The Buttercup Field

by D J O'Leary

  He stood up and turned towards the stairs. Access to them involved having to move the empty trunk. Except Tolstoy had not actually checked it to see if it really was empty. Perhaps he should, so with an involuntary groan he squatted by the trunk and lifted the lid. It wasn’t empty.

  There was not much in it, but there was enough to excite Tolstoy, because what he could see was a large, brown legal type of envelope. There was nothing else, though. He reached in and pulled it out. It was addressed to Cornelis de Groot of Stottenden Manor in faded ink. Hubert’s grandfather, or his great-great-great grandfather he thought, since they both had the same Christian name. There was no stamp on the front, nor postmark. He turned the envelope over, but there was nothing to say where it had come from. He decided that this was something worth taking upstairs and studying over a cup of tea with Elspeth. She might even recognise it. A sharp shove cleared the way for Tolstoy to exit the cellar up the stairs back to the kitchen.

  When he got there, there was no sign of Elspeth, but a quick call from him established that she was in the library and she said she would join him and provide him with a cup of tea.

  ‘Any joy?’ she asked, when she came through the kitchen door.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think this might be interesting.’ Tolstoy handed her the dusty envelope. ‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Elspeth. ‘It’s addressed to Hubert’s grandfather. Well, or his great-great-great-grandfather of course, since they were both called Cornelis de Groot.’ As Tolstoy had done, she turned the envelope over, before slipping her fingers in the open end and withdrawing some extremely old-looking documents.

  ‘Well, I wonder what these are,’ she mused. Still holding them she went over to the sink and brought back a cloth, with which she wiped the surface of the kitchen table before carefully placing the first batch on it. She withdrew the remaining documents and laid these out on the pine surface as well.

  ‘Do you mind if I look at one?’ she asked Tolstoy.

  ‘No, go ahead. I brought them up here really so that you could have a first look at them, in case you knew what they were.’

  Elspeth pulled up a chair, Tolstoy likewise, and she reached out for what looked to be the oldest, or at least most yellowed, document in the collection. It was not very large, but appeared to be a letter. It was.

  ‘It’s from the family’s firm of solicitors in Tonbridge,’ she announced. ‘It’s dated 1911. November 14th.’ She began to read. ‘Dear Cornelis, Please find enclosed the documents you requested. You may keep them, unless you would prefer to return them to our sturdy office safe. The two relevant plans you felt sure were included among the deeds to Stottenden Manor, were indeed there and they are self-explanatory, one is dated before, the other after, the changes were made. Your grandfather, Willem, clearly created a smaller field as some sort of shield from the road, to help enclose the cricket ground… It then goes on about local cricket and various social bits and bobs. So where are these two plans?’

  While Elspeth had been reading out from the solicitor’s letter Tolstoy had been carefully unfolding a couple of the dry pieces of paper. The third one that he opened looked like a plan. A black ink outline of an area with two lines running parallel and close together at the bottom, and a smallish square shape on the top left-hand side. There was writing, but it was extremely small. Tolstoy had to squint hard. ‘Oh! Oh! I think this is the cricket field and this square thing at the top is Stottenden Manor. It’s obviously not to scale.’

  Elspeth asked, ‘But what is all that writing down the side, in the right-hand margin? It’s really small. Whoever produced this plan must have had fantastic eyesight, I can’t read a word.’

  Tolstoy grunted, ‘Nor can I. Do you have a magnifying glass?’

  ‘I think there’s one on the desk in the library. If it’s not on the desk, then the chances are that it will be in the top left-hand drawer.’

  Tolstoy headed down the corridor to the oak-panelled library. The desk sat in front of the large window, opposite the doorway. He made his way over to the other side of the desk and spotted the magnifying glass on the left of the blotter. He picked it up and returned to the kitchen, to find that Elspeth had found and unfolded the second of the plans mentioned in the solicitor’s letter. He passed her the magnifying glass and waited while she peered through it at the first plan.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘It says, Being a plan of the land adjoining and owned by Willem de Groot of Stottenden Manor, Stottenden, in the County of Kent. Well now, Willem de Groot was Hubert’s great-great-grandfather, so it looks as if he owned all the land that ran right up to the road.’

  ‘Is that what it’s saying?’ queried Tolstoy. ‘Because if it is, then all this hoo-hah over the Buttercup Field may be over, and the parish council plans to annex it as their own and do all that building on it will come to nought.’

  Elspeth looked flushed. ‘This is very exciting. Let’s see what the other plan shows.’

  ‘Is there any writing on the second one?’

  ‘Yes, there is. But this plan is rather different. Look, here someone has drawn a line parallel to what is obviously the road that runs through the village. It looks as if it has created a smaller field, by taking a chunk out of the cricket field. And those little dash-type things, on the top and bottom of the new field, could very well be the gates that are there today. That’s the one that is on the roadside,’ she explained, pointing with the tip of her long, elegant forefinger, ‘and that’s the other, right opposite, the one that leads directly into the cricket field. Let’s see what this writing says. Being a plan of the proposed gift in perpetuo to the parish of St Martin’s Church Stottenden and its parishioners of a parcel of land no fewer than two and one half acres and no more than three acres, from Willem de Groot for the common weal. Dated this day September 17th in the year of our Lord 1839. It has been witnessed, presumably by someone from Stottenden and someone from the church, perhaps the vicar. It has also been dated, and to my eye it all looks official.’ Elspeth’s hand trembled with excitement as she picked up the plan and studied it more closely. ‘Well Tolstoy, this is good news, because it means the de Groots gave what became known as the Buttercup Field to the Church, to St Martin’s. So you are right. And that puts an end to the nonsense of the parish council, or anyone, doing anything, let alone building houses there. We simply must tell the colonel.’ Tolstoy held up a cautionary hand. ‘I think that Jack Bentley and his fellow councillors will call it mighty convenient that, with matters coming to a head, we should unearth these documents. I’ll bet they accuse us of nefarious deeds, perhaps even of forging them.’

  ‘Oh, Tolstoy, I didn’t know you could be so cynical.’

  ‘I’m not being cynical, just realistic. I think we would be well advised to keep this quiet for the time being, just while we find somewhere that we can have these plans and the letter authenticated. We should be able to get them dated at least. I am sure there are forensic establishments who do private work like this every week.’

  ‘Hmm, well perhaps the remaining documents can help to verify that what we have here is genuine,’ said Elspeth, and she began carefully to unfold another piece of paper. A five-minute perusal of the remaining documents proved useful in one way, in that they formed a chain of correspondence between Willem de Groot and his solicitor, leading ultimately to the change of plan and the registration of the new boundary. There was also a letter, rather a curt one, from the Diocese of Canterbury acknowledging the Church’s gratitude for the land and thanking Willem de Groot for his generous gift.

  ‘These should all prove useful,’ said the optimistic Tolstoy, ‘because no one could have forged them all, and they should, in the right forensic hands, reinforce the dates of the plans and the covering letter.’

  Elspeth agreed. ‘How do we go about finding a firm, or someone, to examine and date all these? And how much is it all going to cost? I’m certain of one thing, i
t’s not going to be cheap.’

  ‘I don’t think the onus is on us to prove the authenticity of any of these documents,’ said Tolstoy. ‘Not legally anyway. Morally maybe. I think we’ll just have to produce them for the parish council and let them have the documents authenticated, maybe let the cost come out of the communal purse, rather than ours. We’ll have a think about it.’

  Elspeth accorded Tolstoy some muted applause. ‘That is brilliant, Tolstoy. Yes, why indeed should we have to prove anything? We have found the documents; it is for others to challenge their veracity. When should they be presented to the council, do you think?’

  ‘Well, I should like us to invite the colonel and his wife around for a drink, show him the documents, get his opinion. Who knows, he might be able to suggest a reliable forensics outfit somewhere. We also need to let Reverend Davis know about all this. And we need to invite them all before we present these documents to the parish council. I also wonder whether we should get these photocopied and present the copies to the council and Jack Bentley Esq; after all we do not want these delicate pieces of paper, on which the future existence of the Buttercup Field rests, to be damaged by mishandling, or, worse, have someone “lose” them. It would also be good if we made another set of copies and showed them, again, before we present them to the PC, to the members of the action committee, who have all been so supportive throughout this campaign. And, despite what I have just said about the onus being on the council to authenticate the documents, on reflection I think it would be worth our while paying to have them authenticated ourselves, just for our own peace of mind.’

  Elspeth had an even more ambitious idea. ‘Perhaps you’re right about the Manor footing the bill for the authentication, and I agree about showing them to the colonel first at drinks here, but how about inviting, not just the committee, but the whole village to a big party, maybe in a marquee on the cricket field?’

  ‘That is a great idea, Elspeth,’ said Tolstoy, ‘but we don’t want to tempt providence. The party is a great idea, but let’s have that once these documents have been authenticated and Jack Bentley and the parish council have conceded defeat. After all, it would be terrible if it turned out that the documents weren’t genuine, or were not acceptable legally for whatever arcane reason the council’s solicitors could dream up.’

  Elspeth agreed. ‘OK, a compromise. First the colonel, then the Rev Davis, followed by the action committee, then a meeting in the Snitcher’s Head of all the villagers, which I do realise will mean a couple of parish councillors attending, and letting them know that we think we have evidence that will save the Buttercup Field, but we don’t say what the evidence is. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said a happy Tolstoy.

  ‘I shall sort out a possible date for the colonel and Miriam to drop in for drinks, maybe tomorrow or perhaps they might be able to join us at the weekend, Sunday lunchtime perhaps?’ She looked at Tolstoy questioningly. He nodded his approval.

  ‘Right, Tolstoy,’ said Elspeth in a firm tone. ‘I want you to go down to the cellar again,’ she paused, and Tolstoy, who had been looking forward to a shower to rid himself of the dirt that coated him after his efforts below ground, looked up with a despairing face, only to hear Elspeth add, ‘and dig out something appropriate for a celebration. It may not yet be a fait accompli, but you and I know those documents are genuine, so we can jolly well quaff a glass or two ourselves. What do you say?’

  ‘I am on my way down as you speak.’

  ‘And get something to go with steak and béarnaise sauce, which we are having tonight.’

  ‘Will do.’

  It took Tolstoy some half a dozen minutes to decide on what fizz and what wines to drink, and when he emerged from the cellar, he was confronted by a grinning Elspeth. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to pop down to the cellar again, Tolstoy, and fetch more of the same, perhaps a further two more of the same, because while you were down there I had a phone call. Charlie Hornchurch is popping over with Henrietta Charles. They are coming as much to see you as me. Initially they were just going to drop in for a quick drink, but I pressed them to stay for a meal. There is plenty of steak and salad and chips. I hope you don’t mind. They said they’d be here at about seven.’

  Tolstoy had groaned inwardly, and perhaps there had momentarily even been a flicker, just a flicker, of displeasure that had passed across his face at Elspeth’s first words, but he managed to get himself under control in time to hear the rest of her news. And he smiled at the prospect of seeing his old friend again. It really had been too long since they last met, which had been at Hubert’s funeral.

  ‘No problem,’ and he turned around and, for the umpteenth time that day, disappeared into the bowels of Stottenden Manor.

  Seven

  The ancient front door bell at Stottenden Manor clanged sonorously at three minutes to seven. Elspeth left Tolstoy to sort out the glasses and the wine and went to answer it. Tolstoy heard the voices, then thirty seconds later was greeting his old friend and shaking hands for only the second time in his life with Henrietta Charles as they entered the kitchen.

  ‘I believe you two know each other,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Um, yes,’ Tolstoy managed.

  ‘You could say that,’ came the dusky tones of Henrietta. ‘Although our first meeting was not exactly a happy one.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’ asked Charlie and a bemused Elspeth, in unison. Elspeth, after all, had thought that Tolstoy and Henrietta had met through her at the cricket match.

  Tolstoy blushed fiercely and spared himself from answering by asking if Henrietta would like some champagne. She nodded, before turning to Charlie and relating her first encounter with Tolstoy, or rather a clumsy, oversized part of his anatomy. Within seconds both Elspeth and Charlie were chuckling, so well did Henrietta recall the incident of Tolstoy standing on her hair. She didn’t miss a beat, not even when she was handed her glass of bubbly. When she had finished Henrietta turned to Tolstoy and added, ‘You’re forgiven, by the way. And, for your information, it didn’t hurt me at all. It merely annoyed me that anyone could fail to spot my hair, and it is pretty hard to miss after all, and then to stand on it to boot. Well, it was all rather too much for me, I’m afraid. Although I do think that I was possibly a little harsh on you. Never mind. And no harm done.’

  A near-mute Tolstoy merely hung his head, before managing a mumbled ‘Sorry.’

  Charlie broke the brief silence by asking, ‘Why the bubbly? Are we celebrating something?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Elspeth. ‘We can’t actually reveal what it is, because it needs confirmation, but Tolstoy here has unearthed something which could end this whole Buttercup Field affair, in favour of the village. If what he has uncovered is right, then Jack Bentley and his fellow parish councillors will not be able to build anything on the Buttercup Field. But right now it has to be kept secret from everyone, especially the local councillors. We need to be sure of our facts before we make the discovery public, and that is going to take a bit of time.’

  ‘Right ho,’ said Charlie, raising his glass. ‘A toast to whatever it is that Tolstoy has found, and long may the Buttercup Field retain its status.’ They all raised their glasses, then sipped to the toast. ‘Actually, it’s rather strange that you should have mentioned the name Jack Bentley,’ said Charlie, ‘because we have just come from the Snitcher’s Head, where we had a swift yardarm libation, and the talk there was of that selfsame man. Jack was in the bar, but at the far end talking to a couple of his farm workers, so thankfully we did not have to talk directly to him, but he was the topic of the day, all right.’

  ‘Really,’ said Elspeth. ‘What was being said about him?’

  ‘Well, apparently he seems to think he has found documentary proof that shows his great-great-grandfather, Edward Bentley, was given the Buttercup Field by a member of the de Groot family back in the mid-19th century. Old Ja
ck is going to present it to the parish council at their next meeting in a fortnight’s time, after which he will hand it over to the PC’s legal people who can then sort out the granting of planning consent, and of course this will then render the public inquiry a non-starter.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed Elspeth, her face an indignant pink. ‘That’s not possible. Just not possible.’ She wanted to say more, but a warning glance from Tolstoy ensured she did not. Charlie, slightly startled at the vehemence of Elspeth’s outburst, continued, ‘I can assure you that Jack is behaving like the cat that got the cream. He could not stop smiling. He was surrounded by his cronies and some of his employees. He was slapping people on the back, buying them drinks. He was definitely in a celebratory mood. And you know how obnoxious his smile of triumph can be. He really was buzzing earlier.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens, enough talk of that vile man,’ said Elspeth. ‘With what Tolstoy has found, I am certain it will prevail over anything that that vulgar man Jack Bentley is going to produce. Now, let’s just please change the subject.’ She turned to Charlie’s girlfriend. ‘Henrietta, how is work with you?’

  ‘It’s fine. Good, in fact. I have just been offered a staff job, which is tempting. I’m presently on a contract, which is useful from a tax point of view, but the staff job carries more responsibility, more hours’ work as well as a reasonably generous increase in pay. I have been given the weekend to consider it, but I am going to discuss it with my parents, and Charlie.’