Fletchers End (Bel Lamington Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “All right, I’ll wait,” said Miss Armstrong.

  Mrs. Warmer wheeled her bicycle round the corner, let herself in at the back-door and took off her hat. She seized a moment to tidy her hair before going along the passage to the hall. When she opened the front-door she found Miss Armstrong staring up at the roof.

  “What a pretty colour!” the girl exclaimed.

  “It’s made of stone; very heavy it is. That’s why there has to be oak beams.”

  “The wood round the windows is absolutely rotten with damp.”

  “Well, what could you expect? This house is three hundred years old.”

  “You might expect the owner to paint it occasionally,” retorted Miss Armstrong with surprising asperity.

  “You might if you didn’t happen to know the owner was a naval officer in forrin parts.”

  The girl laughed. Mrs. Warmer had no idea what had amused her but the laughter was so infectious that she was forced to smile.

  “All the same,” said Miss Armstrong. “All the same he ought to attend to his property. It’s most important to paint all the outside woodwork every two years. We always do that.”

  Mrs. Warmer did not pursue the subject. As a matter of fact she had pointed out to Mr. Tennant that the house ought to be painted but Mr. Tennant had shrugged his shoulders and replied that Lieutenant-Commander Lestrange had refused to spend any money on having the house painted; he had added ruefully that no money could be squeezed out of the young rapscallion for anything connected with the house. (‘Rapscallion’ was a new word to Mrs. Warmer but she had a dictionary, in which she delighted, so she looked it up and was somewhat surprised).

  Mrs. Warmer and her visitor were now in the hall.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t like a cup of tea before we go round the house?” suggested Mrs. Warmer. She suggested it hopefully for she was an inveterate tea-drinker and she was pining for refreshment after her morning’s shopping expedition to Shepherdsford.

  “Wouldn’t it be a bother?” asked Miss Armstrong.

  This was an acceptance, of course. “No bother at all,” declared Mrs. Warmer cheerfully. “It won’t take a minute—I’ll just put a few drops of water in the kettle—it boils very quick.” And she hastened down the passage before Miss Armstrong had time to change her mind.

  *

  2

  Louise Armstrong looked about the hall before following the caretaker to the kitchen, and was favourably impressed; she could not see much because, what with the tall bushes outside the window and the low roof supported by enormous black oak beams, it was dim and somewhat mysterious, but she noticed it was a pleasing shape, square and spacious, with doors opening off it on both sides, and she noticed the stone fireplace with its well-polished basket-grate and the oak staircase leading to the upper regions.

  The kitchen was unexpectedly bright and cheerful; the walls were distempered in cream, not very expertly. Miss Armstrong was pretty certain that her hostess had done the job herself and on making tactful inquiries she learned that this was so. The Women’s Institute had had a gentleman down from London to give a demonstration of ‘Do it yourself’. Fired by this, Mrs. Warmer bought two tins of distemper and a large brush and ‘had a go at it’.

  “I daresay it might have been done better,” said Mrs. Warmer doubtfully. “But it’s made the kitchen nice and bright.”

  “Very nice and bright,” agreed Louise Armstrong looking round admiringly.

  There was a highly-coloured square of linoleum on the flagged floor; crisp curtains—checked blue and white—hanging at the windows and a row of gaily-patterned jugs on the chimney-piece. Everything was perfectly clean. Everything that could be polished had been polished within an inch of its life.

  Tea was soon ready (not ‘in a minute’ as had been promised but in a surprisingly short time); Mrs. Warmer spread a blue and white checked cloth upon the well-scrubbed table, fetched cups and saucers, plates and knives, produced a dish of wholemeal scones and a slab of yellow farm butter, and the two sat down to the repast.

  “Yes, it’s nice and bright,” repeated Mrs. Warmer. “I like things nice. I’ve got my own furniture of course. My bedroom’s upstairs—I don’t fancy sleeping on the ground floor. I’ve been here five—getting on for six years now. I was glad to get the job when my husband went away.”

  “You mean—you mean he—died?”

  “Just went away and left me sitting. Well, he wasn’t much of a loss. Would you care for another scone, Miss?”

  Louise Armstrong accepted another scone. She said, “I wonder why it’s called Fletchers End.”

  “Because it’s the end of the village where the fletchers used to live. They made arrows.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was a gentleman told me . . . and it was true what he told me,” added Mrs. Warmer mysteriously. She hesitated for she had never shown her treasure to anyone—nor said a thing about it—but Miss Armstrong was such a nice young lady . . .

  “Is it a secret?” asked the nice young lady.

  Mrs. Warmer nodded. “I’ll show you if you promise to keep it dark.”

  Of course Louise promised. Mrs. Warmer amused her enormously. It was a little difficult to ‘place’ the woman, thought Louise. She spoke well most of the time, but occasionally she lapsed into not-quite-so-good English. Probably she had educated herself by listening to programmes on the B.B.C. There was a radio standing on a table in the corner.

  The piece of arrow was produced from the locked drawer and handed over for inspection. It was examined and admired and the story of how it had been found and when and where was received with interest.

  “It’s marvellous to think it had been lying there all those years—hundreds of years! No wonder you’re proud of it,” declared Louise as she handed it back.

  Mrs. Warmer offered her visitor another scone.

  “I’m eating you out of house and home,” declared Louise as she took it. “This is my third! It’s partly because they’re so awfully good and partly because I’m hungry. I’ve looked at three houses this morning—none of them was any use at all. You see my greatest friend is going to be married in October and I want them to come and live in this district. We live in Ernleigh—at Coombe House.”

  “You’re Dr. Armstrong’s daughter!” exclaimed Mrs. Warmer. “Well, there now—I might have known! Fancy us talking all this time and me not knowing! I only saw the doctor once when I got a splinter in my finger. He took it out in a minute and I scarcely felt a thing! Very clever he is.”

  “Yes, he is,” agreed his daughter proudly.

  “I don’t never have nothing wrong with me—very healthy I am—but, if I was ill, Dr. Armstrong’s the one I’d go to.”

  “You couldn’t do better.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “When did you say your friend was getting married?” asked Mrs. Warmer after a slight pause.

  “In October. We’re having the wedding in Ernleigh and the reception at Coombe House. You see my friend has no relations and no proper home. She lives in a little flat in London.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Warmer nodding. “You’ll enjoy having the wedding, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, and it’s the right thing,” said Louise earnestly. “Bel and I were at school together—we’re just like sisters. Daddy is going to give her away. There was a certain amount of argument at first because Mr. Brownlee’s mother wanted to have the wedding at Beckenham—that’s where she lives—but I managed to persuade her tactfully that my plan was better, so she gave in and was quite kind and sensible about it.” Louise paused and looked at her audience to see if it were bored. Had she been talking too much?

  Apparently not. “Is it to be a big wedding?” inquired Mrs. Warmer eagerly.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I wanted Bel to have a real proper wedding but she’s rather shy. She says she just wants a few friends. And she won’t have a proper wedding dress because it wouldn’t be any use afterwards. I wish she’d
agree to have a real proper wedding,” added Louise with a sigh.

  “I’m sure it will be nice.” Mrs. Warmer was perfectly certain it would be nice; she had decided that Miss Armstrong was an exceedingly capable young lady and that anything she undertook to do would be well carried out. It was somewhat surprising because very pretty young ladies were seldom capable—you did not expect it—but here was an exception to the rule.

  *

  3

  The conversation had been so absorbing that the serious business which had brought Louise Armstrong to Fletchers End had been forgotten—but only temporarily of course. Louise remembered now that she had come to look at the house.

  “I had better have a look round, hadn’t I?” she said, rising as she spoke. “It’s been lovely having tea. I feel quite different. Thank you very much indeed.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” declared Mrs. Warmer.

  They began going round the house together. At first Louise examined the place casually for she had been “put off” by the frightful condition of the gate and the window-frames and the front-door—not to speak of the garden—but after she had seen some of the bedrooms she became more interested. The bedrooms were really delightful; they were spacious and sunny and just the right size. Louise knew a good deal about old houses—her father’s house was old—so she poked into cupboards and sniffed about for signs of dry-rot. She cast her eye over the plumbing, made pertinent inquiries about the electricity and asked whether the water supply was adequate.

  All this amused Mrs. Warmer; she was happy and friendly, answering all the questions at length and laughing heartily at Miss Armstrong’s jokes . . . but when Miss Armstrong emerged from the cupboard where the cistern was hidden, with her dark curls in disorder and her face flushed from her exertions, and said, “This house isn’t nearly as bad as it looks; I really believe it might do!” Mrs. Warmer felt a shiver of dismay run up her spine.

  “I really believe it might do,” repeated Louise with shining eyes. “Bel must come and see it! Oh, how lovely it would be if they liked it—and came to live here!”

  Mrs. Warmer was torn in twain. She liked Miss Armstrong so much. Miss Armstrong was one of the nicest young ladies she had ever met—so friendly and kind and so amusing—and of course it would be lovely for her to have her greatest friend living within easy distance of Ernleigh—but, oh dear! what would happen if the house were to be sold? She would have to leave Fletchers End and go away! Where would she go? What would she do? Oh dear!

  “It would have to have a lot of money spent on it,” said Mrs. Warmer.

  “Oh, I know. But I’ve looked at so many houses and they were all quite hopeless—horrid cramped little villas or else enormous mansions full of dry-rot and smelling of damp. This house is perfectly dry—you said so, didn’t you?”

  Alas Mrs. Warmer had said so.

  “I believe it might do,” Louise repeated. “If Mr. Brownlee could buy it at a reasonable price . . . have you any idea . . .”

  Mrs. Warmer shook her head.

  “It’s in such bad repair,” Louise pointed out.

  “I’m sure Mr. Tennant would ask quite a lot for it. You see,” added Mrs. Warmer, remembering a phrase used by the gentleman who had been so interested. “You see, Miss, the fabric is as sound as a bell.”

  “But it’s been empty for years and years.”

  Mrs. Warmer was silent.

  “I wonder,” said Louise, thoughtfully, “it’s much the best I’ve seen—and it’s quite near Ernleigh. There are good trains from Ernleigh.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, there are. I know several men who go up to town every morning. That’s important because Mr. Brownlee will have to go up to his business; he’s a partner in a big shipping-firm, you see.”

  Mrs. Warmer said nothing.

  Louise looked at her and smiled but no answering smile appeared upon the white face of Mrs. Warmer.

  What’s the matter with the woman? wondered Louise. She was so friendly—and now she isn’t. What have I done wrong? Could she have taken offence because I asked the price? But surely it was a natural question. Why should she mind?

  As they continued their tour of inspection Louise continued to wonder what she had done wrong. Mrs. Warmer showed her everything—she was given every facility—but the feeling of rapprochement had vanished.

  Louise was quite upset. But of course it was silly to be upset. What did it matter? She had known this caretaker-woman for about an hour and probably would never see her again! All the same Louise was upset.

  The fact was Louise Armstrong had a genius for acquiring friends. She exuded friendliness and sympathy, and nearly everyone responded to her charm: rich and poor, gentle and simple went down like ninepins when Louise smiled. Girls in shops, porters on the railway, charwomen and plumbers, even policemen on point-duty thawed in the warmth of her personality. This woman had thawed rapidly—they had got on splendidly together—and then, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, she had frozen into a hard lump of ice.

  However it was no use worrying about the woman; it was the house that mattered; and really and truly it might be the very thing for Bel and Ellis. Really and truly if they could get it cheap and spend money on it they could make it very comfortable indeed.

  It isn’t too big and it isn’t too small, thought Louise. And it really is charming—I’d like it myself—I’d love it! This is a house you could love.

  The tour was almost at an end; Louise had seen everything—everything except the drawing-room which was on the ground floor to the left of the front-door. If Mrs. Warmer could have avoided showing this room to her visitor she would have done so. She had left it to the last in the hope that her visitor might be short of time—or possibly overlook the fact that there was another room to see—but her visitor pointed to the door and said, “I suppose that’s the drawing-room?” and Mrs. Warmer was obliged to say, “Yes.”

  The door was opened and they went in.

  “Oh, it’s lovely!” exclaimed Louise rapturously.

  It certainly was an attractive room—rectangular in shape with windows at each end. One of the windows looked out towards the front and the path which led to the gate, the other which was smaller looked out on to a little terrace and beyond to the garden. (At least they would have looked out in these two directions if they had not been masked by untrimmed creepers and overgrown bushes and tangles of briar). There was a big fireplace with a stone chimney-piece, and across the ceiling from side to side there were enormous oak beams; the floor was of the same dark wood, polished and shining.

  “It’s lovely,” repeated Louise. “The loveliest room in the house. I’m sure Bel will adore it.”

  “I daresay it could be made quite nice,” said Mrs. Warmer grudgingly.

  “There are violets somewhere!”

  “No.”

  “But there must be! I can smell them.”

  “It’s the floor polish.”

  “It’s fresh violets. There must be some growing outside the window.”

  Mrs. Warmer did not reply.

  Louise sighed. “Well I must go now,” she said glancing at her watch. “Thank you very much indeed. You’ve been so helpful and kind. I’ll ring up my friend and tell her all about it. She could come and see it, couldn’t she?”

  “Yes, miss. Any time that suits. That’s what I’m here for—to show people the house.”

  Louise hesitated. Should she or should she not? Then, making up her mind that she should, she searched in her bag and produced a suitable reward.

  “No thank you, miss,” said Mrs. Warmer putting her hands behind her back.

  “But I’ve taken up so much of your time. Please, won’t you——”

  “No thank you. That’s what I’m here for—to show people the house.”

  Oh dear, I’ve made it worse! thought Louise as she walked down the path to the gate where her little car was waiting. I’ve made it a hundred times worse. Oh dear, what a pity!


  Chapter Three

  Louise was not the girl to let grass grow beneath her feet so the moment she entered Coombe House she rushed to the telephone and rang up her friend’s flat. The telephone in Bel Lamington’s flat was newly installed—her fiancé had insisted that she should have one. Bel’s flat was very small and not particularly comfortable but it was a useful pied à terre. The Armstrongs had wanted her to go and stay with them at Coombe House until she was married but she had refused because she liked being independent—and she liked being in London because of Ellis. Of course Ellis was busy at the office all day (Copping, Brownlee and Copping was a firm well-known in the City and owned large warehouses at the Pool of London) but he managed to call in at the flat nearly every evening and often stayed to supper before going home to his mother’s house at Beckenham. Bel would not have seen him so often if she had been staying at Coombe House.

  Louise got her connection quite easily and was delighted when she heard her friend’s voice. “Oh good!” she exclaimed. “I was afraid you might be out to lunch or something. Listen, Bel, I’ve seen a house. It’s a dream of a house—especially the drawing-room—and it’s just the right size. The only thing is it’s in awfully bad repair, but if Ellis could buy it cheap he could afford to spend money on it, couldn’t he? You’d love it, Bel. Honestly you would—and it’s only five miles away, between here and Shepherdsford. You remember Shepherdsford, don’t you? It’s a very nice little place with quite good shops. There’s an excellent train service from Ernleigh so Ellis could get up to town quite easily. You must come down and see the house at once in case someone else takes a fancy to it. You had better come to-morrow.”

  “We’ve seen a house at Beckenham,” said Bel when she could get a word in edgeways.

  “Oh no!” cried Louise in dismay. “Oh no, Bel—honestly—it wouldn’t do. Mrs. Brownlee is a dear—I know you like her—but she’s a bit possessive. She is, really. If you go and live on her doorstep Ellis won’t belong to you at all.”