by Eric Brown
‘Tea with a little milk would be lovely.’
‘I’ll be back in half a sec – and I made a ginger cake this morning.’
‘You must have known it’s my favourite!’
Alone, Maria looked around the room. A fire blazed in a vast hearth, illuminating a living room best described as shabby. As in the hallway, various hues of brown predominated, the walls and ceiling stained over the years with a patina of nicotine. Three great settees were arranged before the fire in a manner that suggested an encampment, or even a stockade. The pictures on the walls were not what she might have expected – an array of long-dead ancestors – but a series of black-and-white photographs depicting stone circles and solitary menhirs.
Bill had curled himself neatly on the rug before the fire, watching her with his big brown eyes.
She moved to the French windows, alerted by movement outside. In the distance, a small figure was pacing widdershins around the standing stone. The man appeared to be in his sixties, small and stout, attired in a Harris tweed jacket, plus-fours and a deerstalker. He carried a shooting stick and waved it about as if to illustrate something he was saying. Maria assumed he had company, but she soon realized that the man was quite alone and talking to himself.
Nancy entered the room with a tray. ‘Oh, there he is,’ she said, depositing the tray before the fire and joining Maria at the window. ‘He talks to it, you know?’
Maria glanced at the girl to see if she was joking. ‘No!’
‘He does. He’s obsessed. Standing stones are his abiding passion, and when the manor came on the market just after the war, he had to buy it. He has some theory or other about standing stones in general and this one in particular. And if you’re unfortunate enough, one day he’ll bore you to tears. I’m sorry; you must think me an ungrateful little wretch. Unc is OK, but he can be …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he can be an old grumps from time to time.’
They moved to the fireside, and Nancy poured two cups of strong tea and cut thick wedges of ginger cake.
Knees together, Nancy leaned forward, clutching the teacup in both hands, and regarded Maria with her large blue eyes. ‘Now, you must tell me. Whatever made you leave London and settle in Ingoldby?’
Maria laughed and tried to explain why the attraction of London, after fifteen years, had begun to pall.
She realized, as they chatted, that she liked Nancy. It was not that she felt merely a natural sympathy for the girl, what with her having lost her parents and finding herself looking after a sick aunt miles from anywhere; Nancy Robertshaw was personable and outgoing, with an easy, friendly manner. Maria found herself wishing she could buy Nancy a new dress to replace the one she was wearing, which was patched and had been taken in. Even the collar of her scarlet cardigan was frayed.
‘It’s so good to have someone in the village I can talk to!’ Nancy said at one point, taking a great bite from a slab of cake and munching. ‘I mean to say, everyone is ever so friendly here, but there seems to be no one younger than Unc. Other than Roy, that is …’
She coloured instantly, and Maria received the impression that the girl regretted the pronouncement.
She said, ‘Roy?’
‘Oh …’ Nancy stared into the flames. ‘Just a young fellow who has a caravan in the Wellbournes’ meadow. Roy Vickers. “One of war’s casualties”, as Unc says.’
Maria smiled to herself and congratulated Nancy on the quality of the cake.
‘When Unc told me that your husband was a writer, I went into Bury and withdrew one of his books from the library. I must say, I was impressed.’ Nancy beamed at Maria. ‘I’m so glad you’ve moved into the village.’
Maria smiled and murmured something to the effect that she hoped Nancy would not be disappointed.
At that moment, the French windows banged open as if blown by a gale, and the squat, tweed-clad figure of Professor Robertshaw strode into the room. He pulled off his deerstalker, brrr’d his lips like a hypothermic horse and barged between the settees to the fire, where he proceeded to toast first his outstretched hands and then his buttocks.
He was even smaller than Maria had assumed at first sight, and oddly broad across the shoulders as if in compensation. His face was grey and slab-like – not at all unlike his beloved standing stone – with a clipped military moustache and bushy eyebrows beneath a bald dome.
Nancy leapt to her feet and said somewhat nervously, ‘This is Maria – Maria Dupré – our new neighbour at Yew Tree Cottage,’ while twisting her fingers together as if worrying how her uncle might react to Maria’s presence.
‘You do have a tendency to state the obvious, Nance.’ He turned to Maria and smiled. ‘Your fame precedes you. I know your employer, Charles Elder. He told me you were moving in here. Nance,’ he went on, ‘go see how Xandra is, there’s a good girl. Quick sharp.’
Nancy nodded, smiled ruefully at Maria and hurried from the room.
‘Hope the gal didn’t come on too strong,’ the professor said. ‘She does latch on to people somewhat. If she gets too much, just put her in her place as you would a young pup, you hear?’
Bridling, Maria said, ‘I was very much enjoying our conversation.’
The professor sniffed, stepped over the dozing dog and collapsed into one of the settees as if pole-axed, his impact with the old cushions raising a vortex of ancient dust that swirled in the firelight. He stared across at a table bearing a decanter and glasses, then muttered something to himself. ‘Don’t suppose you’d oblige an old man and pour me a snifter, would you?’
Maria leaned over, selected the glass that seemed least dusty and poured the professor a generous measure.
He nodded his thanks and took a mouthful, closing his eyes and lying back on the settee. ‘Dreadful state of affairs,’ he said then, apropos of nothing.
At first, Maria assumed he was alluding to the fishy goings-on he’d mentioned in the note, but then he said, ‘Xandra’s dying. That’s my wife. Nance doesn’t know, so not a word to her, understand?’
Maria murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘She had TB years ago, but the medication she was treated with … Well, the ruddy stuff played havoc with her kidneys.’ He shook his head. ‘Not that Xandra helps herself. Sometimes wonder if she doesn’t have a death wish. My brother, Spencer – he has a private practice in town – gives her a few months.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Well,’ he said, opening his eyes and regarding her, ‘nothing we can do about it, is there? You can’t fight fate, what? Get the missive?’
The sudden change of conversational tack non-plussed her. ‘Oh, you mean your note?’
‘I’d like to see your hubby – Langham. Is he around?’
‘He’s up in London today, on business.’ She hesitated. ‘If you’d like to tell me, I could pass on the gist—’
He interrupted. ‘I’d like to see Langham, if it’s all the same. Is he free tomorrow?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Then send him round. Eleven will suit me. Does he like Scotch?’
Later, Maria wondered what had made her say, ‘Actually, he’s teetotal.’
If it was a desire to discommode the old man, it succeeded. He stared at her. ‘He’s what? Doesn’t drink?’ He harrumphed for a while as if considering the wisdom of admitting a non-drinker into his home.
Maria found herself colouring and was relieved when the door opened and Nancy entered, smiling. ‘Xandra’s just woken from a nice sleep, Uncle. I made her a cup of Bovril.’
‘Vile stuff. Don’t know how she stomachs it.’
‘It does her good,’ Nancy ventured, somewhat diffidently.
The professor waved this away. ‘Our guest was about to leave,’ he said. ‘Show her out, Nance.’
Maria, somewhat surprised, stared at the professor, but he’d closed his eyes and slumped back on to the settee.
Nancy, standing behind the recumbent figure of her uncle, looked su
ddenly enraged and on the verge of tears. Maria climbed to her feet and looked down at the old man. ‘It was nice to meet you, Professor,’ she said, more loudly than normal.
He opened one eye, nodded, then took another nip of Scotch. ‘The same,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to send your husband along, you hear?’
Without replying, Maria followed Nancy from the room.
‘He’s so rude!’ the girl exploded when they reached the hallway. ‘I can tolerate his treating me abominably, but I can’t take it when he’s rude to guests!’
Maria gripped Nancy’s hand. ‘I enjoyed our chat, and the cake was heavenly. Why don’t you come round to the cottage one afternoon? We’ll be at home all this week and next, and all we’ll be doing is unpacking. It will be lovely to see a friendly face.’
Nancy beamed and lifted her shoulders in a quick, complicit shrug. ‘I’d like that. I could even help you unpack.’
‘Do,’ Maria said, and squeezed the girl’s hand once more.
As Maria was about to leave, Nancy said, ‘If I see Wicketts, I’ll tell him you were asking after coal. And if you want some logs,’ she went on, ‘Richard Wellbourne has some for sale in the meadow at Wellspring Farm, next door to you.’
‘Speaking of the Wellbournes,’ Maria asked, ‘will you be going to their get-together tomorrow?’
Nancy pulled a face. ‘If I can sneak off from nursemaid duty,’ she said.
Maria thanked her again for the tea and cake and set off through the snow.
She left the grounds of the manor, turned left along the lane and negotiated the treacherous bridge. Another left turn brought her on to Crooked Lane. On the way, she passed Wellspring Farm, set back from the lane, and the enclosed meadow that Nancy had mentioned.
Sitting in the middle of the snow-covered square of land was a quaint gypsy caravan. She recalled what Nancy had said about the young man called Roy who lived in the meadow. For all that a part of her liked the idea of living fancy-free in a gaily painted gypsy caravan, she didn’t envy anyone having to eke out an existence in sub-zero temperatures.
A short distance from the caravan was a pile of chopped logs, evidently recently cut as they were not yet covered in snow. She was about to approach the caravan and ask if she could send Donald along at some point to buy some wood when the door opened and a young man came down the steps. He carried a galvanized metal pail in his right hand, his left arm outstretched to counterbalance its weight. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Maria.
He was in his early thirties, with a starved-looking, hatchet face, a pronounced five o’clock shadow and ink-black hair. He wore a ragged Royal Air Force greatcoat, baggy corduroy trousers and hobnail boots. This, presumably, was Roy Vickers – ‘one of war’s casualties’, as the professor had told Nancy.
She smiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind my enquiring …’ she began tentatively, gesturing to the logs.
‘What about them?’
‘Well, I understand they’re for sale?’
‘Who told you that?’ he asked. Before she had time to reply, he went on, ‘Well, they’re not. I’ve spent all morning chopping the soddin’ things, haven’t I?’
‘In that case, I’m sorry I asked,’ she said.
Vickers swung away from her, stepped away from the caravan and slung the contents of the bucket into a patch of nettles. Seconds later, the reek of urine reached her on the cold breeze.
What a rude creature, she thought as she hurried away. She recalled that Nancy had coloured when she’d mentioned the man’s name, and hoped she might be wrong in assuming that the girl had anything to do with this ‘casualty of war’.
She came to the gate that gave access to the back garden of Yew Tree Cottage. In the distance, the sun was westering over the spinney on the brow of the hill, igniting the bare trees with its molten light.
She hurried into the cottage and was met by the warmth of the fire in the living room and the appetizing aroma of the hotpot cooking in the kitchen.
THREE
Langham caught the three-thirty train from Liverpool Street and alighted at the country halt just after five, the only passenger to do so. It was dark and snow was falling, and he drove slowly along the winding lanes with the windscreen wipers working furiously and the Rover’s headlights illuminating the ceaseless flurry.
A three-book contract and increased royalties! Bless Charles …
He was still euphoric from the drink he’d consumed at lunch and from the good news about the contract. The first book wasn’t to be delivered until the end of the year, which fitted in well with his plans. He was due to take a month or so away from the desk while he worked on the cottage and settled into village life. He’d begin the next thriller in March and have a good first draft in the bag by June. Then he could work on the rewrite at his leisure until Christmas.
He had also taken a couple of weeks off from the detective agency. It was unfortunate that this first week coincided with his partner, Ralph Ryland, being called away from the office. Ralph’s older brother, Patrick, had suffered a heart attack, and Ralph had dropped everything to be with his sister-in-law and her three children in Portsmouth. The agency was still open, with Pamela doing sterling work on the front desk, taking telephone calls and interviewing prospective clients.
It was almost five thirty by the time Langham reached Ingoldby-over-Water, rounded the village green and drove down the lane to the cottage. He parked in the drive and simply sat for a minute, staring at the warm orange light behind the mullioned window of the living room. A full moon hung over the snow-covered thatch and smoke drifted lazily from the chimney. He shivered and hurried inside.
Maria was curled up on the sofa before the fire, reading a manuscript.
‘Mmm. What’s the wonderful smell?’ he asked.
‘Chanel, oui?’
He kissed her. ‘I mean the other wonderful smell.’
‘Ah, that would be the beef hotpot, with those horrible things you insist I put in it.’
‘Horrible? You’re calling dumplings horrible?’
‘Yes, horrible. Big, indigestible balls of flour and suet.’
‘Just the thing to warm your cockles on a freezing winter’s night, my girl.’
‘Would you like a drink before we eat?’
‘In celebration – why not? Scotch and soda, please.’
He watched her as she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured the Scotch, along with a gin and tonic for herself. They sat on the sofa before the blazing fire, and Langham raised his glass. ‘To us, and life in Yew Tree Cottage,’ he said. ‘Anyway, how went the day?’
She sipped her gin. ‘Actually, I’ve had a very interesting couple of hours. Oh – first, this …’ She jumped up and took a card down from the mantelpiece.
He read it.
Standing Stone Manor
Langham,
Charles told me you’d moved to the village. I need to see you, pick your brains about something fishy going on here.
Professor Edwin Robertshaw
‘What the Devil can he mean by “fishy”?’
‘I don’t know, Donald. But I found him very rude.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Thereby hangs a tale, as you so frequently say. I was in the post office when I met his niece, a sweet child called Nancy. I say “child”, but she’s probably about twenty. She moved in with the professor and his invalid wife when her parents died a couple of years ago. She invited me for afternoon tea, and I was so taken with her that I accepted.’
‘In what way was he rude?’
‘He was very brusque with me and more or less told me to leave a few minutes after I’d met him.’ She regarded her drink, then looked up. ‘And he treats Nancy awfully – has her running around after his dying wife.’
‘Charming. Did he mention anything about this fishy business?’
‘Only that he’d like to see you tomorrow at eleven.’
‘I’ve half a mind to let him go hang,’ he said, ‘if he ca
n’t keep a civil tongue in his head.’
She smiled. ‘But you won’t, will you?’
‘You know me too well. Dangle something fishy before my nose and I’m like a hound on the scent.’
She finished her drink and moved to the kitchen. He heard her open the oven and remove the hotpot. He switched on the wireless and found some music on the Light Programme. Doris Day’s ‘Que Sera, Sera’ eddied from the speaker.
Over dinner, Maria told him more about Nancy Robertshaw. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I invited her round to help with the unpacking.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Excellent hotpot, by the way. The dumplings are exceptional.’
She smiled. ‘The fact is I felt sorry for the girl. I think she never gets out, or very rarely, anyway.’
‘She didn’t give the impression that she might know what the fishy business was about, did she?’
‘Not a word,’ Maria said. ‘Going by the professor’s treatment of her, he wouldn’t tell her anything anyway.’
After dinner, they moved back to the living room, and Langham poured more drinks.
‘I asked in the post office about coal,’ Maria said, ‘and the nice woman behind the counter told me we need to see someone called Wicketts Blacker. What a peculiar name,’ she went on. ‘Nancy showed me where he lives – the tumbledown cottage on the lane just before you reach the manor.’
‘I could pop in or leave a note when I go and see the truculent professor in the morning. We don’t want to be running out of coal—’
He was interrupted by a hammering on the front door.
‘Who the blazes can that be?’ Langham said, lodging his glass on the arm of the sofa and moving to the hall.
He unlocked and unbolted the door to find a bedraggled, snow-covered young man in a greatcoat stamping his feet. He was without a hat but had turned his collar up to frame his blade-lean face.
‘I owe you an apology,’ the man said with a trace of a Norfolk burr, his dark eyes avoiding Langham’s. ‘Or, rather, I owe your missus an apology.’
‘You do?’ Langham squinted up at the tumbling snow. ‘Well, you’d better come in, hadn’t you?’
