In spite of the crisp morning air, his head felt clogged: a walk would do him good. He set off in the direction of the old farm buildings. He should at least size up the estate and reacquaint himself with what it comprised.
There was the stable block – a row of eight stalls – and the rooms overhead that Elizabeth had talked about. He would not venture up the stone steps just yet. Beyond them, and at right angles to them, stood old pig-sties in which were stored old bits of machinery, now redundant. A towering yew tree shaded them at one end, its branches spreading sideways like thick green curtains.
Round the corner were a couple of low stone buildings surrounded by chest-high walls. Kit sauntered past them on his way to the upper slopes of the valley, and heard a low, snuffling sound. He stopped, walked towards the wall and looked over it, to be confronted by the broad snout of a black and white pig. He jumped. “Hello! Who are you?”
“Wilson,” answered a female voice, which, for a moment, Kit imagined came from the pig.
“Her name’s Wilson, and she’s a Gloucester Old Spot.” He realised now, with just a hint of sadness, that the voice was not coming from the pig but from Jess Wetherby, who was standing behind him holding a pitchfork.
“I didn’t know Dad had a pig.”
“Had her for years. Said it made him feel calm to look at her. Liked to scratch her back with a stick while he was thinking.”
“Lord Emsworth.”
“Sorry?”
Kit looked at the pig. “Lord Emsworth. P. G. Wodehouse. He had a pig called the Empress of Blandings. Dad always used to say that if he could have been anyone else it would have been Lord Emsworth so that he could have a pig, lean over the wall of her sty and scratch her back.”
“I didn’t know about that.” She looked thoughtful. “But he was crackers about her. She’s been miserable since he’s gone. Seems to know. Went off her food for a bit. Not right even now.” She put down the pitchfork and gazed at the mountain of muddied, piebald pig.
“Why Wilson?” asked Kit.
“After the Prime Minister.”
Kit laughed softly. “Yes, it would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Harold Wilson. He was Prime Minister for years after I was born. Dad used to say that he was the only other person who faced the same sort of economic problems as he did.” Kit looked at the pig, who looked balefully back at him.
“Here you are.” Jess fished in her pocket and pulled out an apple. “See if you can tempt her. I can’t.”
Kit took the apple and offered it to the mucus-laden snout that pointed towards him. The pig became perfectly still, then the snout twitched and with the gentlest of motions eased the apple from his hand and quietly crunched it.
The two of them watched in silence as Wilson turned her back and walked away towards the dim interior of her shelter. She paused, and then, with a flick of her stubby tail, disappeared into the gloom.
Jess smiled. “She must like you.”
Kit shrugged. “Must have been hungry.”
Jess picked up her fork and regarded him quizzically. “You goin’ to sell up this place, then?”
Her candour caught him unawares. “Yes. Well, I think so.”
“Knew you would. Elizabeth thought you might take it on but I knew you wouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, more to gain time than because he wanted to hear her answer.
“Got your own life. Your dad said so. Said you’d done well in Australia. Proud of you, he was, but I think it’s a shame.”
He stood and looked at her, unsure of whether to defend himself or to let her carry on. He opted for the latter. She seemed only too willing to get things off her chest.
“He’s taken years getting this place into the state it is. Really put West Yarmouth on the map. It was a tired old farm until Rupert poured his life into it and turned it into paradise. We’ve even got red squirrels here, rare birds and things. Some of them come just because of what we do to the land. Twenty-eight species of butterfly breed here, and rare beetles. It’s tremendous what he achieved. How can you see all that go to waste, just because you fell out with him all those years ago?”
Anger flared unexpectedly in Kit. “I didn’t fall out with him, and if that’s what he told you, he’s wrong. Was wrong. I just needed to be my own person. Not to feel that I was in his shadow. We didn’t fall out. I just needed space to find myself.”
“Couldn’t you do that here?”
“Not with my father on my back, no.”
“But he was a good man. A kind man.” The tears sprang to her eyes and she, too, looked angry.
“That was the problem. Did you have a parent you had to live up to? Who everybody told you from the day you were born was a saint? Have you ever thought what it would be like to live with somebody like that? To be expected to follow in their footsteps?”
“No!” She almost barked the words at him. “I never had the chance.”
“Well, I did. And it’s hell. If my father had been unkind to me, or unreasonable, or insufferable, I would have had a reason to leave. As it was I had to go because he was too good.”
“That’s stupid!” Impatiently she wiped away the tears.
“It’s not stupid, it’s real. And until you’ve experienced it you don’t know how difficult it is.”
“But he’s gone now.” She looked about her despairingly. “Why can’t you just forget all about it and take over from him?”
He was exasperated that she could not see what he was getting at. “Because this is Dad’s place, Dad’s life, not mine.”
“But it could be yours now . . . if you wanted it.”
He looked at her, a small figure in an oversize waterproof and baggy sweater, her eyes now as red as her spiky hair.
“Look, I’m really sorry.” He clenched his jaw to keep a tighter rein on his emotions.
“Is that it, then? Sorry? Sorry to all the wildlife? Sorry to all the birds and the butterflies? Sorry to your dad?”
Her words went straight to the heart and he clenched his fists. “How dare you?” He fought for more words but could not find them. She stared at him, holding the pitchfork in front of her like a sword. He gazed at her, saddened that she should be so venomous, wounded that she should think he would physically harm her.
What he failed to understand was that, for her, the loss of West Yarmouth was only part of her grief: she was also mourning the man who had taken her under his fatherly wing, rescued her from a violent world and had never really known the true depth of her feelings for him. Kit Lavery might have been grieving for his father, but Jess Wetherby was grieving for the only person who had made her life worth living.
Chapter 5: Knights and Ladies
(Arum maculatum)
Sir Roland Billings-Gore had not had a good day. His favourite hunter, Allardyce, had cast a shoe while out hacking, three of his hens had gone broody, and now, judging by the back pages of the paper, Partick Thistle, a team for which he had always felt a certain empathy, were plunging even further down the Scottish league table. He reasoned with himself that this last disappointment was academic since he had never seen them play, knew the names of none of the players, and boasted Irish rather than Scottish ancestry. But that was not the point. Partick Thistle was a happy sort of name and when the team did well he seemed always to be in good spirits. Today they had lost 4-0 to the feeble-sounding Motherwell, and he felt dispirited.
The grandfather clock in the hall at Baddesley Court struck six. His spirits rose. He put down the newspaper and made for the drinks cupboard. A large measure of Irish whiskey – the Scots had no look-in here – soon revived him, and he sat on the club fender of Baddesley’s library fire, gazing into the embers.
Roland Billings-Gore, the eleventh baronet, was a strange contradiction of a man. Born into the aristocracy, he clung steadfastly to his family seat and his position as Master of Fox Hounds, but evinced not a shred of the grandeur and snobbery that many would
associate with these roles. He was far happier in the company of his whipper-in and his woodman than with the county set who invited him to this dinner and that ball.
He bred a mean Exchequer Leghorn, jumped well over hedges for a man of sixty-two, and only his appearance lived up to his name and standing. He was stocky, with a florid face, a black moustache and iron-grey hair, and frequently shocked those who spoke to him for the first time by barking a greeting rather than speaking what appeared to be English. This elocutionary eccentricity came about as a result of deafness from his days in the Royal Artillery when a young lieutenant had rashly let off his rifle next to Roly’s head as a joke. He was often to be found fiddling with the little pieces of pink plastic sunk deep into his hairy ears, before hurling them into the coal scuttle with an oath when they appeared to respond with nothing more than a shrill whistle.
One whistled now as Jinty came into the room, but he silenced it with an unusually well-placed forefinger before rising and stepping forward to give her a peck on the cheek and ask what kind of a day she’d had.
“Oh, OK. Nothing special. Sorry about Allardyce’s shoe. We’ve had the farrier check Seltzer and Boherhue Boy as well and they seem to be all right.”
“Mmm.” Roly looked thoughtful. “Good thing it happened today, eh?” The Lynchampton Hunt was due to meet the following day. When Roly thought about it, the timing was actually a cause for celebration. “Drink?” He rubbed his hand on Jinty’s arm, and she smiled at him, took it, gave it a squeeze and said, “I’ll have a Martini.”
“Charlotte on her way, mmm?” he asked.
“I think so.” She made her way towards the fire and perched on the padded seat of the fender. She was wearing a scarlet polo-neck sweater, and her long legs were encased in black boot-leg trousers.
Her uncle returned with her drink and handed it to her. “You look colourful,” he said.
She grinned. “So do you.”
“What?”
She pointed at the canary yellow waistcoat and the tweed suit cut from what her aunt would call a ‘sudden’ check. It was more orange than brown, and of a coarseness that could have removed the most stubborn food from a saucepan, were it cut up to make dishcloths – a course of action his wife had contemplated on more than one occasion.
“Don’t know what you mean,” barked Roly. “Just comfortable, that’s all, mmm?”
The sound of yapping gave them both warning of Lady Billings-Gore’s arrival. Two Bichon Frizé dogs bounced into the room, like white pom-poms on elastic, running in circles around Roly and reducing Jinty to helpless laughter.
“What! Charlotte!” He bent down to fend them off. They immediately bounced up and licked his face. He drew himself upright and pulled a red-and-white spotted handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away the saliva with a frown.
“Oh, Roly! They can’t help it. They’re only pleased to see you.”
“Huh! Gin?”
“Please.”
Charlotte was an unlikely match for her husband. Tall, elegant and immaculately dressed in grey wool that was almost the same colour as her silvery hair, she lowered herself into a chintz-covered chair by the fire. “Come on, boys, lie down.” With much snuffling and tumbling, they did as they were told, occasionally nudging each other to see if further play was on the cards.
Roly handed his wife her drink then moved towards the fender, planting himself at the opposite end from Jinty.
“Dinner in about twenty minutes, dear. Mrs Flanders’s liver and bacon casserole.”
Roly beamed. Liver and bacon. His favourite. He took another mouthful of Irish whiskey and went to replenish his glass, raising his eyebrows in Jinty’s direction to enquire if she wanted a refill. She smiled and shook her head, then gazed towards the fire.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” remarked Charlotte. “Everything all right?”
Jinty kept her eyes on the flaming logs and sighed. “Oh, just man trouble.”
“Oh dear. Mr Bickerstaffe?”
She nodded.
“Mmm. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Not my sort of man, I’m afraid.”
“Charlotte!” Roly shot her an admonishing glance.
“Well, he’s never here, apart from anything else. I think you deserve rather better.”
“Another drink, dear?”
“No, thank you. I’ve only just started this one.” She looked at him reproachfully then turned again to Jinty. “I’m not really interfering. Just concerned, that’s all.”
“Well, there’s no need to be concerned any more. He’s buggered off to Bermuda or somewhere. Securing his securities or whatever it is that he does.”
Charlotte was about to offer her opinion on the good fortune of Jamie Bickerstaffe’s departure, when her husband inadvertently gave her more food for thought.
“I hear young . . . er . . . Kit Lavery’s come back.”
“Kit Lavery. Now there’s a nice young man. Or he was, before he went away.”
“Rupert Lavery’s son?” Jinty was only mildly curious.
“Yes. Went out to Australia, ooh – eight years ago?” Charlotte said.
“Ten,” Roly corrected. “Did well for himself, by all accounts. Good eye for a horse. Got himself a job at some stud farm out there. Bred a few winners. Melbourne Cup. Very successful.”
“What will he do with the reserve?” asked Jinty.
“Heaven knows, dear. I suppose he has two options – sell it or run it.”
“What’s he like? I mean, what was he like when he left?”
“Pleasant boy, as far as I remember. Fair curly hair, tall, pleasant manners. Quite a catch, really.”
Jinty perked up. “Sounds a bit of a dish.” She sipped her Martini. “Why did he leave?”
“I don’t really know. Roly, why did the Lavery boy go to Australia?”
“Mmm? Doing his own thing, I suppose. Shadow of his father and all that.”
“There’s no doubt that Rupert Lavery was a hard act to follow. Everybody expected Kit to take on the reserve and suddenly he upped and left.”
“Suddenly?”
“Yes. One day he was here and the next he’d gone. Rupert said little about it. I think he was disappointed that Kit didn’t stay, but he wouldn’t hear a word against him. Said that everyone should be allowed to plough their own furrow and that if Kit’s furrow was in Australia rather than Devon that’s just the way it had to be.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“There isn’t one.”
“What?”
“Left his body to science apparently. No body, no funeral.”
“What about a memorial service?”
“According to Mrs Flanders, the word in the post office is that he wanted no memorial service either. Happy to slip away unnoticed. Shame, really.”
Jinty didn’t hear the last remark. She was gazing at the fire wondering what Kit Lavery was like.
The solicitor laid the large buff envelope on Rupert’s desk and spoke to Kit in measured tones. “I think you’ll find it’s all straightforward. The entire estate comes to you. Your father appointed me joint executor with yourself – you being so far away. There are no complications, except for the land leased to Mr Maidment. That was done on a ten-yearly basis but either party can break off the arrangement after five years, provided they give notice. The five years are up at the end of May, which is convenient. You’ll need to check that out and drop him a line.” He clicked the fastener on his briefcase. “Shall I leave it all with you? You can come in later in the week to sign a few things when you’ve sorted yourself out. There’s no particular rush.”
“Yes.” Kit was restless. “Can we tie it all up fairly quickly? I need to get back to Australia.”
“I’m afraid it will take a little time.” The solicitor, a short, dapper man in a grey suit, looked at him reprovingly over the top of wire-rimmed glasses.
Kit felt remorse at his eagerness to rush things through. His father had died barely a week
ago and here he was trying to tidy him away as quickly as he could then get on with his own life. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound . . . well . . .”
“The coroner has released the body. Your father died of a ruptured spleen. There was internal bleeding and head injuries too. The body is still in the mortuary at Totnes. I don’t know whether you want to see your father or–”
“No. No thank you,” Kit interrupted, and then, lest the solicitor should think him unfeeling, “I think I’d rather remember him as I knew him . . . if that’s all right?”
“Yes, of course. You’ll find details of the . . . arrangements in there.” He pointed at the envelope. “It will be two or three months before everything can be tied up – probate obtained and so on. I’ll do my best to speed things up but much of it will be out of my hands. The alternative is for you to return to Australia for the time being and leave me to handle it all.”
“No. It’s something I ought to do. Want to do.”
“I think I should warn you, Mr Lavery, that there is little in the way of liquid assets. Just a few thousand pounds. Inheritance tax, I’m afraid, will take up some of the value of the estate, though the fact that it is agricultural land will reduce the burden a little.”
“So I have no option but to sell?”
“It would seem not – unless you have other means.”
“Not much. Did my father have any life insurance?”
“Redeemed a few years ago – against my advice, I might add. He ploughed all his money into the reserve. Said it was an insurance policy for nature he was interested in rather than for himself.”
“How long could he have kept going?”
“Not very long, I’m afraid. Months. Maybe a year at most, under the present circumstances, unless he had taken out a mortgage on the estate, which he seemed reluctant to do.”
“I see.”
“From your point of view it makes things neater. There is no lien on the estate. After tax, the proceeds come entirely to you.”
Animal Instincts Page 3
