The Buttercup Field

by D J O'Leary

  The colonel was unable to enlighten Elspeth. ‘All I can tell you is that it will be this year,’ he explained. ‘The inspectorate is having to find a slot for us in what they tell me is an extremely busy schedule. It is a bit of a nuisance because we all have to make plans and re-organise our own work schedules to fit it in, and there is now a possibility that we may have to find another barrister, because there is no guarantee that Angela Smeaton will be available, since she could well be involved in a case. And I cannot see any judge suspending a court case and releasing a barrister to come down to Kent for a hearing such as ours. It’s all rather worrying. I’ve been assured that a decision will be made very soon and that I’ll be informed the moment anything is decided. I promise I shall let everyone know the moment I hear.’

  Tolstoy grimaced at the news. ‘Just what no one wants, for this thing to drag on. By the way, how is Jack Bentley? What with Hubert and everything else I had forgotten all about him. Has he made a full recovery?’

  Elspeth cocked her head to one side. ‘Do you know, I haven’t given him another thought either, for pretty much the same reason as you. I’ve been so wrapped up in Hubert’s final few weeks and then the funeral arrangements and all the administrative chores, that Jack’s health has not crossed my mind. As far as I recall he had a triple or quadruple bypass and was expected to have to take things easy for a few weeks. I’m sure I would have heard if he had had a relapse, so I think it is safe to assume he is continuing to recover, and no doubt we shall see him swanning around in one or other of his ostentatious cars, pronouncing on this, that or any other thing which he feels demands his opinion. Oh I can’t bear the man. Such a snob. And a bit of a bully too. He has certainly behaved poorly over the Buttercup Field.’

  Tolstoy raised an eyebrow as Elspeth’s tirade ended, leaving her pink-cheeked and looking indignant.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tolstoy. I don’t know where all that came from. But the man really does get under my skin.

  ‘So, as a complete change of subject, let us move to matters more mundane. When you move in here would you prefer the master bedroom? I am perfectly happy to move to one of the guest rooms.’

  ‘Oh good heavens, no,’ Tolstoy protested. ‘That’s your room. I have no intention of turfing you out of the bedroom you have used for the last however many years it is. I shall be quite content to use my usual room. It has an en suite and I am familiar with it.’

  ‘Thank you, Tolstoy, that is really sweet and thoughtful of you. I don’t mind moving, but I have all my clothes and things there. So thank you. I do wonder, though, whether it might be nice to redecorate both bedrooms, yours and mine. It’s been years since they last had a lick of paint. Would you mind if I organised that to be completed in time for when you move in?’

  ‘No, that would be fine.’

  ‘I suppose we ought to be going through all Hubert’s papers and things, especially all the documents and accounts relating to the Manor,’ said Elspeth. ‘Or would you rather leave all that for the time being?’

  ‘I think leave it for the time being. I think I may head back to London sooner than planned to sort out handing in my notice to my boss and to my landlady,’ said Tolstoy. ‘I rather think I will be able to get away within a month, but I need to organise moving my belongings from the flat down here as well. Would it be OK to come down perhaps the weekend after next?’

  ‘Warren, Stottenden Manor is your home now, so you can come and go as you please.’

  ‘I know, but I think I still owe you the courtesy of letting you know when I intend popping down. At least until I move in permanently.’

  ‘Thank you, I appreciate that. And the weekend after next will be fine. Oh,’ she paused, lips pursed, then went on, ‘I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. Charlie Hornchurch has been a regular down here since the cricket match. Initially he stayed either at the Star and Eagle, or in the Snitcher’s Head, but last weekend he was actually a guest of the Charleses.’

  Tolstoy looked surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it seems he has been seeing Henrietta when up in London. They have also been coming down to her family home, which is between here and Goudhurst, and going for walks and so on. More recently she has been coming down every weekend to stay with her parents while her flat is being refurbished. During the week she stays in a small hotel in the West End when she is working. According to Vivienne, her mother, she and Charlie are really rather keen on each other.’

  Tolstoy had mixed emotions. He was glad that Charlie had finally, possibly, met someone, but also sad that a woman he found so breathtakingly beautiful – not that he had spared her a thought since the day he had introduced himself by standing on her hair – should be seeing another man, and that that man was his closest friend. In fact, it was odd that Charlie had not mentioned it at the funeral. Why was that? Tolstoy could answer that one himself. On the day of the funeral he had slipped away as quickly as he could, and had barely said two words to Charlie on that emotionally-charged day. Well, maybe they would bump into each other a little more now, if Charlie Hornchurch and Henrietta Charles were now an “item”, always assuming the couple spent time together at her parents’ home, because very shortly now Tolstoy would be coming down to spend the rest of his life at Stottenden. He marvelled at the thought. He had to admit that he did rather relish the prospect. And was even, if he were to be honest, rather excited at the thought.

  Six

  Tolstoy stepped into the welcoming, relative darkness of the Snitcher’s Head and made his way across the near-empty room to the bar. As ever Jo was there, bending down to stock up some lower shelves. She had heard the door open and close though, and she quickly straightened up and turned to look at Tolstoy. ‘Tolstoy, how are you? When do you move in permanently? And what on earth have you been doing, your face is black, well almost. Have you had an early bonfire? Bonfire Night isn’t for a couple of weeks, you know.’

  Tolstoy pulled out a bright red handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘Sorry. No. There has been no bonfire, I’ve been in the cellar all morning, the larger bit of the cellar that doesn’t have any wine in it, shifting and dragging stuff around and raising a regular old dust storm.

  ‘I promised Elspeth I would brave the spiders and the dust to see what lay in the darkest depths of Stottenden Manor, and I have uncovered a little treasure trove of three trunks, two suitcases and half a dozen wine boxes. The trunks look old, in fact one of them looks positively antique, and were hidden behind a wooden screen tucked away into one of the furthest, darkest corners of the cellar. I had to go back upstairs for a torch in order to see just what I had found. They could not have been looked at in years, if not decades. In fact, I suspect in a couple of instances, some of the boxes, and the very large, old-fashioned trunk, might have not been opened for centuries. Anyway, as a result of all that labouring I am exhausted. Thirsty. Grubby. So I have given myself a brief beer break before joining Elspeth for lunch. And in answer to your first two questions, fine, and I have just moved in permanently this week, so I am still finding my feet. But I am getting there, and Elspeth is a great companion and, more importantly, a superb cook.’

  Throughout his explanation Jo had been pulling him a pint of Fuggles. Tolstoy looked at her; she seemed different. She had smiled at him, but something was different in the smile. She took his money, opened the till and dropped in the coins, then, instead of engaging Tolstoy in conversation she moved to the other end of the bar, where Tolstoy noticed a figure seated on a bar stool reading a magazine. When the figure looked up Tolstoy saw that it was Harry Stoke, and a smile creased his face as Jo murmured something to him. He turned and looked at Tolstoy and nodded at him.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Pearce.’ The voice was low and cut through with a pleasant West Country burr.

  ‘Good afternoon, Harry, and please, it’s Warren, or even Tolstoy if you’re of a mind to use my nickname.’

  ‘Thank you
… Tolstoy.’

  ‘How’s the shooting season going?’

  ‘Good. Very good. Hard work of course. I’m just stealing half an hour to see Jo, before I head off to check one of the drives we plan on using tomorrow. Do you shoot, Tolstoy?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s not that I’m anti or anything. It’s just not something that has ever really grabbed me. I enjoy eating game though, especially venison and partridge.’

  ‘Well, we’ve opened a shoot shop and you can get pretty well all game there. You should pay us a visit. Jo here runs it, so it’s only open three mornings a week, but the meat is all oven-ready.’

  Harry turned back to Jo, draining his glass as he did so, then said, ‘Well sweetheart, I’m off. See you this evening.’

  He leaned across the bar and managed a kiss that clearly pleased Jo, before hauling his towering frame off the stool and heading to the door. Jo came back up to Tolstoy’s end and eyed his glass. It was half-empty. ‘You want a top-up?’

  Tolstoy hesitated. ‘I really shouldn’t. Oh, what the hell! Yes. But just a top-up.’

  He began fishing in his pocket for some change, but Jo stopped him, saying, ‘Have this one on me,’ and filled his glass. And while she did so she began talking about Harry. ‘He hates Bonfire Night.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Harry. He says it’s an invitation for poachers to come out and blast away at game birds and deer and no one can tell what’s going on, or where. He’ll be out there next week, patrolling the shoot, the parts of it that he thinks are vulnerable to poachers; the places where the pheasants roost are favourite for poachers to go. Often, Harry says, this sort of poaching is just locals out to get something free for the larder. I hated selling fireworks in the shop. Too often I was suspicious of the age of some of the youngsters and I was scared of selling them to underage children.’ She tailed off as she finished filling the glass.

  ‘Forgive me for being nosey, Jo, but how many jobs do you have now? I know you do a paper round, serve in the village shop and then do lunchtimes and evenings here, but now you are running the shoot’s shop as well. How on earth do you fit it all in?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re nosey, Warren. In fact, if I hadn’t been swept off my feet by Harry a while back you might have found yourself stepping out with me and learning all about my life, because I think you are one of the sweetest men I have met, well, along with Harry, of course. I’ve given up working in the shop altogether, which includes stopping the paper round; those jobs served a purpose, they helped me to put together a nice little nest egg, but I love my job here, meeting everyone, hearing all the gossip. Being around people. I just have a slightly later start three mornings a week to allow me to run the shoot’s shop. I open that at eight, close it at midday. Then by twelve-fifteen I am in here.’

  Tolstoy, still taken aback at having been called sweet, just managed to stutter, ‘So… so… so do you still have ambitions to leave the village, like you always said you would?’

  ‘I’m not so sure. Now that Harry and I are seeing each other. We have even been talking, but just talking, about moving in together. In my cottage. I own it now, so there’s no mortgage or anything to worry about. And although the colonel is very kind to Harry, the cottage that he lives in for free is not his. He says he wants a little more of a permanent feeling, a permanent place to stay. We think maybe if we make a go of things between us, that we might end up… you know… getting married or something.’ She paused. It had been a long speech for her and Jo appeared quite exhausted, not to say a trifle self-conscious, at her personal revelations. But there was more to come.

  ‘I think that is truly lovely that you and Harry are together,’ said Tolstoy, and meaning it. ‘He seems a nice chap. Although I’ll bet he works really long hours.’

  ‘He is. He’s out at all hours. He gets up sometimes at two, three or four in the morning and I always wake up.’ She stopped suddenly, aware that she had revealed something rather more personal than perhaps she had intended and she blushed deeply. Ever the gentleman, Tolstoy chose not to react to this personal revelation. He actually felt himself blush as well, as if he had been caught eavesdropping. Despite his initial attraction to Jo, it was Kate, of whom he had seen very little over the past four months or so, who now interested him more. Not that the feelings had been reciprocated thus far. ‘Is the game that you sell in the shoot’s shop good quality?’

  ‘Oh yes. And we usually have pretty well everything, pheasant, duck, partridge, pigeon, rabbit, and of course venison, oh and wild goose when in season. You or Elspeth should drop in.’

  Tolstoy emptied his glass and promised Jo he would call in the next time it was open. ‘That’ll be tomorrow. Any time after eight,’ she said.

  ‘See you then. Bye.’ And with that he left.

  During lunch, at the start of which he had suggested that Elspeth might like to sample some game from the shoot’s shop, they discussed what he had discovered in the cellar so far, and just what the cases, trunks and boxes might contain. ‘I don’t think even Hubert could remember what was in them,’ she said. ‘Although I do recall that one of them contains accounts for the Manor going back donkey’s years. Hubert kept saying he ought to read through them, if nothing else just to see how costs of maintenance have risen. He did say it would probably depress him, but, other than that, I have no idea what you may find.’

  ‘Would you care to join me in the cellar to have a first-hand browse?’

  ‘I might pop down later, but I have one or two things I must get done this afternoon, including a little bit of shopping for this evening’s meal. And I have rather neglected my reading. I belong to a book club and I must get on with our latest book. Unusually for the club, rather than it being a serious, or high-minded work of non-fiction – we do read a lot of historical biographies – this one is a thriller, by a local author, C J Bateman. It’s his latest one. He lives somewhere in the South East, and that is generally the setting for his stories. His first one, for example, was set on the Kent and Sussex coast. It was very good too. Anyway, with all this, you go ahead with your dusty duties. I doubt if I will find the time to join you later. But while I think about it, would you like to borrow some gloves? I have Hubert’s old gardening gloves or a pair of rubber gloves out in the scullery.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine with bare hands, even if they will get fairly grubby. Do you need a hand with the washing-up?’

  ‘No. Most of it can go in the dishwasher. You get on with your dusty duties.’

  Tolstoy grinned, got up from the kitchen table and went over to the heavy cellar door, switched on the lights, opened the door and made his way down the flagstone steps. As he made his way between the racks and bins of wine he made a mental note to take a bottle or two back with him later to accompany the evening meal.

  Earlier he had taken a chair down with him to spare himself the discomfort of squatting, and now he dragged two of the cardboard boxes over and began examining the contents. The first one was only half-full, and contained, as far as he could see, a collection of A5 cards, which featured addresses, in alphabetical order. Tolstoy pushed it to one side for Elspeth to check over. The second one, again nowhere near full, had some old computer magazines. Rubbish, thought Tolstoy, pushing this box to the right. Two more boxes were hauled through the dust, both crammed with Wine Society quarterly catalogues. As tempting as it would have been to hang on to these, just to see how much prices of various wines had changed, Tolstoy decided to be ruthless and consigned both to the right-hand side of his chair.

  The last two seemed to hold desktop knickknacks, paperweights, blotters, a desk lamp and three computer keyboards, as well as a clutch of ballpoint pens and some pencils. Again Tolstoy pushed them to his right.

  The trunks were what had filled him with curiosity, and so it was with a frisson of anticipation that he dragged the first one across the cellar floor, raising yet m
ore dust clouds. The lid was fastened by a simple hasp, there was no locking mechanism and Tolstoy was able to open it with no trouble. Although it had felt fairly heavy, to Tolstoy’s disappointment all that it contained was what appeared to be bundles of old curtains, made of heavy, silk brocade material.

  With a sigh he pushed the trunk to his left, for Elspeth to decide on the fate of its contents at some point. The second trunk was clearly empty, judging by the way it felt. Impatiently Tolstoy pushed that to one side to clear the way for the third. This one certainly felt as if it contained something. Again, there was no lock, so Tolstoy quickly found himself staring at some papers. Old documents. Trembling, Tolstoy pulled out a handful and began to leaf through them. After about ten minutes, when he was getting on for halfway through, it dawned on him that these were all old annual accounts for Stottenden Manor. The further he went through the more obvious it also became that they had been filed in chronological order, and he was now in the late 1890s.He decided to make an executive decision and delved almost to the very bottom of the pile. Here he reached the year 1842. Queen Victoria had been on the throne for five years, and Stottenden Manor’s finances were looking as sound as they were almost two hundred years later. It seemed that Hubert’s great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather were canny managers of the modest estate and prudent with the spending. At the very bottom of the pile he came upon accounts relating to the mid-eighteenth century, Hubert’s great-great-great-great-grandfather’s time. Tolstoy felt a thrill. He was holding history in his hands, he marvelled. Leafing forward again, Tolstoy uncovered the accounts for the year the original pavilion had been built. The construction had cost a shade under £75 in total, in 1863, with the help of lots of volunteer labour.

  The accounts were of interest, Tolstoy decided, so he eased the trunk to his left. Lastly he had the two suitcases to look at. They were another disappointment, all they contained were old clothes – no surprise there, thought Tolstoy, given their usual role in life. Tolstoy sat back in the chair. He glanced at his watch and saw that almost two hours had elapsed. He felt thirsty and his eyes felt gritty. His face was also covered in sweat and he wiped a handkerchief across his forehead and upper lip. He would have to ask Elspeth where she wanted him to put the boxes and trunks that he thought she needed to look through.