It's Raining Men

by Milly Johnson

  ‘That’s quite a powerful love story, isn’t it?’ sighed May. ‘If I were a writer, I’d use that as a plot.’

  ‘It’s like something out of the Middle Ages, though, don’t you think?’ said Lara, wrinkling up her nose. ‘Mind you, why should that be a surprise here?’

  They found the elaborate grave of Jeremiah Unwin.

  ‘“My duties done, I shall rest in Thy house, o Lord.” Sounds a bit cocky to me,’ May said with disdain. ‘I’m staying in Your house, God, so lump it, whether You like it or not. And notice the “I” and not the “we”.’

  Clare nodded. ‘He probably had it designed well in advance. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind that his wife would have died on the same day.’

  She gave the grandiose statue a sly kick and hoped that Jeremiah felt the reverberations all the way down in his box, which she had no doubt would be very grand and black and lined in velvet. Bloody Unwins.

  They took a leisurely walk back up the hill until Gene Hathersage came around the corner like Nigel Mansell on drugs and blasted his horn to make them move.

  Lara extricated herself from the prickly bush which she had just had to press herself into. ‘I really didn’t think I could dislike that man any more, but, surprise, surprise, I’ve just found I can.’

  May tried not to smile as she picked a twig out of her friend’s blonde mop of hair. Gene Hathersage and Lara reminded her of one of those old Doris Day films in which the hero and heroine are constantly at each other’s throat, not knowing they are really in love. Then she looked at Lara’s thunderous expression and decided that maybe that wasn’t the case here, though.

  Chapter 50

  Joan pored over the ledgers again looking for evidence – of what, she didn’t know. The estate had begun to pay a stipend to those twelve men in 1928: SEA & R, JB, GC, PJD, FAH, WWH, ASL, HRM, BAS, HAWS, JU, JGW as well as into a central account marked Village Fund.

  SEA & R? Joan checked against her notes. SEA must refer to Seymour Elias Acaster, but who or what was R? She scribbled the initial in her notepad. Joan checked forward to the first death: Jack Unwin. Payments were no longer paid directly to JU a month after his death, but the monies he would have received, had he been still alive, were paid instead into the Village Fund. That pattern was repeated in the record of the second death, Albert Landers, when the monies again joined those in the Village Fund. And so it was with them all – except for Seymour Elias Acaster. After his death his allowance or wage or whatever it could be was paid directly to R. Joan flicked forward to the 1990s to find that monies were still being paid to R. Indeed, as she heaved the great long pages over to the present-day accounts, she found R was still receiving a direct allowance from the estate.

  Joan felt a prickle of excitement in her hands. She was onto something here, though she didn’t know what, but she had the unshakable feeling it was going to be on a par with the Brink’s-Mat robbery. Those robbers had gone for a mere three million pounds and discovered, by chance, three tons of gold bullion instead. There was something much bigger and much more lucrative than the depleted fortunes of an old man waiting to be uncovered in Ren Dullem. But, then again, why not have both?

  Now, where would he keep his will?

  Joan looked around the room for a small portrait that might cover a wall safe, but there was none – the paintings on the wall were far too big to be moved for access. She took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to get into the mind of someone like Edwin Carlton. He was a trusting soul, uncomplicated and didn’t have the greatest memory. Surely he wouldn’t keep a copy document of something so important in an obvious place such as his desk?

  Joan pulled out the top drawer and had to stifle the astonished laughter that wanted to erupt from her. At the back of it, in a long slim yellowing envelope, was the Last Will and Testament of Edwin Charles Richard Gravois Carlton. Her fingers were shaking with amused glee as she teased the papers out and straightened them.

  The will was ten years old. She skipped through all the boring bits until she reached the nitty-gritty. He was leaving Gladys fifteen thousand pounds. But here was the interesting part: the rest of his estate he was bequeathing to R Acaster To do with as is fit. And in the event of the demise of the aforesaid R Acaster, the estate will pass to the Village Fund for the future development and rejuvenation of Ren Dullem.

  R Acaster? SEA & R? Was R Acaster the wife of Seymour? Why would Edwin leave his fortune to her if she was? Joan took her camera out of her pocket and snapped the document before placing it back in the drawer. Every answer she found was dredging up more questions. But she was on a mission now – she wasn’t going to stop until she knew everything.

  Joan found an Internet café in Wellem, a grubby little place with ripped seats and keyboards dirty from hundreds of fingers. She typed Ren Dullem, but there wasn’t even a Wikipedia entry for it, only a mention of it in a long list of place names in North Yorkshire. There was a host of non-relevant answers informing her that Ren was a computing term, that in Japanese the name Ren meant popularity, and that it was the Confucian virtue of treating each other in the right way.

  Joan deleted the words in the search box with angry presses of the keys. It was unheard of in this day and age that there wasn’t any information about a whole stupid village. Precisely, another part of her brain came back at her. There must be something here, and she would find it.

  She typed Lord Gilbert Carlton. Bingo. There wasn’t exactly a mother lode of information about him, merely that he lived from 1902 to 1974 in Carlton Hall, North Yorkshire, married Elizabeth Dudley in 1937 and had a son, the present Lord Carlton, in 1941. There was a picture of the old family crest and motto, and that was it. In short, there was nothing that pushed the mystery any further forward. She then typed in all of the twelve names, but there was not one single name that brought up the relevant dates or place. However, on the list of entries she noted the words: Parish records for Glasgow. Parish records, that’s what she needed. Of course. Her next stop was the church.

  Chapter 51

  The rest of the day for May, Lara and Clare was quiet and lazy. Clare went for a swim, Lara read her Kindle and May did a giant crossword puzzle sitting outside in the clouded-over sunshine. They cooked the chicken fillets and steak which Frank had given them on a disposable barbecue that Lara bought at Hubbard’s Cupboard. Then they settled down with big mugs of tea and watched a Columbo on the ancient box of a television. A gentle, easy day – and not one of them was bored or wished she had packed a laptop.

  They were all in bed by ten thirty, tired out by doing nothing. The beds were the most comfortable any of them had ever slept in. Lara drifted off within minutes of her head resting on the pillow. But she snapped her eyes open a few hours later, dragged back from a deep sleep by a persistent tap-tap-tapping.

  She lay perfectly still, wondering if it had followed from her dream and wasn’t a real noise at all. Silence. Then, just as she closed her eyes, it began again. Tap-tap-BANG-BANG-BANG-tap-tap. Even under the weight of the quilt, she felt suddenly chilled. She wasn’t imagining it; it was a real noise and something was happening outside her window.

  Lara folded the quilt back and reached over to the curtain, nudging it, by degrees, to the side, but she couldn’t see anything suspicious. She thought about knocking on the window to frighten whoever – or whatever – was making that noise, except she had a vision of a fist crashing in through the glass and grabbing her by the throat. She padded softly out of the room and over to the side and front doors to check they were locked, even though she knew they were because she had locked them herself before they all went to bed. She hoped whoever was on the outside didn’t see the handles being pressed down.

  While she was in the lounge she realized the tapping was coming from above her. Someone was on the roof. Should she wake the others? Another loud bang answered that one. She shook May awake first, her finger across her mouth warning May not to speak.

  ‘There’s someone outside,’ whis
pered Lara. ‘Banging.’

  There was a loud crash as if something was falling down the roof and they both jumped. A beam of light passed by May’s window and they quickly ran out of her room and into Clare’s to wake her up. They had to shake Clare quite considerably because once she was asleep she was virtually comatose.

  ‘Shall we ring the police?’ asked Clare, after Lara had filled her in on why they had disturbed her. She remembered an urban myth from her schooldays about a madman bouncing a head on someone’s car roof. She shivered.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

  ‘I think we’d better,’ said May, heading for the phone in the corner of the lounge.

  There was a rattle of metal and seven squeaks as if someone was descending a ladder. Another rattle and then quick footsteps melting into the distance. Lara leapt to the side window to see a flash of something silver disappearing down the hill.

  ‘The phone’s crackling,’ May whispered, rushing back over to the others. Safety in numbers.

  ‘Have they gone? What the hell was that?’ asked Clare at Lara’s shoulder.

  ‘Whoever it was has run off,’ replied Lara.

  ‘We should go and have a look.’

  ‘Tonight? In the pitch black?’

  ‘I’ve got my torch,’ said Clare.

  Lara slowly turned the key in the door and opened it noiselessly. Holding onto each other and brandishing a torch, a poker and a rolling pin between them, they cautiously walked outside. Clare moved the torch to check all was safe around them before directing the beam upwards. And then they saw it.

  There, bolted onto the roof, was a metal tower covered in barbed wire which definitely hadn’t been there earlier on.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Lara.

  ‘God only knows,’ replied Clare. ‘I’m sharing someone’s room tonight, though. Or shall we drag our mattresses into the sitting room?’

  Lara groaned. Not just at the ugly metal thing they were all staring at but because this meant one of them would have to pay Gene Hathersage another visit. And she so was hoping it wasn’t her.

  Chapter 52

  Lara awoke with a horrible pain in her neck. She had been sleeping at a twisted angle on the sofa and she couldn’t rub the muscles back to normal. Clare and May were still fast asleep and looking very comfortable on their mattresses on the floor of the lounge. Lara pushed the quilt back and got up to put the kettle on.

  She remembered that one of them had to pay Gene Hathersage a visit today and find out why people were attaching metal structures to the roof in the middle of the night and scaring them all half to death. She bet that whatever the thing was, it would interfere with the television signal. She stepped over Clare and switched on the TV to find a mess of silver and black wavering lines. Brilliant. Someone was really out to make their holiday memorable, for all the best reasons. And when she checked the phone, that still wasn’t working either.

  She made herself a coffee and hoped one of the others would wake up and volunteer to go and pay the fateful visit. Clare was snoring softly and looked dead to the world; May was out for the count. Lara took two sips of coffee and knew that she couldn’t just sit here doing nothing while she waited for them to rise. She poured the contents of her mug into the sink and went to get dressed. Her neck still felt as if Mike Tyson had been jabbing at it all night with his big padded gloves.

  Lara set off at a march down the road, purpose thudding in every step. She knocked hard on the door of La Mer but there was no response. There was none at the back door either. Her blood started to boil as she set off for the outbuildings where last time she had found him brandishing his chainsaw. Her search was fruitless but he was here; she could sense him, like the bad smell he was. She tried knocking hard at the front door again and at the back. Then she realized there was no dog barking. He must be out after all. Then she saw him in the distance, in the field beyond his garden. He was carrying what looked like a tree trunk.

  ‘Gene Hathersage,’ she called, her voice packed with anger. ‘Can you hear me?’

  He turned to her voice and she saw him shake his head and puff out his cheeks. He had the nerve to look exasperated.

  She stomped towards him, crossing the overgrown lawn.

  ‘Mr Hathersage, can you please explain why there is . . . Jesus Christ!’

  The ground came rushing towards her and there was a pain in her ankle that shot right up to her brain, out of her skull and headed towards outer space, making the ache in her neck feel like a tickle. She found herself writhing in agony and with a mouthful of grass.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, within seconds Gene Hathersage arrived to witness her creased-up face and her eyes spouting involuntary tears of pain. She felt his hands on her arms, pulling her out of the large hole she had fallen into and guiding her over to sit on one of his twisted-wood garden benches.

  ‘How could anyone not see that?’ he asked, gruff as bear. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No, I’m bloody not,’ said Lara, the pain in her ankle forcing out hot tears of anger and embarrassment as well as pain. She could see now that she had fallen down a newly dug rectangular hole. ‘What’s that? Are you preparing a burial site for tenants who dare to complain?’

  ‘It’s for my dog actually,’ said Gene, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘Your dog?’

  ‘Jock. Furry thing, four legs, tail,’ replied Gene. ‘Dead.’

  Lara gulped back any retort on hearing the last word. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, biting down hard on her lip. Her ankle felt tight and swollen.

  ‘I’m going to have to take your shoe off,’ said Gene, kneeling at her side.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t . . .’ she said as he slid off her shoe, ignoring her, and peeled down her sock. Her ankle was puffy and turning purple.

  ‘You’ve sprained that. Let’s get you into the house.’

  To Lara’s horror, he stood up, hooked one arm under her legs, the other around her back and lifted her into the air.

  ‘You’re carrying me?’ she gasped.

  ‘Only as far as the kitchen. I don’t want to break my back,’ said Gene Hathersage with a grunt, striding over to his house and opening the back door with a bump from his bottom. He set Lara down on a chair at the side of a huge thick-topped pine kitchen table with the command, ‘Wait there.’ Then he disappeared back outside.

  Lara rotated her ankle and wished she hadn’t. The pain shot up her leg again and brought a wave of agony. This was all she needed. What next? Was a helicopter going to land on her head?

  She could see Gene leaning over in the garden, apparently picking something. She couldn’t imagine what. She bet it wasn’t a bouquet of flowers. She looked around her at the kitchen and found that it wasn’t the sort of room she would have paired with Gene Hathersage. It wasn’t pristine – there were dishes in the sink and some crumbs on the work surface – but it was a homely farmhouse kitchen with bare stone walls and wooden furniture. There was an old hairy dog bed at the side of a wood-burning stove, empty.

  Gene returned to the kitchen with a handful of leaves. He put them into a stone mortar lifted from a high shelf, and started grinding them with the pestle. He added a few splashes of water from the tap, then reached down into a cupboard for some flour to add to the mixture. All this was done silently. Then, with his hand, he scooped the green paste he had made into the middle of a folded tea towel and bent down next to Lara. He carefully lifted her foot and wrapped the poultice around it. It felt very cold and slimy.

  ‘Nothing better than knitbone for sprains,’ said Gene. ‘Hold that.’

  ‘There’s a plant called knitbone?’ asked Lara incredulously.

  ‘Otherwise known as comfrey.’

  Lara leaned over and held the towel whilst Gene went to a drawer. He came back with a safety pin and a bandage, knelt down and began to secure the poultice to Lara’s ankle.

  ‘You won’t get anything in your Harley Street that works as well as this.’ Gene glowered at
her as she flinched. ‘It has to be tight. It’ll fall off if it isn’t.’

  ‘My Harley Street? Why would I know what goes on in Harley Street?’ she snapped.

  ‘You posh London types go there, don’t you?’

  ‘Posh London types?’ Lara harrumphed. ‘I’m about as much of a chirpy crafty cockney as Dick Van Dyke. I’m from Barnsley.’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you are.’

  Lara was cross. ‘My accent might have been ironed out a bit but, trust me, I’m from Barnsley. My dad was a miner until the pits closed, then he had his own electrician business. Mum was a dinner lady. They scrimped to give me more chances in life than they had. Harley Street – ha! Posh London type, yeah, of course.’

  ‘Anyone who paid what I asked for the cottage rental had to have more money than sense. It was an easy mistake,’ Gene grumbled as he unwound a length of bandage to reapply it more tightly.

  ‘If you were listening when I first explained, we thought we’d paid for a luxury spa – which was worth the money. Why on earth would you rent out a cottage for such a ridiculous sum?’

  ‘I need to earn my own living,’ he said. ‘No one wanted me to rent out the cottage so I figured that if I charged a small fortune for it, only idiots would pay up.’

  ‘It didn’t work like that with us, did it?’ Lara smiled but there was no humour in it.

  ‘I don’t know, didn’t it?’

  ‘You have to be the rudest man I’ve ever met, Mr Hathersage.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

  ‘Look.’ Gene stopped wrapping and lifted his head. His eyes were so black Lara’s dad could have dug them out of a mine. ‘I’ve had a really bad week. This, I could do without.’

  Lara huffed. ‘You’ve had a bad week!’ She matched his stare with her bright hazel eyes. ‘You haven’t a clue what a bad week entails.’