Fletchers End (Bel Lamington Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Ellis arranged with Mr. Baker, the building contractor at Ernleigh, to meet them at Fletchers End and the two friends set off together in Ellis’s car early in the morning.

  Neither Ellis nor Reggie had ever been in the district before and there were so many little roads and twisting lanes that they lost their way and wasted a great deal of time wandering about the country. It was beautiful country, with tall trees, and little streams with willows growing on their banks, and meadows full of placid cows. In spite of the rain which had begun to fall with relentless persistency the two friends enjoyed their drive—it was pleasant and peaceful after the noise and bustle of town.

  When at last they arrived at Fletchers End Mr. Baker was waiting for them at the gate, sheltering beneath a large black umbrella. He was a paunchy little man with a round chubby face and several chins. The chubby face wore a somewhat anxious expression, but when the car stopped and the visitors got out it broke into an enormous smile. Mr. Baker had been afraid they were not coming and was delighted to find his fear had been groundless. Mr. Baker was a shrewd business-man and he had decided that if he played his cards well this rich gentleman from London would buy the old house and give him the job of putting it in order. A big job it would be—a job that would take months and cost a mint of money—Mr. Baker was determined to get it.

  Fletchers End was not looking its best that morning. Bel had told Ellis a great deal about it but somehow he had not expected the place to look so dreary and neglected. “In bad repair” was a ridiculous understatement of its condition. However Bel seemed enchanted with the place so he and Reggie must have a look at it. There was nothing else to be done.

  Mr. Baker introduced himself and began at once to explain the history of the house—or at least its recent history. Mr. Baker knew nothing of the fletchers, and cared less, but he knew that the place had been well kept when it had belonged to Miss Lestrange, it was only in the last few years that it had been neglected. Mr. Baker deplored the neglect, it was unpardonable in his opinion, but fortunately it was an old house, well and truly built. A modern house would have been utterly destroyed by such treatment.

  Reggie Stephenson agreed that this was so. “We’ll see,” he said. “Mr. Brownlee is interested, but he doesn’t want to buy a ruin.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” nodded Mr. Baker. “I’ll take you round. It’s my belief you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you’ve seen its condition, Mr. Stephenson.”

  The gate stood open so they went in. Ellis saw the garden; a mass of vegetation, green and sodden, dripping with rain; the path up to the front door was slimy with some sort of unpleasant weed; the door itself was paintless, crooked, spongy with damp; the creepers hung down over the lintel in untidy swathes.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Ellis under his breath.

  “It was a bee-ootiful garden in Miss Lestrange’s time,” declared Mr. Baker. “Quite a sight it was. All it needs is a couple of men to tidy it up a bit. They’d do it in half no time.”

  The stone-paved hall was dark and gloomy; nothing could be seen of it until Reggie switched on the light—a single bulb hanging from a beam in the ceiling.

  “It isn’t damp, anyhow,” said Reggie, sniffing like a terrier at a rat-hole. “And, Ellis, look at those beams! Absolutely gorgeous!”

  “There’s beams like that all over the house,” said Mrs. Warmer appearing suddenly from the dim passage which led to the back premises. “They’re made of solid oak, that’s what. It’s the same kind of wood that was used to make ships for Queen Elizabeth’s navy—in the Armada it was,” she added a trifle vaguely.

  “That’s right,” agreed Reggie, putting up his hand and stroking the well-polished surface. “The wooden walls of England were made of stuff like this. You couldn’t get it now for love nor money. I only wish you could.”

  “What about dry rot and—and that sort of thing?” asked Ellis who had been listening to his friend’s panegyrics with a good deal of misgiving. It was all very well to talk about Queen Elizabeth’s navy and the wooden walls of England, but what Ellis wanted was a comfortable house to live in.

  “That remains to be seen,” replied Reggie cheerfully. “We’ll start at the top. The condition of the roof is of the first importance.”

  They started at the top. Reggie climbed up a ladder and disappeared from view. He was up there for half an hour or longer. The others waited; they could hear him tapping and probing. When he returned from his expedition he was dirty and there were cobwebs in his hair. “Ugh, spiders!” said Reggie. “Can’t bear spiders—never could—but there’s nothing much the matter with the roof. Those old fellows knew how to build.”

  “They had the materials,” said Mr. Baker, who felt this statement to be a reflection upon his own skill. “Give me the materials—and the labour—and the time—and I’ll guarantee to make as good a job any day, Mr. Stephenson.”

  “Who’s going to give you the materials—and the labour—and the time?” asked Reggie laughing.

  Mr. Baker shook his head sadly.

  After that they went into every room and Reggie crawled over the floors, sniffing and tapping; in several places he insisted that Mr. Baker should remove some boards in the flooring. Mr. Baker performed this little job reluctantly for his figure was not suited to stooping and his knees creaked alarmingly when he knelt down; he puffed and blew and perspiration broke out upon his forehead. To make matters worse Mr. Baker had attired himself in his best suit of navy blue worsted and a new pair of brown suède shoes—not the sort of garments he would have chosen for scrambling about on the floor.

  Reggie leaned out of every window and stabbed the woodwork with his knife; he peered up chimneys, gazed into the cistern and questioned Mr. Baker about the drains.

  Ellis followed round watching his friend’s activities but at last he was so tired, and so bored with the proceedings, that he went and sat down on the stairs. He had satisfied himself that Reggie Stephenson knew his job and was carrying it out with commendable energy. If you call in an expert you can sit down and let him get on with the job, thought Ellis.

  *

  2

  Ellis had been sitting on the step for some time, and had begun to wish it were not quite so hard, when Mrs. Warmer found him and hailed him into her kitchen and gave him a comfortable chair. She offered him a cup of tea, which he accepted with alacrity, and she gave him a great deal of interesting information about the district and the people who lived in the village of Archerfield and the cricket matches which took place in the meadow down by the stream. Revived by the refreshment and by Mrs. Warmer’s conversation, Ellis began to feel a good deal more cheerful about the house. Perhaps it was not so bad after all . . . perhaps it might be made habitable. He was prepared to endure quite a lot of hardship and inconvenience if Bel thought she would be happy here.

  Presently Reggie Stephenson looked in, “Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed “I’ve been looking for you everywhere—I might have known you’d find the most comfortable place in the house! Our Mr. Baker has gone home to dinner. What are we doing about a meal?”

  “There’s ham and eggs, sir,” suggested Mrs. Warmer hospitably. “And I could give you wholemeal scones—if that would suit.”

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Ellis. “It would be far too much trouble. We can easily go to Shepherdsford; there’s an Inn called The Owl——”

  “It would be no bother at all,” said Mrs. Warmer earnestly. “It would be a pleasure—really it would. I just wish I had something nicer. A juicy bit of steak—underdone—is what gentlemen likes . . . and if only I’d known——”

  Unlike Ellis, Reggie had partaken of no refreshment since breakfast—and breakfast seemed a long time ago. He had been taking a great deal of strenuous physical exercise and he was famished. The mere mention of a juicy bit of steak—underdone—made his mouth water. But, failing that, ham and eggs were not to be despised. It was nearly two o’clock by this time and quite possibly The Owl might refuse to give chance visi
tors a meal. Wasn’t it better, demanded Reggie, wasn’t it much wiser to accept Mrs. Warmer’s kind invitation than to put their trust in the tender mercies of The Owl?

  Mrs. Warmer added her persuasions and, after some argument, the two friends sat down together while their hostess set about the task of preparing their meal.

  It was nice that they were staying, thought Mrs. Warmer. There were two reasons why it was nice. First and foremost she hoped to hear them discussing the house and to learn whether or not Mr. Brownlee was going to buy it. She wanted him to, of course; she wanted with all her heart to stay on at Fletchers End, and Mrs. Brownlee had said she could! (At least she wasn’t Mrs. Brownlee yet, but Mrs. Warmer couldn’t remember her name and she was going to be Mrs. Brownlee quite soon so it didn’t matter). Second: here was a golden opportunity to impress Mr. Brownlee with her skill in cooking so that he would make no objections to his future wife’s choice of a cook. Mrs. Warmer sighed when she thought of the juicy bit of steak which she might have got yesterday at the butcher’s if only she had known . . . but it could not be helped and, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Warmer was extremely skilful in the preparation of ham and eggs; she made up her mind to give these two gentlemen the best ham and eggs they had ever tasted.

  “Look here, Ellis,” said Reggie Stephenson, producing his notebook and flipping over the pages. “I’ve been round this house pretty thoroughly and I can tell you this; the structure is sound. There are various small details that require attention, but——”

  “What about dry-rot?”

  “You’ve got dry-rot on the brain, haven’t you?” said Reggie smiling. “Well, I wouldn’t stake my life on it—I mean it will need a much more thorough examination than I could give it this morning—but I shall be very much surprised if dry-rot is found in this house. There’s wood-worm here and there, but it isn’t extensive and can be dealt with fairly easily. Now for the plumbing,” said Reggie. “Well, the plumbing leaves a good deal to be desired. Some of the pipes will have to be renewed, and all the fittings of course. You’ll want another bathroom and——”

  “And fixed basins of course.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it!” Reggie declared. “My dear fellow, have you looked at the walls? If you start making holes for pipes in these solid stone walls you’ll find yourself in serious trouble.”

  “There are fixed basins in all the bedrooms at Rose Hill.”

  “Rose Hill!” exclaimed Reggie scornfully. “Good heavens, you can’t compare that modern atrocity of your mother’s with a place like Fletchers End! This is a HOUSE, Ellis. It was built by people who had the best materials in the world at their disposal—and the skill to use them—and pride in a good job of work. This is a house for gracious living.”

  Ellis gazed at his friend in astonishment. Rose Hill was his mother’s pride and joy and the envy of her friends, it was bright and cheerful; it was fitted with all the most modern inventions for labour-saving—including fixed basins in all the bedrooms—and it was kept in perfect condition inside and out. To hear Rose Hill referred to as ‘that modern atrocity’ positively took his breath away.

  “Look here, Ellis,” continued Reggie after a short silence. “I had better tell you the worst about this place. The window-frames are rotten; in fact practically all the outside woodwork is rotten for lack of paint and will have to be renewed. That will cost something. As regards the inside of the house I’ve got quite a number of suggestions—but we needn’t go into that now. The important thing to settle is whether or not you want to make an offer for it. My advice is——” he paused.

  “Well, what’s your advice?” asked Ellis impatiently.

  “If you can get the house at a reasonable price and can afford to spend a good deal of money I advise you to buy it.” He hesitated and then added, “If I could afford it I would buy the house myself. It’s a house I would be proud to own.”

  Of course Mrs. Warmer had heard every word; she had been in the kitchen all the time, cooking and making toast. She had been heating her two best plates (lovely big plates, they were, with a picture of a bridge and a stream and willow-trees and funny little men); she had been laying the table with a clean white cloth and setting out knives and forks and cups and saucers. Of course Mrs. Warmer had heard every word, she could not have helped hearing every word unless she had been deaf, but although she would dearly have loved to join in the conversation she remained silent. It’s not for me to interfere, said Mrs. Warmer to herself and she fastened her lips together firmly.

  *

  3

  The meal was ready now so Mrs. Warmer put it on the table; a rack of pale-brown toast; a slab of farm-butter, yellow as gold, with a raised pattern of buttercups on its pristine surface; half-a-dozen wholemeal scones on a plate with a design of roses; a large brown tea-pot, a milk jug and a bowl of sugar. Lastly she put down before each of her guests a large blue and white plate containing two perfectly fried eggs—their whites white as snow, their yolks orange-coloured—nestling amongst four crisp rashers of ham.

  Reggie, who had been talking hard, was suddenly silent with astonishment and gazed at the vision which had appeared before his eyes with an expression of awe.

  Ellis, not as hungry as his friend, was able to voice his admiration and exclaimed, “That plate of ham and eggs is a picture! It’s almost too beautiful to eat!”

  “But not quite,” declared Reggie seizing his knife and fork.

  “They’re nice eggs,” said Mrs. Warmer smiling indulgently as she watched the results of her labours disappearing. “You don’t get eggs like that in towns. I get my eggs from Mr. Carruthers. Lovely hens he has—all running about in a big green field—that’s why the yolks is so dark. They’ve got quite a different taste from the eggs you buys in towns. Mr. Carruthers says he wouldn’t eat batteries, nor he wouldn’t keep his hens in prison even if they did lay two or three eggs a day. There’s no good in them, no nourishment, Mr. Carruthers says.”

  “How right he is!” said Reggie with his mouth full.

  “He’s a sweep,” said Mrs. Warmer. She added after a moment’s silence, “He sweeps chimbleys.”

  “I’d like to meet Mr. Carruthers,” said Reggie. “It would be interesting to hear what he has to say about these chimneys.”

  “Oh, he’d tell you in a minute. Mr. Carruthers knows all about chimbleys. He comes here often. I has to keep the fires going to air the house so the chimbleys has to be swep’ and I wouldn’t have nobody else but Mr. Carruthers.” She leant on the table and continued. “He says there used to be little boys that climbed up inside the chimbleys—that was how they was cleaned. I thought Mr. Carruthers was having me on when he told me that—but it’s true. He shined his torch up some of the chimbleys and there was little rungs so the boys could climb up easy. I saw the little rungs with my own eyes. Cruel, I call it.”

  “Mr. Dickens and Mr. Kingsley shared your opinion,” Reggie told her.

  “Well, I don’t know the gentlemen but they’re right. Fancy making those poor little boys climb up inside dirty, sooty chimbleys! I said as much to Mr. Carruthers; it was downright cruel, I said.”

  There was a short silence while Mrs. Warmer filled up the tea-pot and produced another plate of wholemeal scones.

  “I should like a chat with your Mr. Carruthers,” repeated Reggie.

  “Any time,” nodded Mrs. Warmer. “Any time you like. If you just drop me a postcard I’ll see he’s here. The milk very kindly takes messages for me.”

  “The milk of human kindness,” murmured Reggie.

  “Everyone round here is very kind indeed,” Mrs. Warmer declared. “All except Mr. Black that lives at the other end of the village near the post office. Mr. Black is a very disreputable man,” she added solemnly.

  Reggie’s eyes twinkled. “The disreputable Mr. Black—rather a good title for a thriller, don’t you think so, Ellis?”

  Ellis shook his head at his ebullient friend and the friend relapsed into silence.

  The
ice having been broken and a friendly atmosphere established Mrs. Warmer felt she could mention without impropriety the subject nearest her heart.

  “You could buy the house cheap if you wanted,” she said.

  Her two guests looked up from their almost empty plates with one accord. They were too surprised to speak.

  Mrs. Warmer nodded two or three times. “I been thinking about it a lot. It was what Mr. Tennant said last week when he came for a look round. He was talking about the windows, saying as how something better be done soon or the glass would fall out.”

  “Exactly my opinion,” put in Reggie.

  “Quite rotten, Mr. Tennant said the wood was. So I asked him why he didn’t have them put right and he said ‘I can’t get no money out of that young rapscallion’—and he called the young gentleman a bad name that I wouldn’t soil my lips with,” added Mrs. Warmer primly. “Of course Mr. Tennant was angry—that was the reason, but still . . .”

  “Very annoying for him,” Ellis suggested.

  “Yes, it was no wonder he was angry. He’s got to look after the house and get it sold, and there isn’t many people would buy it—let alone look at it properly—the way it’s been neglected. Mr. Tennant gets necessary things done, like mending a pipe that’s leaking, but it’s him that has to foot the bill. He said that to me with his own lips and he said, ‘That young rapscallion owes me something like four hundred pounds and I shan’t get a penny unless the house is sold’.”

  She paused for a moment but her audience was silent. It was hanging upon her words with flattering attention.