straight in her chair, Clementine was starting to feel positively sick. She had a very bad feeling about this! ‘Clementine, what shall we do?’ whispered Angie frantically.

  ‘Carry on, we’ve got to,’ she told her. ‘Maybe Sykes will drop out now.’

  He didn’t. As the bidding steadily climbed, an atmosphere of stunned disbelief settled round the room. When bidding reached £16.5 million, Angie turned and looked at them all with an air of finality.

  ‘This is it, we’re down to our last hundred thou,’ she told the committee shakily. They looked at her with white faces, most now clutching the person sitting next to them.

  Just as Angie was about to raise her hand for the last time, Sid Sykes spoke out. His coarse, nasal tones rang mercilessly through the room.

  ‘Let’s get this wrapped up, shall we?’ he said to the auctioneer. ‘I’m a busy man, and I’ve got places to go, people to see. A bid for twenty mill should do it, eh?’

  Clementine felt as though she had literally been punched in the stomach.

  The auctioneer looked at Sykes, flabbergasted at the amount, but also clearly annoyed at being told what to do. He looked over to Angie and raised his eyebrows. ‘Madam? Would you like to bid against this gentleman’s offer?’

  Angie shook her head and slumped back in her seat, eyes filling with tears. Freddie, looking equally devastated, put his arm around her shoulders in an attempt to console her.

  An angry babble of voices grew louder around her as the residents started to protest, but Clementine could neither hear nor see them. She was in her own private hell. ‘I’m sorry Bertie,’ she murmured.

  After that, all hell broke loose. ‘You bloody promised us we’d get it!’ howled Calypso, running over to confront a stunned Humphrey.

  ‘We had no idea it would go for that much,’ he protested, looking distinctly uncomfortable as the suits around him looked anywhere but at Calypso. ‘Nothing here has ever come close to a sum like that before!’

  ‘Ssh, sit down,’ soothed Tink, pulling Calypso back in her seat. Her daughter burst into noisy tears, and Tink looked ready to follow suit as she tried to comfort her.

  Meanwhile Jed Bantry, standing at the back of the hall with his mum, shot Camilla a bewildered look. In the second row, Lucinda and Nico sat white-faced and immobile, unable to speak to each other. Even Babs Sax looked genuinely upset, noisily blowing her nose into the paper tissue Brenda Briggs had found in the bottom of her handbag. Reporters were clustered around the entrance on their mobiles, excitedly relaying their copy to their editors back in London.

  In the midst of it all, Sid Sykes looked over to Clementine and gave her a leery wink. ‘Bad luck,’ he mouthed. He and hi
s henchmen turned to snigger at one another. Clementine was shocked at the force of hatred that burned through her.

  The auctioneer raised his voice. ‘All right folks, calm down. Calm DOWN!’ The hubbub subsided until only a few stunned whispers and sobs could be heard around the room.

  The auctioneer didn’t look happy that the Meadows was going to Sid Sykes, either. Sighing, he cast a regretful eye over the audience. ‘Right! Twenty million pounds is our final bid, to the gentleman in the front row. Going, going . . .’

  Clementine closed her eyes, but before he could finish his sentence, there was a flurry of commotion at the back of the hall as the door burst open. To everyone’s astonishment, a dishevelled and red-faced Archie Fox-Titt came flying in. He had his slippers on and no coat, and was brandishing a thick book in one hand.

  ‘Stop, STOP!’ he shouted, skidding to a halt in front of the shocked auctioneer.

  Freddie stood up, appalled. ‘Archie, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  Archie swivelled round, and Clementine could see he was breathing heavily, sweat running down the sides of his face. He flapped the book at them. ‘I knew I’d seen it somewhere!’ he gasped, scrabbling through the pages. Clementine could read the title now: Rare and Endangered Birds of Great Britain. ‘I’ve seen it in the Meadows a few times,’ Archie continued, ‘but it was only when I went to the library this morning that I realized what it was.’

  Sid Sykes was on his feet now, making his way over. ‘ ’Ere, what’s going on? Seen what?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Are you going to get on with it and sell me my land?’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ the auctioneer ordered. He turned to Archie, who was jiggling up and down on the spot with excitement.

  Archie stopped on a page. ‘Here it is!’ he yelled triumphantly. ‘The Lesser Spotted Gull Beak! This is the one I’ve seen in the Meadows!’

  ‘The Lesser Spotted what?’ Calypso whispered to Caro. The auctioneer rushed out from behind his desk to look at the book. A keen ornithologist, he spent most weekends out in the countryside with a pair of binoculars. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.