by Eric Brown
‘Or he’ll be on the warpath and I’ll be grounded for a whole month. I’d better dash.’
‘Hold on,’ Vickers said, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll see you home. We could cut along the back lane to save time.’
‘It’s beastly treacherous, and there’s no lighting,’ she said, ‘but we could hold hands to support each other. I just hope Unc doesn’t see you!’
Vickers exchanged a smile with Langham, and Maria fetched their coats.
‘Thank you for a super meal,’ Nancy said, hugging Maria and shaking Langham by the hand.
Vickers said, ‘That was grand. Pity I can’t invite you round to the caravan. It’d be a bit of a squash, and all I cook on the stove is eggs and beans.’
‘Then let’s have a session at the Green Man at some point,’ Langham said as Vickers and Nancy ducked from the cottage and made their way carefully down the back garden, hand in hand.
‘A success, I think,’ Langham said as they returned to the living room and sat before the fire. ‘Another little drink before bed?’
EIGHT
Maria spent all Sunday unpacking crates in the bedroom and helping Donald to arrange books in his study.
After a late breakfast on Monday morning, just as she was about to go upstairs to finish unpacking, the telephone rang.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Maria,’ Nancy said, ‘are you terribly busy at the moment?’
‘Just about to do a little unpacking. How can I help?’
The girl sounded tentative. ‘Well, you see, I was hoping to go into town later this morning to pick up something I’d ordered. But the buses are still not running, and I don’t want to ask Randall, and Unc’s in a foul mood and told me he didn’t want to be bothered.’
Maria smiled. ‘Would you like a lift, Nancy?’
The girl sounded relieved. ‘Oh, that would be heavenly of you. I know you drive – I saw you in the car the other day – and when Flo at the post office said the buses were still off, I thought of you.’
‘It will give me an excuse to go out, and anyway I could do with getting one or two things from town. What time were you thinking of leaving?’
‘Would half past eleven be all right?’
‘Lovely, Nancy. I’ll pick you up from the manor.’
‘No, it isn’t on the way. I’ll be outside the post office. And I’ll buy you lunch as thanks.’
‘There’s really no need,’ Maria said. ‘See you at eleven thirty.’
‘I’m ever so grateful, Maria. See you then.’
Donald called out, ‘Who was that?’
Maria moved to the study and recounted her conversation with Nancy. Donald was crouching beside a bookcase, meticulously reordering a row of crime hardbacks.
He peered up at her. ‘You look bemused.’
‘It’s just that … I offered to pick her up from the manor, which would make sense, but she said that she’d meet me outside the post office.’
‘She probably doesn’t want the professor to see her leaving,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s probably the reason.’
He frowned. ‘You’re not convinced?’
‘I don’t know. There was something in her tone. She sounded nervous.’ She smiled at him. ‘But as you say, it’s probably to do with her uncle and the short leash he keeps her on, poor girl.’ She pushed herself from the doorpost. ‘I’ll do a little unpacking, then get off.’
‘And while you’re away, I might wander down to the Green Man.’
Later that morning, having completed the last of the unpacking in the spare bedroom, Maria changed into her favourite navy-blue trouser suit, made up her face, then kissed Donald goodbye and eased the Rover from the driveway.
As she turned on to the lane that ran alongside the village green, she saw Professor Robertshaw’s silver-grey Daimler emerge from the lane to the manor, accelerate past the row of shops and motor away from the village. At the same time, Nancy’s duffel-coated figure ducked back into the entrance of the post office.
Maria smiled to herself: so the poor girl was venturing out contrary to her uncle’s wishes.
She made her way around the green and pulled up in front of the post office.
Nancy opened the passenger door and jumped in. Maria set off, saying nothing about having seen Nancy’s uncle or the girl’s evasive action.
‘I had a wonderful time on Saturday evening,’ the girl said. ‘Thanks ever so.’
‘It was lovely to have you around,’ Maria said. ‘Do you think Roy enjoyed himself?’
‘Rather. He told me so on the way home.’ She hesitated. ‘What do you think of him, Maria?’
‘Roy?’ She smiled to herself as she drove north from the village along the narrow lane. ‘I think he’s a thoroughly decent young man who seems to have been dealt an unfair hand.’
‘Yes, he does rather, doesn’t he?’ She fell silent for a while, then said, ‘And what Randall said, about Roy’s lying, and never really having flown …’
Maria glanced at the girl. ‘I think you’re probably right in what you said last night. Randall is jealous. You’ve no reason not to believe Roy, have you?’
‘Oh, no,’ Nancy said. ‘But he is reluctant to talk about the war.’
‘That’s not uncommon, and entirely understandable. Look at Donald. He might have said the other night that he had a cushy war, but he was in a nasty battle at Diego Suarez. He hates talking about it. It’s entirely natural that Roy should think the same. He was badly injured, after all.’
Nancy nodded and fell silent.
The main road was icy in patches, and in one or two places the snow had drifted across the open fields and piled in the lee of hedges, blocking the way. Maria had to slow to walking pace and edge carefully past the drifts. It was little wonder that the bus service had been cancelled.
‘Oh, we had drama at the manor this morning, Maria.’
‘Do tell.’
‘Richard Wellbourne came across at nine,’ Nancy said. ‘When I answered the door, he asked to see my uncle and strode in before I could reply. I took him along to the study and showed him in.’ She looked across at Maria and hunched her shoulders conspiratorially. ‘Then I hovered outside the door to see what he wanted.’
‘And?’
‘It wasn’t long before they were at it hammer and tongs. Something about the land Unc is digging up. It belongs to Richard, and apparently my uncle rents it at peppercorn rates. I got the impression that Richard wants the land back.’
‘What happened this morning? Did they come to any agreement?’
‘I don’t think so. I heard the French windows opening, and then they walked outside. So I went next door to the living room and peered through the window. They were still arguing, way beyond the standing stone. I saw them waving and gesticulating, and then they came back about ten minutes later. My uncle had a face like thunder, and Richard didn’t look much happier. He let himself out, and Unc was in a foul mood for the rest of the morning.’
Maria thought about it. ‘But if by any chance your uncle does locate any further standing stones, or evidence that they existed, wouldn’t that be to Richard’s benefit? The field would become a site of archaeological interest – and surely then he’d be handsomely compensated.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Nancy said, ‘but what I do know is that there’s no love lost between them.’
‘Your uncle does come across as a somewhat prickly customer.’
‘It doesn’t take much to rub him up the wrong way.’
The streets of Bury St Edmunds had been largely cleared of snow; what had covered the roads was now piled in the gutters, turning sooty-grey with exhaust fumes. There were few pedestrians abroad, and a fierce wind whipped the trees that stood along the main road. Nancy suggested they park in the market square, not far from the milliner’s where she had ordered a new hat.
‘Xandra gave me some money for Christmas, and I thought I’d splash out on a hat. My beret is fine, b
ut I’ve had it for years.’
‘Do you know a nice place for lunch?’ Maria asked. ‘I suppose we could always go to the Midland.’
‘No,’ Nancy said. ‘No, I … I’ve heard the food isn’t that good. We could go for a quick drink, though, after I’ve picked up my hat, and then go to a little café I know along Abbeygate Street.’
‘Let’s do that,’ Maria said.
She pulled into the square, climbed out into the teeth of a fierce easterly wind and turned up her collar. They leaned into the wind and hurried along the street to the milliner’s.
‘I came here last week for a fitting,’ Nancy said as they entered the plush establishment. ‘I had it especially made, and it cost a fortune!’
The hat was waiting for her, and a helpful assistant showed the girl to a mirror. Nancy pulled on the hat – a stylish tweed affair that reminded Maria of something that Robin Hood might have worn, but which suited the girl. She examined her reflection and declared herself delighted. She handed the cashier a five-pound note, from which she received scant change, and waited while the hat was expertly wrapped and inserted into a bespoke brown-paper bag bearing the establishment’s name.
They left the shop and made their way to the Midland Hotel. Nancy said, ‘I’ll buy you a drink – I insist.’
Maria said, ‘In that case, I’ll have a small dry sherry as an aperitif.’
As they were just about to enter, Maria glanced to her left and saw a familiar car parked beside the hotel. It was Professor Robertshaw’s Daimler.
Frowning, she followed Nancy into the public bar.
Nancy ordered a sherry and for herself a pink gin, and they sat at a circular glass-topped table in the corner, the only customers in the room.
Maria considered the fact that the professor’s car was parked beside the hotel, and the significance of Nancy’s insisting that they should take a drink at the Midland rather than dine here. This, along with the girl’s reluctance that morning to be picked up from the manor, made Maria more than a little suspicious.
She was about to voice these suspicions when Nancy said, ‘Excuse me one moment, Maria. I must go and powder my nose.’
As a parting line to excuse her leaving, Maria thought, it was rather lame.
Nancy slipped from her seat and disappeared through the swing door.
Maria sipped her sherry and considered the most likely scenario. Nancy was following her uncle, of course: that much was blatantly obvious. Not so apparent was how Nancy had come to learn of her uncle’s affair, if indeed Roy Vickers was correct in his assertion that the professor was seeing someone. She wondered if Roy Vickers had mentioned it on their walk home on Saturday night.
She was considering how to broach the subject when the girl returned, and she saw that it might not be that awkward to ask Nancy, after all: the girl was white-faced and seemed to be in shock.
Maria leaned forward and took her hand across the table. ‘Your uncle is here and is seeing someone, oui?’
The girl nodded, ashen-faced. She squeezed Maria’s hand and seemed on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t hate me, Maria. I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you this morning, but I thought …’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t think that my uncle could be … be so—’
‘Nancy?’
‘He’s in the dining room with her. Go and look. He won’t see you – he has his back to the door. It’s just across the hallway.’
Curious, Maria stood and left the bar. She crossed the plush carpeted hall and paused beside the double door of the dining room. Its upper panel was of bevelled glass, and peering through she made out, quite clearly, the distinctive shape of the professor’s bald head. Across the table from him sat an elegant blonde-haired woman in her mid-fifties.
Maria moved from the door and walked along the hall to the bathroom, where she took out her compact and reapplied her lipstick. She recalled the threatening missive the professor had received the week before – and what Nancy had said on Saturday night about the parlous state of her uncle and Xandra’s relationship.
She closed her compact, snapped her handbag shut and stepped back into the hallway.
Robertshaw and the woman were leaving the dining room, and for a heart-stopping second Maria thought the professor had seen her.
His attention, however, was firmly focused on his escort. He was leaning towards her, an arm around her waist, and murmuring endearments as they left the hotel.
Maria rejoined Nancy in the public bar.
The girl was in the process of wiping her eyes when Maria returned, and she quickly slipped her handkerchief into her handbag.
She looked up, her eyes red. ‘Did you see her?’
Maria nodded.
‘Oh, how could he? I don’t know which is the more shocking, Maria – that he should be having an affair or that he’s having it with her.’
‘You know her?’
‘Well, I’ve seen photographs of her in my uncle’s study.’
Maria stared at her. ‘He keeps photos of his mistress in his study?’ she said incredulously.
‘In a drawer,’ Nancy said, smiling through her tears. ‘You see, the woman is Deirdre, his ex-wife.’
NINE
Langham unpacked the last of the books just before lunchtime and stood back to admire his handiwork.
His desk and writing chair were positioned before the window at the far end of the room, overlooking the back garden. Shelves and bookcases lined the other three walls, all filled with books. The threadbare two-seater sofa, which he’d managed to convince Maria not to throw out, stood somewhat incongruously in the middle of the room, with his standard lamp beside it. He could see himself being very happy and productive here.
He made himself a cheese sandwich and a pot of Earl Grey tea for lunch and ate in the study, leafing through the previous day’s Sunday Times. The sports page announced a win on Saturday for Arsenal, who had beaten Sheffield Wednesday at home 6–3. By contrast, Millwall had lost 3–2 away at Brighton. Ralph would be most unhappy with the result.
He’d been only half serious when he’d mentioned the pub to Maria earlier, but the thought of a pint before the blazing fire in the snug of the Green Man was inviting. Better still, he thought, a game of darts. He wondered if Roy Vickers would be around.
He finished his sandwich, fetched his overcoat, gumboots and hat, and left by the back door. Instinctively, he locked the door, even though Nancy had mentioned the other day that there hadn’t been a burglary in the village for over twenty years, and all the locals left their doors unlocked when they went out. More than ten years of living in London since the war had instilled no such trust in his fellow man.
The blizzard blew huge flakes of snow in a ceaseless, horizontal barrage. He fought against the wind and made his way down the lane, dodging an obstacle course of frozen puddles. Vickers’s caravan wore a foot-thick mantle of snow, and smoke chuffed from a stove pipe on the roof.
Langham knocked and the door was opened immediately, though not by Roy Vickers. The ursine form of Richard Wellbourne filled the doorway. ‘Come in, Langham. Take a pew,’ the farmer said, backing into the confined space and sitting down carefully on a tiny footstool. Vickers crouched at the far end of the caravan, next to the stove. Hard Times lay open, spine uppermost, on a shelf to his left.
‘Just filling Roy in on the latest,’ Wellbourne said.
Langham sat down on a narrow bunk. ‘The latest?’
Wellbourne ran a big hand through his unruly grey thatch. ‘Had a call this morning – I’d just got in from milking and I was about to sit down to breakfast. It was the professor, and he wanted to see me.’
‘About?’
Wellbourne shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t say, other than that it was important. So I told him he could wait till I’d finished my breakfast, put the phone down and tucked in. Fellow had quite spoiled the meal, though. In the event, I didn’t get over to the manor until nine – the wind had blown a tarpaulin off the silage, so I had t
o fix that.’
‘What did he want?’ Langham asked.
Beside the stove, Vickers swore pithily.
‘Robertshaw questioned me about the deeds to the farm, asked if I had copies of them covering the specific field we were squabbling over – the West Field, as it’s known.’
‘Have you?’
The farmer spread his hands. ‘God knows. I have a vague memory of my solicitor handing them over when I bought the place back in ’27, but I’ll be damned if I can put my hands on ’em.’
‘Why was Robertshaw asking?’
‘That’s what I wanted to know, and when I asked’ – he shook his head grimly – ‘he said he’d been going through some legal papers and came across a document relating to the West Field – a deed of ownership, according to him.’
‘Did he say how he came by the document?’ Langham asked.
Wellbourne shook his head. ‘No, he just said he came across it in a bunch of paperwork in his office.’
Langham looked from Vickers to the farmer. ‘Did he show you the deeds?’
‘That’s the thing. He didn’t have the document. He’d taken it across to his solicitors in Bury the other day and left it for them to have a look-see and ratify that it was what he hoped it was – proof of ownership of the field.’
‘And if it is,’ Vickers said, ‘Richard hasn’t a leg to stand on.’
Langham thought about it. ‘Did Robertshaw say how old this document was?’
‘He mentioned that it dated from the late eighteen hundreds.’
‘There’s always the possibility that it’s been superseded by a later deed,’ Langham said. ‘You need to ransack the farm and see if you can locate the deeds, and if you can’t find them, get on to your solicitors. There’s a chance they might be holding the records, and anyway, they’d be able to give you some sound advice.’
Wellbourne nodded. ‘I’ll certainly be doing that.’
‘Typical kind of dirty trick a chap like Robertshaw would pull,’ Vickers muttered.
‘But if the land isn’t that valuable,’ Langham said, ‘and isn’t particularly good farmland …’
