The Affacombe Affair

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  In his arms, her face pressed against him, he felt her give a little choking sigh of relief.

  ‘I was so afraid you were never going to ask me. It — it has only been grandfather’s money, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been an utter clot. I know you understand, though, don’t you? Darling, you won’t ever hold it against me, will you?’

  ‘Why should I? I’ve been just as miserable about having the wretched money.’

  He realized that in his intolerable self-centredness he’d hardly thought about her feelings in the matter. Bereft of speech he held her closer.

  ‘The capital’s tied up like grim death,’ she told him when they surfaced. ‘On — our children. Doesn’t that sound marvellous? You do want children, don’t you?’

  ‘By God I do!’ He was surprised at his own vehemence. ‘Growing up with both their parents, which neither of us did.’

  ‘And with brothers and sisters, too, which we never had. A real family. It’s quite frightening to feel so happy, isn’t it? Almost tempting Providence.’

  There it was again, that reluctance to believe that things would turn out all right. He’d have to supply a good bit of unobtrusive reassurance.

  ‘If I were Providence, I’d feel wounded to the core by that remark,’ he said, kissing her again. ‘Look, what are we going to do about breaking it to our respective parents? I feel as though I want to proclaim it from the housetops.’

  Julian considered.

  ‘Let’s go and find your Mamma first, and bring her up here. Daddy will insist on opening a bottle. I’m so fond of her, David.’

  ‘I am, too,’ he said, gratified. ‘It’s great that you feel like that about her.’

  The news of the engagement spread rapidly and had an exhilarating effect on the Ainsworths’ party, which became a kind of informal celebration. The general setting was idyllic. The swimming bath was near the South Lodge of Affacombe Priory, on the right of the drive. It had been refilled for the occasion, and the crystal-clear water sparkled in the sun. Gay garden chairs and umbrellas had been brought down and dotted about, and a buffet tea set out in the shade of a cedar tree. The guests were local people, and the fact that the engagement was within the circle gave keen satisfaction. Congratulations rained upon David and Julian, as well as on Olivia and the Winships.

  ‘Olivia darling!’ Faith Ainsworth came hurrying forward, both hands outstretched. ‘I didn’t see you arrive.’ She embraced Olivia affectionately and stood gazing at her with large, cow-like eyes. ‘I’m so terribly happy for you. I mean, it’s such agonizing anxiety for a mum these days, isn’t it? I simply dread our two getting to that stage. But really, if you’d searched the world over you couldn’t have found David a nicer girl, could you? I think she’s simply sweet.’

  Olivia liked Faith, as well as being amused by her.

  ‘I’ve been secretly hoping for it for some time,’ she said. ‘People are being incredibly nice about it. I’m afraid we’re dominating your party quite outrageously.’

  Faith Ainsworth’s large flat face flushed with pleasure.

  ‘Why, it’s making the party!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the happiest thing that could have happened. Oh, dear, there are the Matlocks arriving — I must fly. See you presently, of course.’ Olivia passed slowly from one group of friends to another.

  Soon, she thought, she must link up with the Winships. It was quite odd to feel that an official relationship had suddenly sprung into being. She’d had to make an effort to find out what Barbara was really like behind her affectation. Hugh was easy enough, if a bit inarticulate...

  A good deal of hilarity was coming from the swimming bath, where John Ainsworth was organising a relay race between two teams captained by David and Julian respectively. Forty-five, fair and fattish, he radiated bonhomie and enjoyment as the prospective competitors milled noisily around him. By dint of blasts on a referee’s whistle he finally managed to get the two teams to the opposite ends of the bath.

  ‘Thank God I could plead my cloth,’ the Reverend Simon Fairhall remarked to Olivia as they watched. ‘I see Dr Coppin’s been press-ganged.’

  ‘The teams are disgracefully weighted in Julian’s favour,’ said Jane Fairhall. ‘Do look. She’s got young Hyde who’s won endless cups at school, and the games master, too.’

  ‘ON YOUR MARKS!’ roared John Ainsworth, brandishing a starting gun. He fired it, and a chorus of squeals arose from the drenched spectators who had ventured too near.

  After the race had been handsomely won by Julian’s team, and the competitors had emerged to sunbathe and recover, Olivia spotted the Winships, Barbara elegant in an expensively simple pale blue suit and what was unmistakably a model hat. She made her way towards them and was greeted by a welcoming gesture.

  ‘My dear, how too terribly hearty,’ Barbara said. ‘For heaven’s sake let’s find some chairs and sink into them. I’m quite exhausted by all this excitement, aren’t you?’

  It certainly was very pleasant, Olivia thought, when they were settled. From where they sat the park sloped gently upwards to the gracious late eighteenth-century house, the central block of which was linked by short colonnades to two charming wings.

  Her mind reverted to her Parish History, and she wondered where the inspiration and money had come from for so lavish a reconstruction. The Georgian house replaced an earlier one built from the stone of the despoiled Augustinian priory, the ruins of which could still be seen a little higher up the slope. Finding out all about it was going to be so exciting. As she speculated, the surface layer of her consciousness attended to Barbara Winship, who was once again lamenting the disappearance of the age of gracious living.

  ‘All the same,’ Olivia said, curbing her natural forthrightness. ‘I’d rather have a school here than one of those National Trust museums. So much more alive, and I’m sure the boys gain from surroundings like these, even if they don’t realize it at the time.’

  They turned their heads at the sound of a powerful car which shot up the drive and vanished in the direction of the West Wing.

  ‘That’s the Garnishes’ Mercedes, that was,’ remarked John Ainsworth, who had come up behind them, and stood with a hand on the back of Olivia’s chair. ‘I always hope they won’t mow down a boy when they come during term. They’re here just for the weekend.’

  ‘Long way to come for a weekend,’ grunted Hugh Winship.

  ‘Not in that car, Colonel.’

  ‘John,’ broke in Olivia, ‘I know it’s an understood thing that they don’t want to get involved socially down here, but I really do want to contact Mr Garnish. I think it’s quite likely he took over papers dealing with the selling up of the estate in the eighteen-fifties, and if he did it would be an enormous help to me to have a look at them. Should I just get a flea in my ear?’

  ‘It’s worth having a go, I think. He gets a terrific kick out of being the owner of a place like this. I’d ring up rather than call, though — Hallo, David. Drowned your bride-to-be in the bath?’

  ‘She’s been stung quite badly by a wasp,’ said David briefly.

  ‘On her hand. Your Sister’s taken her off to the San to put something on it.’

  There were dismayed exclamations.

  ‘What about rounding up some grub?’ suggested Hugh Winship. ‘She’ll be glad of her tea. Nasty thing, a wasp sting.’

  Two more chairs were collected, and David manoeuvred over a garden table surmounted by a striped umbrella.

  ‘Now this is really delightful,’ pronounced Barbara, as her husband returned with plates of sandwiches and cakes. ‘Oh, and here’s Ju. Better, darling?’

  ‘Mummy, I don’t think you and Sister Roach have met,’ said Julian, ushering forward her companion. ‘She’s been so kind and given me first aid.’

  Barbara rose to shake hands with a neat, unobtrusive little woman with a sallow complexion and black eyes, and proceeded to thank her charmingly. Sister Roach stood listening attentively, just as though a patient
were describing symptoms, Olivia thought with amusement.

  ‘Lucky I was on hand, wasn’t it?’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Won’t you join us, Sister?’ Barbara suggested.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Winship. But I know Mrs Ainsworth would be glad of extra help with the tea, thank you all the same.’

  ‘Thank heaven for that,’ said Barbara a moment later, subsiding into her chair. ‘I felt I simply had to ask her.’

  ‘She certainly produced something pretty effective for the sting. It hardly hurts at all now.’ Julian glanced round. ‘Here come Daddy and David with cups of tea. Gorgeous!’

  The circle of chairs was drawn a little closer, the two families slightly self-conscious in their new relationship.

  At Poldens that evening, after David had taken Julian off to dine at the Foxtor Inn, Olivia relaxed over a glass of sherry. What a wonderful day it had been. David home and dry — almost. Emotion was a bit wearing, though. After all, she thought, I’m nearly an Old Age Pensioner. She glanced happily round her sitting-room. Books, familiar pictures, flowers, desk and filing cabinet all adding up to a comfortable sense of security and fulfilment.

  Next week looked like being fairly peaceful, once the Harvest Festival stuff had been disposed of, and she ought to be able to get a good long stretch at the Parish History. Presently she’d ring up the Garnishes, about nine, perhaps.

  She began thinking about David again. She simply must do him credit at the wedding. Barbara would go to town over her outfit. If it really was to be early in January she’d better go up to Town herself before the fogs started, and get something. Nice to work in a call on dear old M.B., too, and get his opinion on her book up-to-date.

  To help out financially during David’s education Olivia had taken a post as secretary to Professor Moreton-Blake, a distinguished authority on Saxon and Norman England. Her interest in the past had soon developed into an enthusiasm for local history. Now, home for good at Affacombe and free of family responsibilities, she had been able to embark on a piece of research of her own.

  Soon after nine she consulted the telephone directory and dialled the West Wing of the Priory. A woman’s voice answered promptly, giving the number.

  ‘Mrs Garnish?’

  ‘Speaking.’ The voice sounded guarded.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive my disturbing you, Mrs Garnish. My name’s Strode, Mrs Olivia Strode. I live in the village, and I’m writing a history of Affacombe parish. Naturally the Priory has played an important part, and I wondered if your husband has any papers dealing with the selling up of the estate about a hundred years ago, and if so, if he’d allow me to see them? I should be most grateful.’

  ‘Oh — I see.’ Mrs Garnish was clearly out of her depth. ‘I’m afraid my husband’s in his bath at the moment. We don’t go by the clock when we’re down here for a break —’

  ‘How very sensible of you. Shall I ring up at a more convenient time, then? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s quite all right. I’ll just go and ask him. Hold on a sec, will you?’

  Olivia could hear steps dying away, and a door shutting. She sat idly fingering a paperweight, and wondering what it was like to be married to a tycoon. After two or three minutes she heard Mrs Garnish returning.

  ‘Hallo?’ The intonation was more friendly.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Garnish?’

  ‘My husband’s sorry he isn’t available. He can’t be sure about the papers you want, but he’ll have a look and bring down anything there is next time we come. That’ll be in about a fortnight, as far as we know. All right?’

  Olivia thanked her appreciatively and rang off.

  Chapter Three

  Faithful to her promise Olivia Strode drove up to the church on Monday morning. She found the Harvest Festival decorations disintegrating under the attack of the Fairhalls and a small band of helpers. Large cardboard containers occupied the back pews, bearing labels such as HOSPITAL, EVENTIDE, and SISTERS OF CHARITY, and were filling up fast.

  ‘Angel!’ Jane Fairhall glanced up from the list in her hand. ‘Eggs for Eventide over here, please, Mrs Yeo.’

  What a relief to clear away everything but the flowers from the font, Olivia thought, scooping up the last of the apples. All the same, there was none of Saturday morning’s zip in the air. Curious how depressing it always was to dismantle things. She fetched a can of water and carefully topped up her vases before clearing a crowded window ledge. A high-pitched whine started up in the chancel, where Hilda Rainbird had gone into action with a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Shall I do the Sisters as usual?’ she asked Simon Fairhall.

  ‘Splendid,’ he replied automatically. ‘It’s awfully good of you, Olivia, if you really can manage it.’

  ‘Help you load up?’ Hugh Winship came through the south door.

  His estate car was outside, stacked to the roof with produce. There was no sign of Barbara. He darted a glance at Olivia.

  ‘Heavy job for women. Make ’em help you at the other end,’ he added illogically.

  After lunch Olivia drove the twenty miles into Highcastle and discharged her cargo at the convent, assisted by beaming nuns and orphans. Afterwards she managed to find a parking space and did some shopping before having tea at her favourite café. As she headed for home again she was surprised to find how fast the weather was deteriorating. Dirty-looking low cloud was streaming up from the south-west, and before long raindrops appeared on the windscreen. Back at Affacombe she had difficulty in shutting the garage doors in the rising wind. By dusk a gale was screaming over the village, lashing it with rain.

  Poldens was solidly built with walls over a foot thick, but Olivia could feel the whole cottage vibrating as she lay in bed that night. The noise made sleep impossible, and she read into the small hours, worrying intermittently about the thatch and TV aerial. From time to time her bedside lamp gave a flicker, ominously suggestive of a power failure. It was nearly three before she began to nod.

  She awoke to broad daylight and was relieved to find that the electricity supply was still functioning. The gale was dying down a little, and fleeting chinks of blue appeared in the tumbling mass of clouds. She decided to postpone going to the shop until later, and spent the first part of the morning at her desk. Venturing out later she found the thatch intact, but a trellis fence in the garden was listing badly. As she arrived at the village shop, breathless from struggling against the wind, a figure in thigh boots and Macintosh came scorching down the hill and jumped off a bicycle.

  ‘Mornin’, Mis’ Strode. Turrible wild night, an’ a lot o’ damage done. All right down to your place?’

  Fred Earwaker, a lusty young giant in his late twenties, worked as groundsman and gardener at the Priory School. He was a favourite of Olivia’s, who was interested by the unusual persistence of his family in the parish records, and by her discovery that the original meaning of his surname was almost certainly ‘wild boar watcher’. He did odd jobs in her garden in his spare time.

  ‘Good morning, Fred. Yes, it was pretty rough, wasn’t it? That bit of trellis is heeling over, but nothing worse seems to have happened, thank goodness.’

  ‘I’ll come along an’ fix’n for you, soon as the wind drops a bit. One of they beeches is down up to the ruins, an’ where the roots ’as ’eaved up there’s more o’ the old walls showin’. ’Twill interest Mis’ Strode, I said to meself, soon as I’d seed ’n.’

  ‘Whereabouts is the tree, Fred?’

  ‘Way beyond the stickin’-up bits, over to what wur North Lodge side.’

  Olivia was keenly interested. The Augustinian priory had been an entirely undistinguished foundation, and little was known of its ground plan. This new discovery suggested a gatehouse, or possibly a guest house. Perhaps the Highcastle Archaeological Society could be persuaded to sponsor an excavation if the Garnishes agreed. A pity the ruins weren’t scheduled as an Ancient Monument.

  After lunch she could not resist going to have a look for
herself. The expedition took her up the village street and past Crossways to a small kissing gate just to the right of the drive entrance of the Priory. The gate was the beginning of a right-of-way known as the Monk’s Path, which ran along the boundary of the park close to the little River Sinnel. It rose to the edge of a small gorge immediately behind the ruins. From here there was a fine view of Sinneldon and the combe, and a garden seat had been installed, protected by a railing. The spot was known locally as the Monk’s Leap, and alleged to be where one of the Priory brethren had leapt over the edge, hotly pursued by the Devil in the guise of a beautiful woman, landing miraculously safe on a rock in midstream. Olivia paused to look down at the Sinnel, roaring in full spate after the heavy rain, and sweeping along a surprising quantity of debris.

  The ruins were partly overgrown by brambles and bushes, and interspersed with trees planted as a windbreak for the house. She picked her way through the soaking greenery, getting damp and scratched in the process. On arriving at the fallen tree she experienced a thrill of excitement. The roots, now a tangled mass in mid-air, had been interlaced with blocks of the same grey granite which formed the exposed remains of the buildings. She climbed down into the cavity for a closer look, regardless of the mud, and was interested to find that the corner of a former building had been uncovered.

  After emerging and spending some time in estimating distances she made her way back to the Monk’s Path, preoccupied with the possibilities of an excavation. Two small white bodies suddenly hurtled towards her, making her start. They barked furiously, scrabbling at her Burberry with muddy paws. The next moment she came face to face with Barbara Winship, dog leads in hand, her hunter’s green quilted raincoat and Liberty headscarf straight from the pages of a fashion glossy. They exchanged surprised greetings and Barbara quelled her Jack Russells.

  ‘Don’t apologise — they could hardly make me any muddier,’ Olivia said, feeling grubby and dishevelled. ‘I just simply had to go and look at some bits of wall which have come to light under a tree which has blown down.’