He got out and stood looking about him, puzzled that there seemed to be so much more open ground than formerly. Then he remembered reading in the Courier that the former church school, a grim Gothic fortress, had been demolished, and that Roman remains were discovered beneath it. Quite extensive excavations seemed to be in progress. Bernard Lister walked across to investigate, and was interested. The greater part of the foundations of a large Roman villa had been uncovered, and small areas under tarpaulins suggested tessellated pavements. Investigations were now going on beyond the villa, in the area to the south-east, where trial trenches had been dug. The whole site was cordoned off, and bristled with deterrent notices to the public on behalf of the County Archaeological Society. In the absence of any workers, Bernard Lister disregarded these, and slipped under the rope barriers for a closer look. He decided that the whole complex had been one of some importance, obviously related to the Roman road along which he had just driven. The historian in him was intrigued, but at the same time it was exasperating that the wretched town could now claim the distinction of a Roman settlement on its site, however spurious its medieval charters were.
He had now reached the limit of the dig, and stood looking up at the backs of the houses in Edge Crescent, experiencing once again that slight, but disagreeable inner sensation. There was the window of the small north facing bedroom on the second floor which had been allotted to him in the Plowmans’ house. He stood staring up at it, self-pity, anger and triumph contending in his mind. Then he turned away with an abrupt movement, retracing his steps and walking in the direction of the High Street, thrusting down the uncomfortable fact that old fears and inhibitions were reasserting themselves. Remembering a second-hand bookshop which had been one of the refuges of his youth, he walked a short distance down the hill to see if it had survived. On his way he came to a new estate agency, its window full of particulars of properties and forthcoming sales. The words EDGEHILL COURT caught his eye, and he stopped to read further.
BALDWIN & YOUNG’S AUCTION ROOMS
3 CORNMARKET,
ALCHESTER
Important Sale of furniture and effects, including lots from EDGEHILL COURT, residence of the late Sir Miles LeWarne, Bart, on
FRIDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER, 1972.
Sale commences 10.00 a.m. promptly. Viewing the previous day 10.00 a.m. - 5.00 p.m.
A wave of nostalgia engulfed Bernard Lister as he visualised the break up and dispersal of the home which had symbolised to him the ideal way of life: secure, recognised and cultured. He resolved instantly to change his plans and attend the sale on the following day, in the hopes that something which he remembered from Sir Miles LeWarne’s study would be included. He would have it, whatever it cost, if necessary getting rid of furniture of his own to make room for it in the flat. As these thoughts passed through his mind, the face of a young girl was briefly mirrored in the plate glass window. It was vaguely familiar ... a student? As he turned to look at the girl’s back as she went on up the street, he found a sharp-faced man in a baggy blue suit standing beside him.
‘Thinkin’ of goin’ over to the sale ter-morrow, Guv?’ this individual enquired. ‘You won’t find none of the good stuff from the Court there, and that’s a fac’. The lady’ll’ve cottoned on to all that.’
‘The lady?’
‘Tha’s right. Mrs Stanton, wife of old LeeWom’s lawyer up yonder. Town Clerk, ’e is, too. Fair scooped the pool, she did, seein’ the old gent ’adn’t no relatives left. ’Is goddaughter, she was — there weren’t none of ’is family livin’, not after a newy or some such was killed in a car smash. All in the Courier, it was, sayin’ ’ow ’e’d left ’er the Court, an’ a packet, too, last Friday’s...’
Belinda Plowman found her mother reclining on a chaise longue in the summer-house, reading a glossy magazine.
‘Guess what, Mummy,’ she said, flopping down on a neighbouring chair and shaking her hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ve just seen Blister. Here, in Corbury, glued to the window of Baldwin & Young’s. I’m certain it was him. I wish now I’d accosted him. How would he have reacted, do you think?’
Monica Plowman was so startled that the magazine slipped to the floor.
‘I don’t think it could possibly have been him,’ she said, in a tone which suggested an attempt at self-reassurance. ‘He’s never been back since he came into his money, and treated granny and grandpa so disgracefully. Don’t mention it to—’
‘Daddy,’ Belinda cut in, with a grin. ‘O.K., Mummy, I’ll spare his feelings. He’ll be a bit jaded when he gets back from Cornwall tonight, poor pet! But it was Blister — I’d swear to it. After all, I sat gawping at him all through a lecture last autumn. Perhaps he’s thinking of buying a house here,’ she added mischievously. ‘Shall I make some tea, and bring it out here?’
‘Yes do, darling. I’m longing for a cup. And bring what’s left of the chocolate cake. It’s in the blue tin.’
Belinda stood up and stretched, agreeably aware of her slenderness.
‘You really shouldn’t, Mummy. You’re heading for Weightwatchers,’ she said, surveying her mother’s comfortable plumpness.
‘I only had one potato at lunch,’ Monica protested plaintively.
Belinda grinned.
‘On your head be it,’ she said. ‘Only it won’t be your head, will it? Your tail, more like: middle-age spread.’
She went off in the direction of the house. This last fortnight of her summer vacation was being dutifully spent at home, and time was hanging a little heavily on her hands. As she drank her tea, she decided to divert herself by reporting Blister’s presence in Corbury to her Aunt Shirley, and watch how she reacted.
The Stantons’ changed attitude to the Plowman family since the death of Sir Miles LeWarne had been a source of sardonic amusement to Belinda. They had obviously decided that, despite their deficiencies, Mark and Monica must be fully incorporated into their own enhanced status as owners of Edgehill Court. In actual fact, the rapprochement with Mark had been heavy going. Finally, Gerald Stanton invented an alleged verbal request to Shirley by Sir Miles to modernise the equipment of his old friend’s Pottery. After satisfying himself that no strings were attached to the offer, Mark had accepted. This development also led to a change in his bank manager’s attitude. Freed from immediate financial worry, he was able to concentrate on production, with encouraging results. Gerald Stanton’s brainwave of contacting Corbury, U.S.A. in connection with the Millenary Celebrations, had met with an enthusiastic response, and a substantial order for souvenirs had already come in. Meanwhile Shirley had addressed herself to cultivating her hitherto despised sister-in-law. Monica Plowman, who above all liked life to run smoothly and pleasantly, accepted her overtures uncritically.
Belinda, who had never been in doubt about her aunt’s business acumen, collected together some of her own designs for pottery jugs and beakers as a pretext for her visit. Shirley was in and received her warmly.
‘Nice of you to look in, my dear,’ she said.
‘Are you madly busy?’ Belinda asked. ‘I’ve brought along a few designs I’d like your opinion on.’
‘I’m only too glad of an excuse to knock off. Actually, there’s a bit of a lull now that the Court stuff has gone off to the sale room. It couldn’t be taken out of the house until probate was granted, of course, but I’ve been sorting and listing for months. And we’ve been making all the decisions about modernising and redecorating, and so on.’
‘When will you move in?’ Belinda asked.
‘In the New Year, I hope. Everything always takes so much longer than you expect. The whole place has got to be rewired, to start with. Show me these designs of yours.’ Belinda handed them over and watched her aunt appraise them critically.
‘You’ve got what it takes, you know,’ Shirley Stanton remarked. ‘This jug, for instance, would definitely be a good selling line at a reasonable profit. Try to get your father to put it into production right away. How many generations of Plowman
potters do you make?’
‘Five, I think. No, six, isn’t it, counting old Obadiah and his butter crocks in the late 1700s? Talking about the family, who do you think I saw in the High Street this afternoon? That cousin who was brought up with you and Daddy. Bernard Lister.’
Shirley Stanton looked at her in blank astonishment.
‘But have you met him?’
Belinda explained once again about the lecture she had attended.
‘Oh, well, if you’ve only seen him on a platform. It’s not at all likely that he’d honour Corbury with a visit, you know. It was probably someone unfortunate enough to look like him — rather ape-like. Now, reverting to this jug of yours...’
Rather elaborately unconcerned, Belinda wondered, as she strolled home later on? On the whole she thought that her aunt had been genuinely uninterested. Probably her mother was living in the past over the Plowman attitude to Blister.
Shirley Stanton had, however, been sufficiently interested to retail Belinda’s story to her husband when he came home. Gerald paused fractionally. A lightning check on the possible relevance of unexpected news to the affairs of Sir Miles LeWarne had become a habit with him. He was reassured.
‘Fifty to one against Blister showing up in Corbury, don’t you think?’ he replied.
‘Just about. I hope Belinda won’t take it into her head to cultivate him, though. A pity they’re both at Warhampton.’
‘I shouldn’t imagine any advances from her would be reciprocated. After all, she’s Mark’s daughter. By the way, Mike Baldwin rang about something this afternoon, and said there was a good crowd at the preview.’
In fact, attendance was so good that the previewing period was extended, and Bernard Lister found the auction rooms still open on his return to Alchester. Taut with fury at the thought of Shirley Stanton established at Edgehill Court, he nevertheless pursued his objective of buying something which had been in the study at the time of his visit there. To his satisfaction the desk was on sale. It was not a valuable antique, merely a well-made Victorian piece in mahogany, unlikely to be earmarked by wealthy dealers.
Bernard tried the drawers, which ran like satin, and fingered the little balustrade which ran round three sides of the top. It was as good as his.
Nothing else evoked memories for him except the books. They had lined the whole of one wall, their handsome bindings creating a delectable atmosphere of intellectual opulence. As he inspected the various lots he smiled a little wryly. Their almost mint condition suggested that perhaps Sir Miles had not made all that much use of his library. He decided to bid for a fine edition of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and some runs of the English classics to replace his own odd volumes.
He slept badly that night, tormented by the sense of the Plowmans’ having invaded and taken over the one small comer of Corbury which, in a curious way, had become a part of his inmost self. He awoke unrefreshed, to find that his enthusiasm for the sale had largely evaporated. However, he attended it, and eventually secured the various lots he wanted without difficulty. Then, having arranged for their despatch to Warhampton, he left the town once again, this time accelerating to shoot past the Corbury fork. He was very tired, ashamed of having been so churned up emotionally, and the prospect of going to ground in his flat seemed the only thing that mattered. The road unreeled endlessly ahead, and it was dark as he reached the outskirts of Warhampton.
He lived on the first floor of a house which had been converted into three select self-contained flats. Their rents were high, this being reflected in the well maintained hall and staircase. He let himself in, pausing a moment to relish his arrival. He was fortunate in his fellow tenants. Mrs Tresillian on the second floor was a widow in her sixties, given to vapid small talk when encountered but otherwise innocuous. On the ground floor Dr James Halton, a distinguished ornithologist, was seldom in residence, spending much of his time on expeditions to remote areas, or in attending conferences, accompanied by his wife as amanuensis. As there was no light showing on their premises, Bernard Lister concluded that they were probably away at the moment.
In his own flat everything was in order, just as he had left it. Once a week a woman came in to clean, under his eye: he would not have dreamt of handing over the key to anyone. Otherwise he fended competently for himself. Progressively more relaxed, he began to unpack in a leisurely way. Presently it occurred to him that he was thinking about his discovery in the Alchester archives instead of dwelling on the new situation at Edgehill Court. Why, he asked himself in a moment of sudden illumination, should he allow Shirley to poison his life once again? His eye fell on the previous week’s Corbury Courier, still in its wrapper ... it’s all in last week’s Courier, the man outside the estate agency had said
He snatched up the packet, went into his kitchen, and dropped it into the rubbish chute. A fraction of a second later it landed with a hollow thud in the dustbin below.
The first weeks of the autumn term were unexpectedly agreeable. Bernard Lister found his stock remaining high as his book met with continued success. He contrived to group his lectures and tutorials to allow himself more time than usual for research and writing. He discovered promising material among his first-year students. His purchases arrived from Alchester, and the desk was installed to his complete satisfaction. The books were stacked in the spare bedroom awaiting an enjoyable reorganisation of his entire library in the next vacation.
Checking his new data on the Corbury charters meant visits to the Public Record Office. By spending a Friday night in London, and returning to Warhampton on Saturday evening he thought that he could cover a satisfactory amount of ground. He came home from such a visit in a state of mild euphoria, aware that his paper on the charters was shaping very well. It was a sharp clear evening after a rainy day, and he decided to walk from the station instead of taking a taxi. He strode along preoccupied, casting and recasting a key paragraph, so absorbed that he was surprised to find that he had arrived on his doorstep. He let himself in mechanically, and it took the state of the normally immaculate hall to jerk him into the present. The floor was a mass of muddy footmarks which continued up the stairs, while scraps of paper and an empty cigarette carton were strewn around. He stared blankly, and then concluded that Mrs Tresillian must have workmen in. As he went up to his flat it struck him as odd that they should start on a job on a Saturday.
He had hardly set down his case when there was a crash overhead, followed by a muffled shout. He had always sedulously avoided becoming involved with Mrs Tresillian, but after a moment’s hesitation felt obliged to investigate, and went up to the second floor. A knock on the door produced no answer, but he thought he could hear movement inside, and pushed up the flap of the letter box.
‘Everything all right up here, Mrs Tresillian?’ he called. ‘It’s Bernard Lister.’
He registered frowsty tobacco smoke and a hurried confabulation. Then steps approached and the door was opened by a young man with shoulder-length blond hair wearing a purple tunic over grubby fawn trousers. He was barefooted, and eyed Bernard Lister with reserve.
‘Mrs Tresillian’s abroad till Easter,’ he said, with an unexpected public school accent. ‘I’m her nephew, David Tresillian. She’s lent me this flat while she’s away. Sorry if we disturbed you. A box of books went over.’
Seeing Bernard Lister’s incredulous expression, he added that he was in second year at the University, reading sociology.
Inside the flat another figure leant against the doorpost of the sitting room with a kind of insolent languor, at the same time attentively listening to the conversation. From the room itself came the provocative twanging of a guitar, and some brief flourishes on a drum. There was unmistakable hostility in the air. Bernard Lister responded by taking the offensive.
‘How many of you are proposing to live in this flat?’ he demanded.
David Tresillian stiffened. The figure in the doorway was joined by another.
‘Hardly your business, w
hoever you are.’
‘On the contrary, it’s decidedly my business. I’m a member of the University myself, and my work needs reasonable peace and quiet. Mrs Tresillian may have lent this place to you personally, but I refuse to believe that she intended it to be turned into a students’ hostel.’
The immediate reaction to this speech took him by surprise. The two figures inside melted silently away. The guitar and the drum were abruptly silenced. David Tresillian stared at him, his mouth slightly open.
‘You mean you’re one of the dons?’
‘I am. Bernard Lister, Reader in Medieval History.’
There was a pregnant silence. Then David Tresillian became incoherently defensive. It was bloody unfair to take it for granted that students always made a filthy row ... anyway, they’d thought the other tenants were all away ... if people objected to students in the house, why didn’t the University build more flats for them? ... four chaps could hardly help making a bit more row than one elderly person, but they were perfectly ready to try to pipe down within reason.
‘I’m glad to have your assurance on this, Mr Tresillian,’ Bernard Lister cut in coldly. ‘Goodnight.’
He returned to his own flat conscious of having had the last word, and still astonished at the effect his status appeared to have produced, but utterly appalled by the threat to his peaceful existence. From a long experience of students, his imagination built up rowdy parties thundering overhead, with pop music blaring into the small hours and beyond, noisy cars revving their engines and repeatedly having their doors slammed, and continual shouting and tramping on the stairs. In actual fact his new neighbours were surprisingly quiet, but he spent a wretched evening anticipating the next sound from above. Surely, he argued with himself, the clause in his lease which prohibited subletting would also be in Mrs Tresillian’s?
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