With a new-found spring in his step, Max bounded up to the familiar revolving doors.
‘Why, Mr Craven! What a surprise! Does Mr Painton know you’re coming?
‘No, Mandy, I thought I’d…’
‘Max! You old rogue! What the devil are you doing here? ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming to town?’
Stepping from the lift, Nigel shook Max’s hand warmly. ‘Gosh, it is good to see you. The place isn’t the same without you, you know. How long are you staying?’
‘Not long. In fact I’m only here for the day. I’ve an appointment with my bank manager at two-thirty.’
‘My word! That sounds ominous; nothing serious, I hope.’
Max shook his head. ‘Shall we say I think I handle my bank manager better than you do yours, Nigel.’
‘Quite possibly, so how about a spot of lunch? There’s a super new restaurant just opened in St James’s.’
Conscious of the fact he was still trying to lose weight, Nigel opted for a simple main course and salad. He raised his glass in Max’s direction. ‘So… how’s life in the sticks, then and how’s Connie? I must say, although you’re not exactly rosy-cheeked, you’re already looking so much better.’
‘Really? I wasn’t aware that I’d been looking that bad. As for Connie and the natives… I think we’re gradually adapting to one another’s little ways.’
Nigel fixed Max with a curious smile, ‘And if I may make so bold, who’s the special native who’s causing you to hurry back to Church Haywood? Vanessa’s going to be dreadfully upset when she learns you’ve chosen to forgo an evening spent in our company.’
Taking a deep gulp of wine, Nigel knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. Max fixed him with the familiar ‘Craven glare.’
‘For your information, Nigel, the only special thing in Church Haywood – apart from my sister and her extremely genial husband – is a very particular property, that just happens to have taken my interest. Before you ask, no, I do not intend to tell you anything more about it at the moment.’
Used to dealing with Max in more ways than one, Nigel also knew when it was best to change the subject.
*
Later, with his two-thirty appointment concluded to his liking, plus an hour browsing the food hall at Fortnum and Mason’s, Max hailed a cab to Kings Cross, bought a newspaper and boarded the train for Church Haywood.
Initially confining his interest to the financial pages of his paper, Max soon found his attention drawn to his fellow passengers. In many ways it was proving to be quite a novelty travelling by main line train for the first time in ages. In fact… what was that game that he and Tara used to play when father and daughter had a day out in London together, while Virginia and Evangeline took themselves off to a health farm for the day?
‘Misfits,’ Max reminded himself quietly. Yes, that was it, Misfits! Suppressing a smile, Max studied his fellow passengers trying to fit all these tired, grey faces to the most likely of occupations, while at the same time visualising them in the setting of an old black and white Western. Only in this instance it wasn’t really black and white but more navy blue and grey pinstripe.
Lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the train, Max fought the temptation to close his eyes and concluded wryly that the weapons being drawn on the 5.36 from King’s Cross were a far cry from those seen on The 3.10 to Yuma all those years ago. This evening’s ‘guns’ had been substituted by the latest in slimline communications technology, and the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was who was going to be next ‘on the draw’…?
‘Mr Craven… Max… I think you should wake up. That’s if you do intend to get off here. We’ve arrived in Church Haywood.’
Startled, Max looked up to find an almost empty compartment and Alison Benedict shaking him gently by the shoulder.
‘Gracious! Did I fall asleep? Thanks Alison. I suppose we’d better hurry and make a move before we head off to goodness knows where. Any idea where the next stop is by the way?’
‘Scotland, quite possibly,’ Alison said with the faintest of smiles as Max helped her down on to the platform.
‘Then I’m jolly glad you were on the train. Where were you sitting? I didn’t see you when I got on.’
‘Oh, I was standing at the back of the compartment.’
‘Standing! Why…?’
‘Because I only managed to catch the train at the last minute. Someone bumped into me on the main concourse and I dropped my folder. It took ages to gather up all my sketches and when I got on the train – seconds before the whistle blew – all the seats were taken.’
Forgetting his earlier animosity towards her, Max seemed deeply puzzled.
‘But you could have had my seat. Why didn’t you come over?’
‘Quite simply because like everyone else you paid for your ticket… and you also got there first.’
Max studied Alison’s heavy portfolio, stuffed with fabrics and designs, certainly if he’d seen her standing he would have… ‘Are you saying that no one even offered you their seat?’
Alison’s cheeks flushed with colour as she avoided Max’s gaze. ‘Mr Craven – I mean Max. I don’t wish to sound impertinent, but are you a frequent rail traveller?’
‘No. Which is quite possibly why I fell asleep. Why do you ask?’
‘Only because it’s been quite some time since I’ve been offered a seat on a train.’
‘Then perhaps you might allow me to drive you home,’ Max said deliberately, remembering the look on her face when he’d last offered her a lift, the night of Constances’s dinner party. ‘I take it you are still living with Bunty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that yes to the lift or yes to the reference to Bunty?’
Feeling decidedly ill at ease, yet knowing how much her right leg was beginning to ache, Alison said softly, ‘Yes to both, if you really don’t mind…’
‘Good. I suggest you wait here outside the station, while I go and fetch my car.’
Alone and waiting on the newly laid paving slabs, dappled by evening sunshine, it wasn’t long before Alison was aware of Max pulling up at the kerb. In a matter of seconds, he was not only standing by her side but also relieving her of her portfolio and helping her into the front passenger seat.
‘Looks like you’ve had a very busy day. That’s quite a weighty folder you have there. What were you doing in London?’
‘First I went to an exhibition at the Barbican on Aboriginal art and then I went to look for some colour swatches.’
‘Aboriginal art. That sounds interesting.’
‘Oh, it was!’ Alison replied, quite forgetting who was driving her home. ‘Their colours and techniques are simply amazing. I thought I might use some of their ideas in my work. I’m hoping to set up my own business, you see.’
‘Ah, yes. Interior design, isn’t it? I remember Evangeline and Tom Carstairs singing your praises. I must go and have a look for myself one of these days.’
At the mere mention of Tom and Evangeline Carstairs, Alison felt herself blushing. ‘It was only their spare bedroom.’
‘Yes, but even spare bedrooms have to look good, I would imagine, especially if it’s anything to do with The Firs.’
Alison made no reply. She could only remember further embarrassing incidents on the day she’d gone to London to look for wallpaper and fabric samples for The Firs. One thing had been certain that day: no one dared sit while Evangeline Carstairs was standing!
*
Looking out of the window at Keeper’s Cottage, Bunty could hardly believe her eyes. Max was helping Alison from the passenger seat of the Saab.
‘Well, I never! Fancy that, I wonder…’
Alison turned and waved to Bunty, who hurried to the front door.
‘We bumped into each other on the train,’ Max called. Then, fixing Alison with a grin, he said, ‘Well, sort of. I suppose I should really say – ‘
‘He fell asleep and I woke him up when we pulled into Church
Haywood, otherwise he might have ended up in Scotland.’
‘And very grateful I was too,’ Max acknowledged, passing Alison her folder. In future I’d better be more aware when I’m travelling by train. Although, to be honest, today was more than enough for a while. I’ll stick to Church Haywood for the foreseeable future or else use my car.
And what a car it is too, thought Alison watching Max drive away. All that wonderful leather upholstery and Max had been so…
‘Alison, cooee! Did you hear what I said? Would you like a glass of lemonade? I made some especially for you. I thought you’d be thirsty.’
*
At Haywood Grange, George was pouring drinks of a different kind.
‘So… you saw Alison on the train? What a coincidence. Any idea what she’d been doing in London?’
‘Yes. Seeking inspiration from an Aboriginal art exhibition at the Barbican. Apparently she found the colours and textures truly amazing and hopes to use some of their ideas in one of her projects.’
‘Then I expect she’ll make a jolly good job of it. She’s a damn clever girl, is Alison, and extremely talented when it comes to interior design.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Max said thoughtfully, sipping at his glass. ‘Perhaps I should call in on Evangeline after all?’
Chapter 7
‘You’re what!’ Connie gasped, from where she was dead-heading geraniums.
‘Thinking of going to have a look at Evangeline and Tom’s spare room. Isn’t that what you advised, Constance? Everyone keeps talking about Alison Benedict’s talents, so I thought I should find out for myself. Perhaps I might be able to use them.’
‘What do you mean by that, Max?’
Max tapped the side of his nose. ‘For the moment, I’m saying nothing. All in good time as they say. Do you think Evangeline and Tom will be up by now?’
Connie looked at her watch, it was just after nine o’clock. ‘Tom yes, Evangeline no. Besides, this weekend wouldn’t be a very good time. If I remember correctly, they’re expecting Tom’s brother and his family.’
Max appeared put out, and crushed a scented geranium leaf between his fingers. It quite ruined his plans for the day.
‘Stop looking like a spoilt child, Max! Tom’s relations are only here for the weekend. Another couple of days won’t make any difference for whatever it is you have in mind. If you’re bored and want something to do, you can go and post Cousin Henry’s birthday card.’
Conceding defeat, Max picked up the cream envelope and headed for the village.
With the card posted, Max called first at the florist’s for his usual order of flowers for Tara’s grave and then at the off-licence. From there it was only a short drive to find Bill Jessop.
‘Max Craven! What a surprise! I was going to ring you later. Tom Carstairs said you wanted a word.’
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ Max said, following Bill through to his oak- panelled study.
‘No, not at all. At least nothing that can’t wait. I was in the process of replying to a letter from Alison Benedict. She was enquiring about the old stables.’
‘As a matter of fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here,’ Max said, reaching in his pocket for his diary and the letter from his bank manager.
Some time later, when Ann Jessop took away the empty coffee tray, Max stood up and held out his hand. ‘It’s been good doing business with you Bill. I’m glad we managed to resolve the financial aspect so quickly.’
‘Oh, I certainly don’t believe in wasting time as far as money and property are concerned.’ Bill Jessop replied shrewdly. ‘I’ll contact my solicitor a.s.a.p. if that’s all right with you?’
‘Perfect. It will give me something to get my teeth into for the next few months. I’m beginning to get bored after weeks of doing nothing. My sister’s already got me running errands for her.’
Bill grinned and shook his head. ‘I think this proposed project of yours is going to take longer than a few months, Max... but you’re much younger than I am. Anyway, all the best with it. I shall look forward to seeing it take shape.’
Watching Max switch on the ignition and engage first gear, Bill raised his arm in the air and ran back inside to his study. When he returned, Max saw he was holding up a letter.’
‘Here,’ he said, passing the letter through the open window, ‘this doesn’t really relate to me anymore. Perhaps you could write to Alison instead?’ Stuffing the letter in his jacket pocket, Max glimpsed the flowers and bottle of champagne on the back seat of the car.
At the churchyard, discarding the old flowers and positioning the newly arranged, delicate pink posy, Max whispered softly, ‘Tara, my dear, it looks as if your father is going to be staying in Church Haywood for quite some time. At least your Aunt Constance and Uncle George will be pleased. I’d better go back and tell them my good news.’
‘What’s this - champagne! Goodness what are we celebrating?’ George asked, unloading bales of hay from the Range Rover. ‘You can’t have won the lottery Max. They don’t announce the numbers until eight o’clock tonight.’
‘No, George, but you could say this is a gamble of a different kind, and one for the moment, I don’t want anyone else to know about.’
Accepting her glass of Moet, Constance asked excitedly, ‘Well, what is it? What is this wonderful news you and George have been keeping from me?’
‘Correction, Connie,’ George broke in. ‘I’ve only just found out about it myself.’
‘Found out about what?’
‘That I’ve just agreed to buy Jessop’s Stables,’ Max said nonchalantly.
‘How... I mean why?’
‘For the simple reason, Constance, that I like a challenge. I also think they’ll prove to be a good business proposition.’
‘So that’s why you went to London, to see your business partner. Craven and Painton are going to...’
‘No, Constance.’ Max topped up her glass. ‘This has nothing to do with Craven and Painton. I’m buying Jessop’s Stables with my own capital.’
George raised an eyebrow and gulped at his champagne, while his wife tried to comprehend the significance of her brother’s pronouncement. ‘But what do you intend to do with the place. Surely not live there?’
Max laughed heartily. ‘No, I don’t think so, though I must admit with careful and sensitive planning it would make a superb residence. I was thinking more along the lines of turning it into four separate units.’
‘Like Little Harberry?’ Connie ventured.
‘No. Not like Little Harberry. In fact the complete opposite.’
Constance drained her glass and placed it on the glass-topped conservatory table. She sat down with an anxious look upon her face.
‘Don’t look so worried. I have no intention of ruining the place. In fact I want to improve it. Recreate that wonderful Regency style and make sure I only let to local people and not outsiders.’
Connie breathed a deep sigh of relief and reached for her glass. ‘In that case, brother dear, you can refill this and I suggest we all drink a toast to Jessop’s Stables.
‘Correction number two.’ George said jovially. ‘I suggest we change that to "Craven’s Stables!”‘
‘Craven’s Stables!’ was the unanimous reply.
On the Monday afternoon, Evangeline Carstairs waved her husband goodbye, looked hurriedly at her watch and ran upstairs.
‘Two o’clock already,’ she gasped to her reflection in the dressing table mirror. ‘I thought Tom was never going to finish his lunch and go back to the office. Of all the days to suggest...’
Suggest? Suggest what, Evangeline? An inner voice enquired.
‘Suggest going to bed,’ she replied, addressing her reflection with a voice of sheer disbelief. Pushing her hair away from her face, Evangeline turned her attention to the bed, where only a few moments ago, Tom had made his suggestion.
Having spilt coffee on his shirt that morning in the office, Tom Carstairs had d
ecided to return home for a change of shirt and a spot of lunch. He knew there would be plenty of food left after the weekend. Evangeline, as per usual, had practically killed the fatted calf in honour of his brother and his family.
Sitting on the bed, unbuttoning his stained shirt, Tom had watched his wife carefully reapply the familiar coat of Pagan Glow. In the heat of the August afternoon, savouring Evangeline’s perfume and perhaps a little light-headed from the two glasses of wine he knew he shouldn’t have had with his lunch, Tom reached out for Evangeline’s hand.
‘Evangeline... why don’t we...? I don’t have to go back to the office this afternoon. It was, after all quite a hectic weekend entertaining Paul and his family.’
Recognising the familiar (yet rarely used) tone in Tom’s voice, Evangeline was filled with alarm. It had been weeks – no, months - since they’d made love. Somehow Tom never seemed interested. A fact that sent Evangeline’s thoughts winging their way back to the early days when they’d first moved to Church Haywood. Her husband (a thoroughly decent man in other respects) hadn’t been that interested in making love then either. In those days, however, it hadn’t really bothered her. There were so many other things to distract her attention away from the loveless (or should that be sexless?) nights spent in Tom’s bed: tennis, gym, swimming at Haywood Grange, a wonderful assortment of builders working at The Firs and of course there was...
‘Virginia Craven,’ she’d whispered.
‘Virginia Craven?’ Tom had asked in surprise, when he’d been expecting different words to spring from Evangeline’s lips. ‘What made you suddenly think of Virginia Craven?’
Secrets From The Past Page 7
