‘We’ll have a drink before we go,’ said Marcus, stroking her shoulder. ‘I’ve got to get back by midnight.’ They met eyes briefly, then looked away from each other. A trail of white lotion was still running down Liz’s arm, and she began to rub it briskly into her skin. She had carefully avoided thinking about Marcus’s wife; his family; the clichéd, shadowy characters that threatened at any moment to spoil her treat.
For that was how she thought of Marcus. He was her treat. She deserved him, she reckoned, after all her hard work, after being faithful and cheerful and making such an effort with the tutorial college. She deserved something nice for all of that. And Marcus—as well as being tall and strong and enthusiastic, albeit not particularly imaginative, in bed—had the delicious air of a luxury item. Just sitting in his car, listening to the cocooned sound of the stereo; just watching as he casually signed the bill for dinner; just leaning against his expensively cotton-shirted chest and breathing in the delicious smell of his aftershave, was enough to make a broad smile of contentment spread slowly across her face. Words like infidelity and betrayal didn’t come into it. This was just her special treat, nothing to do with Jonathan. And sometimes she even persuaded herself that if he knew about it, he would be glad. For her sake.
Not that he would ever find out. When Marcus had asked her out to dinner, Liz had hit upon the idea of telling Jonathan she was thinking of resuming her Italian conversation classes in Frenham Dale, a good twenty miles from Silchester. He had no idea that Grazia, who used to run them, had moved back to Italy; nor did he ever ask where they were supposed to be taking place. And he couldn’t have been more supportive of the idea. Liz remembered, with a slight twinge of guilt, his exclamations of delight; his encouraging smile. He really thought she was doing it all in aid of the tutorial college. Stupid fool.
She had not asked Marcus what he had told his wife. She didn’t want to think about it; didn’t want to remind him. But sometimes she wondered if he was thinking of her. Now she surreptitiously eyed Marcus as he buttoned up his shirt. He looked serious. Grim, even. The horrible thought came to her that he might be thinking of his wife, and regretting what had happened. He might even now be considering how to extricate himself from all this. She imagined his face, telling her this was the last time, screwed up in an attempt to be kind but unequivocal. And then they’d never see each other again, and there would be no more dinners and no more hotels and no more rides in that lovely car. She’d be back to her unutterably dull life with Jonathan. She couldn’t bear it.
She peered at Marcus’s face again, trying to read his expression. But she couldn’t tell what he was thinking about. Was it her? Or was it his wife?
Marcus was not thinking about his wife. Nor was he thinking about Liz. In fact, he had almost forgotten that she was in the room. His frown of concentration was due to the fact that the next day he was intending to begin, for Leo, the valuation of Panning Hall.
It should be a simple job. It was a good-sized estate, a fair way out of Silchester, with nearly twelve hundred acres, a manor house, several more houses dotted around the place, and good riding facilities. He’d attended a charity event at the house once, years ago, and as far as he could remember there were no unusual features; no zoos or recording studios; no surprises.
He’d met Lady Ursula, then, too. Painfully thin, and elegant, despite her age. One of the few owners of country estates he’d met who actually seemed at home in a huge country house. So often these places were inhabited by largely absent businessmen and their ill-at-ease wives. Drawing-rooms lay empty while the wife watched television in her bedroom. Dining-rooms grew chilly and unwelcoming, while the children ate fish-fingers every night in the kitchen. But Lady Ursula had known how to live in such a large house. She’d grown up in it. She’d had the right style. Marcus had felt an admiration for her then which lingered even now. Even now that she was dead.
It had been a bit of a shock when Leo casually mentioned, towards the end of their meeting, that the estate he was talking about was Panning Hall. Marcus hadn’t heard of Lady Ursula’s death, and his immediate feeling was one of shock.
‘That’s awful!’ he’d blurted out.
‘What is? What, did you know her? Is there some sort of problem?’ Leo’s eyes scanned Marcus’s face. ‘She wasn’t a friend of yours, or anything, was she?’
‘Well, no,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s just that I met her a few years ago. And I didn’t realize she’d died.’
‘Alas, yes,’ said Leo gravely, adopting a solemn face. Then his expression changed. ‘But, frankly, the rest of her family is a shambles. They don’t want to have the estate; they’re only interested in the money. And that’s all going straight up their noses.’
‘Really?’ Marcus felt nonplussed. Leo fixed him with a shrewd eye.
‘I wouldn’t like you to think, Marcus, that what I’m suggesting is my normal practice with all my clients.’
‘Oh, er, no,’ said Marcus. ‘Of course not.’
‘I specifically asked you, Marcus, to help me out on this one, because I trusted your judgement.’ Leo leaned forward slightly and gazed into Marcus’s face. ‘I credited you, Marcus, with a certain vision. I hope you won’t disappoint me.’
And Marcus had felt confused, flattered and exhilarated all at once. Leo had chosen him. He’d spotted his potential; seen that the constraints of provincial estate agency were stifling him; realized that Marcus was a man who could face a challenge head-on.
That was now a few weeks ago. And since then, everything had gone, Marcus thought, swimmingly. He’d set up the usual procedures impeccably. In his filing cabinet at work he had a bland letter from Leo, informing him of the owner’s recent death and requesting a valuation for probate with a view to selling as soon as was convenient. The letter was addressed to Marcus at his work address, but Leo had actually sent it to him at home, to avoid the danger of anyone else at Witherstone’s seeing it and deciding to do the valuation themselves. It had been easy for Marcus to bring it into the office, slip it into a file and sit quickly down at his desk again before Suzy, his secretary, came in.
He’d debated for a while whether to tell Suzy where he was going that day; whether a mysterious absence would draw more comment than the words Panning Hall scribbled across the diary page. People were so nosy: his cousin Miles would be sure to want to know all about the valuation if he found out about it; might even suggest coming along to see the place.
So in the end, he’d written in the diary, himself, the carefully ambiguous phrase: Valuation – Panning. Panning was itself a large village with a number of good-sized properties. And, as everyone was all too aware, there was a great trend at the moment for people to request valuations without having any intention of selling. If anyone asked where he’d been, he could make up some appropriate story about a client who had confessed at the end of their meeting that she didn’t really want to sell. No one would bother to pursue it. And meanwhile, having a reference to Panning in the diary might be useful in the future. Just in case anyone ever suggested he hadn’t put this case through the usual channels or that he’d tried to keep it quiet. Heaven forbid.
Marcus was trying, as far as he could, to lull himself into a normal frame of mind for this valuation. He would be professional about it, he would follow his usual procedures; he would carefully note the features of the main house and the state of the outlying buildings; investigate the river frontage and areas of woodland. He would undertake the job conscientiously, without skipping bits or cutting corners or taking anything for granted.
Marcus’s hands tightened as he tied up his shoes; his breath quickened slightly. And then, at the end of the valuation, when he’d taken all factors into consideration, he would come up with an overall figure which would be, give or take the odd thousand, one million pounds short of what it should be.
Easy. A piece of cake. What was it his son Andrew always said? No sweat.
By five o’clock the next afternoon, Marcus was feeli
ng very sweaty indeed. He had arrived at the manor house at ten, to find an elderly man in a navy blue anorak and wellingtons waiting outside in a Range Rover.
‘Thought you’d be along soon,’ he said, in a comfortable local voice. ‘I’m Albert, used to do work on the estate for Lady Ursula. Thought you might like someone to show you about.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ said Marcus in a cheerfully polite voice. ‘I wouldn’t like to trouble you.’
‘No trouble,’ replied Albert, grinning at Marcus. ‘I suggested it to Mr Francis last week, and he said you’d probably be glad of someone who knows the place.’
‘Did he indeed?’ said Marcus, feeling annoyed. Bloody Leo. Why did he have to say that?
‘Well then,’ he said, carefully modulating his voice to avoid suspicion. ‘I’d be glad of your help.’
As they walked around the main house, Albert kept up a continual flow of chatter.
‘Suppose they’ll be selling then?’ he said. ‘Those daughters?’
‘I believe so,’ said Marcus.
‘Drug addicts, both of ’em,’ added Albert, surprisingly. ‘Used to smoke those cigarettes in one of the stables. “Oh Albert,” they says. “Don’t tell Mother.” Don’t tell Lady Ursula, indeed! I was straight up to see her that very afternoon. And they went to see her and started weeping and crying, and said they wouldn’t do it no more.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Just found somewhere else to do it, that’s all.’ He sniffed, and looked around. ‘No wonder they ended up in America.’
Marcus wasn’t listening. He was staring at the fireplace in front of him. If it was, as he suspected, an Adam piece, then it would add, what, maybe fifty thousand to the value of the house. If not, then he could already discount the value by that amount. His hands trembling slightly, he scribbled in his notebook ‘attractive fireplace.’ He looked at the words for a moment, then briskly added a full stop and looked up. Albert nodded approvingly.
‘That’s a fine fireplace,’ he said disconcertingly. ‘Must be worth something on its own, that.’
‘It’s an attractive piece,’ said Marcus in an off-putting voice.
‘I was watching the Antiques Road Show once,’ added Albert. ‘Fireplace just like that one got a hundred thousand pounds!’ His voice rolled lovingly round the words and he looked impressively at Marcus. ‘Think that one’s worth the same?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Marcus crushingly. He tried to think of some impressive jargon which would shut this man up. ‘The medallions at the corners are all wrong, for a start.’ He mustn’t mention Adam. ‘And the scagliola work looks completely inauthentic to me,’ he added for good measure.
‘Is that so?’ said Albert. ‘Fancy.’ He looked beadily at Marcus, who felt a sudden urge to hit him.
‘Anyway, let’s move on,’ he said briskly, moving towards the door.
‘After you, sir,’ said Albert, moving aside with an air of deference. Marcus eyed him suspiciously. In his state of unease, he was almost prepared to believe that this Albert character was a plant; that he would report straight back to the authorities; that the way was being paved for a sudden arrest; a fraud charge; dismissal and disgrace. Perhaps he had been sent as a spy from the district surveyor. Oh Christ. Marcus gazed at Albert and felt a cold shiver run down his spine, even though Leo had assured him that there was nothing to worry about on that front.
‘The district surveyor’s an old school chum,’ he’d told Marcus smoothly. ‘He’ll rubber-stamp anything I put in front of him.’ And Marcus had felt a stupidly naïve shock, followed by a feeling of astonishment that this sort of thing really did happen. ‘What else?’ he’d wanted to ask Leo. ‘What else goes on in this town that I don’t know about?’ Now he rather felt as though he didn’t want to know any of it. Albert was striding confidently down the corridor ahead of him. Marcus suddenly imagined him turning round and looking at Marcus with an appraising, knowing gleam in his eye. Oh shit. How much of this scam was obvious? How much had he given away already?
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Albert turned around, and Marcus jumped. He hastily adjusted his facial expression, and took a deep breath. He had to carry this off. He had to appear convincing.
‘So,’ he said, following Albert down the corridor, his voice bouncing off the acres of polished wooden floor. ‘Lady Ursula lived here for many years, I believe.’
‘Lived here all her life, more or less,’ replied Albert knowledgeably. ‘Grew up here, moved away, inherited the house and moved back. Eighty years or so, she lived here.’
‘And she never thought of selling?’ Marcus kept his voice light and casual, but listened carefully for Albert’s reply. It would be awkward if she had had a recent valuation made—although one could always blame everything on the market.
‘Never,’ said Albert, in shocked tones. ‘Saw it as a family house, she did. Would have liked one of those daughters to come back and live in it, too. But they weren’t interested.’ He paused. ‘I suppose they’ll do very nicely out of the sale, though.’ His eyes, gleaming with speculation, swivelled to meet Marcus’s.
‘Well, it’s hard to say,’ said Marcus discouragingly. ‘The property market’s taken a tumble, you know. Particularly among large estates. They’re actually worth much less than you might imagine. Much less,’ he repeated with emphasis. The last thing he needed was for Albert and his cronies to start bandying stupid prices about the village.
‘Oh,’ said Albert, with an air of slight disappointment. ‘But still, they’ll do nicely.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Marcus, reassuringly. ‘They’ll do nicely.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t want to keep you,’ he said. ‘If you need to get off—’
‘Oh no,’ said Albert cheerfully. ‘I’ll show you around properly, sir. Don’t you worry.’
In the end, Albert had trailed round with Marcus for the whole day, accompanying him to the village shop to buy a sandwich for lunch, and taking him to see the manor farm in his Range Rover.
‘So, you’ll be coming back tomorrow?’ he said, as Marcus wearily got into his Mercedes at the end of the day.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Marcus. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ll be at home if you need me,’ Albert said. ‘Mason’s Cottage. Ask at the shop.’
‘I will,’ said Marcus, summoning up his last reserves of good humour in order to smile at Albert. ‘And thank you so much for all your help. It really was tremendously useful.’ Albert shrugged.
‘Any time,’ he said, and got into his Range Rover. There was a pause, as each waited for the other to leave, then, impatiently, Marcus put his foot down, and roared off in a trail of spitting gravel.
As he drove home, he thought gloomily about how much there was still to do if he was to carry out a full valuation. He had covered only a fraction of the property. Would it be possible, he wondered, to find some impressionable junior who would do some of the legwork for him without asking questions? But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew the answer was no. The latest bunch of juniors in the office were pushy, ambitious creatures, who were uniformly desperate to attract attention and further their careers. They worked late, volunteered for extra tasks, and had the temerity to look askance at Marcus when he sloped off early to pick up Anthea and the boys. Any old-fashioned deference to senior status seemed to have vanished from this lot; any opportunity for personal gain was grabbed with glee; loyalty was an alien concept. He would be safer doing the whole thing on his own. And certainly, as far as the cut he would receive from Leo went, it would be well worth it.
He was working out in his mind how long the whole affair was likely to take as he pulled up to a set of traffic lights in outer Silchester—and when he heard a sudden knocking on the car window, a spasm of foolish terror went through him. He looked up in guilty alarm, almost expecting to see the face of a policeman. But it was the smiling face of Ginny Prentice.
‘Marcus!’ she cried. ‘Can I cadge a lift into town?’ Without waiting for an answer, she opened the
passenger door and clambered in. ‘Oh, sorry, I’m on top of your papers. Shall I move them?’ Marcus made a grab for the Panning Hall papers.
‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered, shoving them on the back seat. Christ. This was all he needed.
‘What luck to see you!’ Ginny was exclaiming, as she settled into her seat and put on her seat belt. ‘I’ve been showing a load of journalists round that new development in North Silchester.’
‘Oh really?’ Marcus forced himself to pay attention. ‘New developments aren’t really my line.’
‘No, well . . . This one’s really nice. As they go. And I think the journalists liked it. We gave them all champagne in the show house,’ she added inconsequently. ‘That’s why I couldn’t take my car. I’ve had rather a lot of champagne. I was going to take a taxi.’ She giggled, and looked at her watch. ‘Are you going back to the office? I promised to go in and see Miles. But it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Marcus. He was trying desperately to think of an alternative topic to that of work. Anything. As long as she didn’t ask him where he’d been . . .
‘So, where have you been?’ said Ginny conversationally. ‘Skiving off ?’ Marcus could feel his neck growing warm.
‘Oh, nowhere in particular,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Just a meeting. Very boring.’
‘That’s the trouble with you lot!’ exclaimed Ginny. ‘How am I supposed to provide interesting stories for the press if you describe everything as boring? I bet you’ve just been to see some lovely house . . . it didn’t have a ghost, did it? One of the nationals is doing a story on haunted houses, and we don’t seem to have any!’
‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘No ghosts.’
‘Are these the details here?’ said Ginny, reaching behind Marcus for the Panning Hall papers.
‘No! No, they’re not,’ cried Marcus. ‘That’s something else.’ This was unbearable. He put his foot down on the accelerator and increased his speed. He had to get into town and Ginny out of the car.
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