by Nicola Slade
‘There,’ she said, pointing dramatically to a modern portrait, dating from the late 1970s. She watched with interest as Rory stared, mesmerized, at the painting of a young man with dark curly hair, startling blue eyes and the faintest promise of a dimple. Apart from the eyes, his own were hazel, it was the face Rory saw in the mirror every day when he shaved.
‘But who on earth?’ He turned to her, astonished, but seeing her eyes misted with tears, he understood. ‘Your father, of course. No wonder everyone jumps out of their skin when they meet me. What an amazing likeness.’
He hesitated then reached out an arm in a brief, consoling squeeze. ‘I heard about him in the village. You must have been very young. It’s hard, I know….’ He turned away, in embarrassment, perhaps, or to hide his own emotion as Edith, comforted, nodded her thanks, not wanting to trust her voice.
Rory stared at the picture of Richard Attlin for a few more minutes then set off on another ramble round the gallery, pausing now and then to examine a picture closely or to stand back and appraise another, with a thoughtful pursing of his lips. Much of the time, though, he spent staring round at the vaulted beams of the roof, the panelled walls and the wide, polished boards of the floor.
‘I just can’t believe it.’ He waved a hand round at the gallery. ‘How can something like this be completely unknown? It’s incredible inside, like a small version of that National Trust place in Cheshire, the black and white building. Is the house listed?’
‘No,’ she shrugged. ‘Not sure how it escaped but it did. The only reason we can think of is that nobody knows it’s here, apart from friends and family and as you spotted, it’s not visible from the road. Why? Do you really think it’s important?’
‘Important?’ He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Of course it’s important – it’s a national treasure! You need to get an expert up here as soon as you can. I bet there are all kinds of grants available for a house like this, even nowadays when funds are hard to find. It’s hidden from outside too, isn’t it? I wonder if they strengthened the building when they put the eighteenth-century front on the house. There’s not the slightest trace of a wobble in the walls or the floor, which you’d expect, I’d have thought, after all these centuries.’
He wandered round again, admiring the mellow timbers and stroking the panelling while Edith watched and wondered about him, this hitherto unknown cousin.
‘Haven’t you had your portrait done yet?’ he enquired as he completed his second circuit and when she shook her head, he offered, ‘I’ll do one of you if you like?’
Startled and doubtful, she stammered her thanks.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, eyes gleaming with amused malice as he evidently read her mind. ‘I promise you I’m quite good. As long as I use crayons I can colour in very nicely now, without going over the lines.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she was stung to retort. ‘Why are you so touchy? I didn’t mean that, I—’
‘Oh yes you did,’ he snapped then climbed down off his high horse. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Edith. You’re right, I am touchy and I do need to get over myself. I’ll tell you about it some time or other, but honestly, I’m perfectly competent and I really will do a portrait of you soon. I’d like to anyway, maybe get some echoes of Dame Margery in it somehow, a stylized background of some sort, perhaps, vaguely Tudor. It’d be an interesting project.’
Mollified, she led him to a pair of portraits near the painting of her father. ‘We really ought to go back and help, but I wanted you to see these two before we leave it for now. This was painted not long after they got married. Grandpa was stationed abroad for a few years at the end of the war and he met Gran when he came home on leave. Her entire family were killed by a Doodlebug bomb and the only reason she didn’t die too was that she was at a Girl Guides meeting. They don’t talk about it but I think she must have had a bit of a breakdown afterwards though she was getting better and living with an aunt when they met.’
‘I can believe that,’ he said with sympathy. ‘You can see it in her eyes; she’s got a haunted look, and she’s very thin too.’ He looked again. ‘I’d never have pictured her with chestnut hair, though. I suppose I’d have assumed she was a blonde like you and Dame Margery.’ He looked at the blue-eyed, fair-haired young husband in the painting. ‘The colouring is different, but the features – and the rest – he’s actually very like your father—and me, isn’t he? The family likeness is really strong.’ he murmured.
‘You’re a lot taller,’ Edith gave him an appraising look. ‘And not stockily built like them, but apart from that….’ She stared up at the two figures and tried to smile. ‘If Grandpa had been killed last week—’
‘What do you reckon actually happened?’ His voice was kind as she knuckled away a tear.
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘It can’t possibly be true, he must have been mistaken. It just isn’t possible that anyone would drive at him deliberately, intending to run him down.’
She looked soberly at Rory. ‘But he’s so certain and the alternative, that he’s cracking up mentally, is even more unthinkable. I wish I knew what to believe.’
‘Let’s go and see what’s going on downstairs.’ Rory tucked her hand into his arm and turned her gently towards the door. ‘You know, when we’ve got more time, there are some things I’d like to do in this gallery; some research I want to carry out. I think there’s something rather interesting in here that nobody seems to have noticed. More than interesting actually, but I need peace and quiet and most of all time, to get a proper look at it.’
She raised her eyes to his face at that.
‘No, I’m not telling you. I said I need time and I’m not jumping the gun. Meanwhile, don’t you go dropping any hints to anyone, not even your grandparents. I think you urgently need to get someone in to see the gallery and anyway, if I’m right about the other thing, this could be something spectacular!’
At 7.30 that evening Harriet Quigley looked round the guests knocking back champagne, or something more or less resembling champagne, in the hall at Locksley Farm Place. Aware that the organizers liked to put on the Ritz for the annual dinner, she had dressed her best in her favourite midnight-blue silk jersey with her mother’s ancestral brooch in the shape of a gold acanthus leaf pinned beside the low, square neckline.
On the edge of the party she could see Karen, looking adorable in polka dots and a rustling taffeta petticoat. She was policing the Inner Wheel ladies and supervising the men in charge of the bar while keeping an unobtrusive eye on her elderly employers.
Harriet smiled and relaxed a little. With three of us at it, she told herself, they’re in good hands. Like Edith, who was also watchful, she too had been worrying about Walter Attlin’s accident, but looking at the well-behaved people around her she frowned. It had to have been vandals or hooligans, she thought, surely not one of these people. Nobody he knew could have tried to kill an old man, surely. The idea had her twisting round to check on him: no, he looked fine. A little frailer than usual, perhaps, but he was in his late eighties, for heaven’s sake. And absolutely sane, she decided after another glance at the good-looking old man flirting happily with the village’s chief flower arranger.
‘Stop worrying about it, Harriet.’ It was her cousin Sam, murmuring as he appeared behind her. ‘You said the police have it on record and as far as I can see, that’s as far as they can go. Walter seems to be recovering well so you might as well just leave it. There’s nothing more you can do.’
‘But it’s not just that, Sam, there’s this other business too; that young man who’s missing, the village mystery.’ She was about to enlarge on it when their hostess came over to them.
‘Harriet, my dear.’ Mrs Attlin, slightly built like her granddaughter, was elegant in dove-grey lace. ‘And this, of course, is your clerical cousin. How do you do, Canon Hathaway? I remember you coming here as a small boy.’
Acting on impulse, Sam bent to kiss her hand and was c
harmed when she blushed like a young girl, though he was aware of Harriet’s sardonic grin somewhere to his left. He smiled impishly back, and Harriet felt a rush of affection. To cover her unaccustomed emotion, she turned to her hostess. ‘How are you getting on with your guest, Penelope? I thought he seemed a very nice young man.’
‘Oh he is,’ the old lady was enthusiastic. ‘He’s a darling. It was a shock, of course, when we first saw him. The resemblance is so very strong.’ She looked cautiously round and appeared relieved to see her husband deep in contented conversation with Edith and Rory, the latter scrubbed up nicely in formal dress. Edith looked ethereal in 1950s cream chiffon trimmed with knots of rose-pink ribbon and Harriet grinned as she wondered if Edith would be going in for vintage, like Karen. ‘Walter is being very good about it, but I know it opened up old wounds for him, so I’m trying to keep his spirits up.’ She smiled as she watched Edith eagerly talking to the two men. ‘Edith, of course, is frantic to find out all about Rory but he says he doesn’t want to talk about it at the moment so of course we’re respecting his wishes. He’s had quite a traumatic time of it lately.’
She drifted away to greet more guests and to talk to some of the Rotarians in charge of the event.
‘Uh-oh.’ Harriet interrupted Sam as he started to speak. ‘I smell trouble. Look, heading straight towards us: tall, dark and dangerous, that girl with Gordon Dean. You must know him, or know of him; chairman of this, that and the other, face like a ripe tomato. He’s a big business tycoon type, always in the financial papers and on the news having made yet another billion. He lives just down the road, the nearest thing there is to a next-door neighbour to the farm here. The girl is his daughter, Lara, one of my less agreeable former pupils, and she’s trouble with a capital T. Just watch all the wives take a firm grip on the reins as they catch a glimpse of her.’
‘Harriet, good to see you, my dear.’ Harriet submitted to a hearty kiss and slight squeeze from the burly tycoon who was much of an age with her and Sam. ‘And I know this is Canon Hathaway. We’ve met a couple of times and now I hear you’re planning to join us in the village.’
Sam, not yet wise to the Locksley grapevine, looked as if he was about to engage in conversation, but Harriet, who knew Gordon Dean would bore on at interminable length about his business, his house and his orchids, aimed an unobtrusive kick at Sam’s leg and introduced him to Lara Dean. As Rory and Edith came across the hall, Harriet introduced Rory as well.
‘So this is Rory?’ Observing her former student, Harriet thought Lara’s husky voice – like the sleek black bob, the to-die-for scarlet silk jacket and slim skirt, the pert bosom and the chiselled cheekbones – was expensive and way out of Rory’s league. There was a slight trace of an American accent and she was evidently pleased to encounter Rory. ‘I’ve heard all about you from various people in London when I was there the other day, and of course the village is buzzing about you. It must be such a relief to be home at last after such a ghastly ordeal. I want you to come to our lunch party tomorrow, and tell me all about it. No, I really won’t take no for an answer.’
She drew him closer to her side, linking arms while he blinked at her, looking bemused. ‘Er, thank you, Lara,’ he managed finally. ‘I’d love to have lunch but I’m not sure about my plans for tomorrow. Maybe some other time? I’m afraid, though, that I’ve been warned not to discuss what happened, for security reasons. Besides, it’s all over and I want to put it behind me.’
She pouted and ran a lacquered finger down his sleeve, pantomiming disappointment and Harriet, who had been watching with some amusement, hastened to his rescue. She was forestalled by a chilly intervention by Edith, who had been talking to Sam and to Gordon Dean.
‘Good evening, Lara.’ Her audience almost shivered at the frost in her voice. ‘You look stunning. When did you come home? I’m so glad you could make it this time; I think you’ve missed the last few Rotary dinners, haven’t you? What was it, on your honeymoon, or something, each time?’
‘How sweet you look, Edith,’ came the cooing response. ‘I suppose that’s one of your grandmother’s dresses? I’ve been home a few days, relaxing and catching up with old friends. I must circulate now, though. I know I’ve been monopolizing Rory but I just had to tell him how pleased we all are to see him safe. We’ll have to take the greatest care of him, of course.’ She swung round and astonished Rory by brushing his cheek with her lips and, as Harriet observed with detached interest, she managed to brush against his jacket with her elegant and ample (enhanced, surely?) cleavage. Rory, Harriet thought, looked intrigued but wary and cast a hasty sidelong glance at Edith, obviously reluctant to be the meat in that particular sandwich.
Harriet smiled at him as they were summoned to dinner and she tucked him safely in between Edith and herself, with Sam on her other side.
‘Are you settling in?’ she asked. ‘It can be quite daunting moving to such a small village. Everyone knows everything about everybody else, even if they get it all wrong, which, of course, they always do. Sam will find out for himself soon; he’s completing on my neighbour’s house in a matter of days and once he’s here, the village will pounce and he’ll find himself on this committee, and that working party, till he’s hiding from the front door bell.’
Sam grinned across her. ‘I’ll need to get some work done first,’ he told them, ‘so it’s very generous of Harriet to offer to put me up while I sort out a bit of decorating. The departing owner’s taste is too pink and cottagey style for my liking, but it’s only cosmetic, so I’ll get in and just slap a coat of emulsion on. Thank goodness she didn’t go the whole hog and treat the beams with that stuff that looks like black treacle; that’s a devil to get rid of. I’ll want to replace the horrible modern lattice windows too; they’re completely wrong for an unpretentious cottage, but that can wait till I’m in. At least the ceilings are fairly high so I won’t be knocking myself unconscious on a regular basis.’ He nodded briefly. ‘I love Winchester but it’ll be good to get right out into the country, peace and quiet and nothing much happening.’
Harriet gave an exclamation and started to speak, then shook her head and frowned as Sam looked at her in surprise. ‘Not now,’ was all she would say. ‘But we do need to talk later on.’
While they ate, Rory asked Harriet about the village and its inhabitants and she sketched in a little family history and local gossip. ‘You know there’s a pretty widespread rumour circulating that there’s oil to be found under the land. Speculation is rife that this is the reason this anonymous buyer wants it, so they say.’
‘Oil? You’re kidding.’ He stared at her, his mouth open. ‘This isn’t Texas, or the Middle East.’
‘I know.’ She looked sympathetic. ‘But there’s a history of oil all along the south coast, you know, and inland as well. It dates right back to the Romans who were involved in shale extraction. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Wych Farm? At Kimmeridge in Dorset, not that far away. It’s been producing I don’t know how many barrels of crude oil for some years. It’s not that fantastic a suggestion, though I’ve no idea if there’s any truth in it here. There was an exploratory bore hole at Chilworth, near Southampton, not so many years ago and that’s only a few miles down the road.’
‘But they wouldn’t want to sell, would they?’ he asked. ‘I suppose the money would make a huge difference to them, though. I get the impression they’re not exactly rolling in money.’
‘No, of course they’re not. Who is these days? Farmers always grumble, it’s their default position, but there’s no denying that farming’s been in the doldrums for decades and on top of that, Walter rather lost heart when Richard, Edith’s father, died.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Walter’s grandfather was the one who nearly bankrupted the farm in the 1929 crash and they’ve struggled to keep afloat ever since. About ten years ago Walter handed over the day-to-day running of the larger farm to a manager who lives over the hill, the other end of the village. Mercifully Hampshire wasn’t affected by the f
oot-and-mouth outbreak ten years ago or more, and the Locksley herd of Aberdeen Angus is becoming internationally renowned but it’s not a get-rich-quick enterprise.’
Harriet glanced across at her elderly relatives and sighed. ‘I suppose you could say they’re land rich and cash poor, so they’ve sold off the odd acre or so for building when times have been really tough, then things muddle along for a time. Unfortunately, there’s always something else with a place as ancient as this.
‘There’s another small farm just down the road, a couple of hundred acres and a dead ringer for Cold Comfort Farm. The tenant died three or four weeks ago – a nasty old so-and-so he was, I have to say – and the offer to buy turned up practically the next day. I can see, I suppose, why somebody might conceivably want the big paddock, which does have road access, though it’s much too close to this house for them even to consider it, but the anonymous buyer insists on having the adjoining Burial Field too. Have you seen it yet?’ Rory shook his head. ‘Oh you must, the field’s covered in scrub at the moment, lying fallow for a year or so, and the copse is overgrown, but it’s the heart of the family, even so. Don’t you see? If this rumour is true, it alters everything.’
She liked his ready intelligence.
‘You mean it becomes a matter for everyone who lives here and not just a private affair? I don’t know anything about oil production, I must admit, but the impression I do have is of the countryside being laid to waste. Surely that wouldn’t be allowed to happen here, would it?’
‘I don’t know. It seems unlikely but palms can always be greased if there’s enough money involved. I gather Walter has been talking to my cousin Sam, though Sam’s the soul of discretion and won’t tell me.’ She looked slightly put out, then shrugged. ‘But it doesn’t take a genius to guess that this astonishing offer featured in their discussions. As for the idea of oil under the land, I can’t imagine Walter going in for drilling, not for a moment, but if someone else were to believe there could be oil here, you’re talking enough money for a thousand pretty substantial bribes.’ Her face reflected her anxiety and frustration. ‘One thing is obvious. Whoever this mystery purchaser is, he’s trying to pull a fast one on them. A parcel of land with oil under it is worth a hell of a lot more money than he’s offering. They don’t want to sell but they’re old and very tired and this business the other night, Walter’s broken collarbone….’
